Let's Go Swimming on Doomsday by Natalie C. Anderson

Author:Natalie C. Anderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2019-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-ONE

THEN: OCTOBER 2

MERKA, SOMALIA

Up on the highest floor of the building I try to concentrate on scanning Merka’s streets for approaching AMISOM soldiers. But I can’t stop hearing Jones’s voice in my head: one more week.

Behind me, Scarface and another Boy sit sniper in the north- and west-facing windows. The other two guys are on the roof above us.

They all looked surprised to see me show up, but no one questioned my being there. I wonder how many times they’ve done this sort of thing. They gave me the easiest position: the window on the southeast-facing side, overlooking the charcoal yard and our territory. No attack should come from this direction.

Nobody speaks. The only noise is the wind rustling through the empty rooms of the building and the occasional chatter of gunfire. The town is quiet otherwise. Beyond the rooftops I can see the ocean glinting. Far enough away that it’s just a black speck against the brightness, a little boat. It’s still an hour or so before Dhur prayers. I wonder if we’ll stop to pray. I change positions again; my arms keep falling asleep holding my gun steady on the edge of the windowsill. No one’s ever mentioned the fact that sitting sniper is sort of . . . boring. Too much time to think.

I force myself to pay attention, to watch the zigzagging streets. There are people out, a woman selling green mangoes on a mat in the dirt and an old brick mason a street over. The mason is stubbornly repairing a wall that looks like it got hit by a mortar, a wall that will probably get hit again before the year’s out. A donkey dozes while standing beside him. None of them seem impressed that a battle is in progress. I know people like this in Mogadishu who are just fed up with constantly running and hiding. My neighbor, Mr. Omar, goes to his little shop every day regardless, saying, “If this is the day of my death, so be it; it’s God who decides.”

I glance over my shoulder at Scarface, but he doesn’t look like he’s watching anything more interesting than I am. The gunfire hasn’t gotten any louder or more frequent, but we have no idea what’s going on out there. I hope Bashir’s far enough back, and in a good position. He can shoot just fine, but with his eye, he’s definitely at a disadvantage. We all give him shit about it at target practice, acting like he’s going to accidentally shoot one of us, but now it’s not funny. Not at all.

A little girl comes out to talk to the woman selling mangoes. For a second, my breath catches. She’s wearing a dull yellow headscarf, just like one my sister Hafsa has. She’s about the same age too. Her back is to me as she talks to the woman. I know it’s not Hafsa, but some part of me has this crazy spark of hope, like maybe my sister got away.

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