The day rains, called gu rains, had started early this year in March.
The plains to the west of Mogadishu had burned to dark brown over the winter. The driest season had been December, when a shepherd’s goats often starved to death. The new shoots struggled to break through the dried earth to erupt into a carpet of green.
In the past months, the herders had been forced to work their goats farther and farther from the camps. The trick was to feed them as much as possible to get the through the drought. As the spring came on, the shepherds could return closer to the camps and graze their stock. As the land became green and fertile again, the people celebrated as they had for thousands of years.
The two young shepherds were wrapped in long cloth robes to protect themselves from the sun and the fierce winds that could blow from all the way across Africa, sometimes even carrying the smell of the Indian Ocean. Most of their days were boring and monotonous. The shepherds didn’t mind because tending the goats was their work, as it had been for their fathers and grandfathers for generations. At least they could provide for their clan.
The ground rolled off in flat scrubland for as far as they could see. Flowers that only a few weeks earlier had disappeared now stood proudly to unfurl small but colorful petals. Seen from a distance, they looked like a yellow or purple carpet. The goats had spread out so far the two boys had lost sight of some of them. That was all right because there was nowhere for the goats to get lost, anyway.
Ismir, the younger herder, had volunteered this afternoon to round up the stragglers before they made their camp for the evening. In the desert, night fell quickly, often bringing cold winds. If they weren’t prepared, it was difficult in the dark to account for the goats and get dinner ready.
Ismir scuffed over the worn paths that led to the west. The first of the rain clouds scudded toward them, reminding them to hurry and set up camp. He searched in the direction of the setting sun on the horizon for the small clumps in the distance that would be the remains of the herd.
Far off to his left, he noticed a bright flash. The desert had all kinds of optical illusions not seen elsewhere, but this one looked unusual in Ismir’s experience. Besides, he knew there was nothing out there, no camps and no herds.
He climbed up the sand incline until he reached a point of high ground covered with gray-green bushes. Ismir finally saw the stragglers from the herd. But to his astonishment, just beyond them, he spied a series of low mud huts. Surrounded by a wire fence, it was a compound of some sort. There were even permanent buildings—something very odd this far out. The fact they were made of wood really piqued his curiosity. Wood was so scarce that the compound must be owned by someone very wealthy, since no one could afford to use wood for something as mundane as shelter.
He saw the flash of light again and realized it came from the setting sun blazing in a golden burst off the side of a metal bus, the kind that was used for school in the big cities. Dust curled around the back end of it as the bus slowed to enter the compound. Where could it possibly have come from? There were no roads from Mogadishu to here.
Ismir continued toward his herd and the low group of buildings. They nestled in a low point in the land, hidden by hills on all sides. He kneeled down and crawled closer. Something told him to be careful, so he hid behind the bushes on the ridge. Who would be out here and why? he wondered.
He sprawled onto his stomach to avoid being seen and wiggled even closer. He could hear indistinct voices coming from the buildings. The bus stopped in a trailing cloud of dust. It settled, and two men stepped from the door of the bus.
They stood aside as several young men followed them out of the bus. The men staggered as if very tired. There were about ten of them. Ismir didn’t recognize any of the people, which was odd. He knew every-one in the clan that occupied this area of Somalia. These were strangers.
He inched closer in the long shadows of evening that stretched from the hills to his left. Ismir could hear better as one of the men talked. The cooling wind blew the words off into the desert. It appeared they were ordering the boys off the bus.
Ismir felt sad. The boys were dark-skinned, like himself, and Somalis, but he could tell they weren’t local. They looked foreign, as if they had lived somewhere else for a while. Maybe from Europe? Many Somalis had fled there to escape the civil wars. The boys looked tired, dropping like flowers during a drought. What was wrong with them?
Peering closely, Ismir was startled. In spite of the rising chill in the wind, many of the young men were sweating. They looked sick.