Hiding in Plain Sight by Nuruddin Farah Read Free Book Online Page A

make a further nuisance of himself, in which case she has decided to deal with him firmly and, if need be, crudely.
    Bella pushes the loaded baggage trolley forward, feeling hot inside her black cotton shift. She walks slowly, her gait unsteady, her cheeks now wet with tears again, her sight blurred. She finds a bench to rest her exhausted bones on, sitting until the waves of nausea start to abate. She feels uncomfortable being so infirm in so public a place, but the familiarity of her surroundings relaxes her a little, even if there is no Aar to meet her or no taxi driver holding up a placard with her name. She lets herself sit and weep, not bothering to wipe away the tears. She asks herself why death, and why now? And why did death deprive her of her adored brother? Why has misfortune chosen to descend on her and her nephew and niece at a time when they are so ill prepared for loss?
    A tall man standing nearby, a Masai from the looks of him, approaches. “Madam!” he says repeatedly, until she looks up. Once he has her full attention, he says, “Taxi,” as if this were her name. Gradually other men join them, and one of them takes her by the arm, another grabs hold of her bags, a third insists that she ride in his taxi because he will give her a bargain price. She looks from one to the other, clearly miffed. She focuses her hard stare on the man who is trying to dispossess her of her computer bag and who already has in the grip of his right hand one of the camera cases. She restrains herself from speaking, but her expression and body language indicate clearly that she wants him to give back her bags.
    Then the man who approached first, the Masai—she takes in his torn ears and his sharpened teeth—tries to put the others to shame, accusing them of being a disgrace to their profession and their nation.Bella gives her face a quick wipe, as if the word “disgrace” is equally addressed to her. The mood changes, and nearly all of the taxi drivers step back, some of them moving on immediately and others mumbling their dissent and straggling away slowly, unhappy at being shut out. Bella beckons the Masai.
    â€œHotel 680, please.”
    â€œYes, madam. Please follow me!”
    He pushes the unwieldy trolley with her pile of heavy cases in the direction of the exit, and Bella hurries to keep pace with him to the open-air parking lot. When he opens the back door of the taxi, she indicates that she wants to sit in the front.
    Nairobi traffic is atrocious, disorderly, and murderously slow. It’s as if this city has a violent strain running in its veins. It’s an in-between place, with many different tendencies pulling its residents in diverse directions, and it seems fitting to Bella that it started as a railway depot at the turn of the last century. In slapdash fashion, it has grown into a “self-help city,” as an urban anthropologist has put it, in which the Africans must make do while European tourists are drawn by the promise of adventure and safari.
    The taxi is Japanese-made and rickety, as if it could easily be pulled apart. It’s hot too, but Bella dares not roll down the window, even a little, on account of the black fumes and white smoke emitted by the malfunctioning trucks ahead of them, which pollute the air as well with venomous bellowing. Bella sits with her computer bag between her knees, pondering the world outside. She is not sure of the name of the poet, but there is a line that she has always appreciated for its balance and alliteration: “It is beautiful, it is mournful, it is monotonous.” To this she adds another line of her own composition: “There is glory in grief.”
    With the traffic at a standstill, the driver starts a conversation. “Madam, to what name do you answer? My own name is David.”
    Uncomfortable at giving the name by which she is known, Bella says, “Some of my friends call me Barni.”
    â€œWhat does Barni