Revolutions of All Colors by Dewaine Farria

Author:Dewaine Farria
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780815655152
Publisher: Syracuse University Press
Published: 2020-10-16T00:00:00+00:00

On the afternoon of October 13, 2005, you’re far more concerned about diarrhea than your problems back home. Fourteen days into this four-week stint and not a solid shit yet. During your first tour in Afghanistan you self-medicated with an antidiarrheal and managed to constipate yourself for three days. You decided then that, as long as there’s water and Ringer’s lactate available, it’s better to deal with the squirts.

Not daring to fart for fear of the “Somali surprise,” you stand with Moussa, Ibrahim, and Abdullahi-Deere outside one of the warlord’s compounds in Yaqshid. The location—close to the animal market where Ibrahim wants to start his sanitation project—trumps safety considerations. The two armored SUVs and three technical pickups in your convoy can’t all cram into Ibrahim’s compound. So Moussa decides to park an SUV and a technical on the street.

A militiaman slouches over the .50 cal in the bed of the technical pickup like a large black spider. Others mill around, twirling their Kalashnikovs like umbrellas. After months of training, you still wince at their weapons handling. Every day you repeat, “There aren’t any accidental discharges, only negligent ones.” A US military mantra that apparently doesn’t translate into Somali well.

Ibrahim’s been jumpy all day. His negotiations to drill latrines in this neighborhood have reached the final stage: a face-to-face with the clan elders. Somali society hinges on the clan. Viable Solutions couldn’t even park in Yaqshid without the clan elders’ permission.

You and Moussa have the luxury of banging out bullshit reports about the militia’s progress. Abdullahi-Deere’s men continue to show improvement in their marksmanship skills—that line you wrote the day one of the boys shot himself in the foot. Seriously. Whereas Ibrahim has to point to actual things—real tangible things like latrines—to prove his worth to the company.

Abdullahi-Deere sneers in response to Moussa’s complaints about waiting on the street. “You’re perfectly safe anywhere in my district.”

It must be exhausting to constantly be this much of a dick.

Ibrahim intervenes. “It’s okay. We’ll only be about twenty minutes. Less than twenty minutes, right?”

Abdullahi-Deere shrugs.

Moussa sighs. “Try to be quick.”

Ibrahim nods.

An hour later, you’re still on the street outside the compound, sweat tinged with last night’s booze stinging your eyes as your gut squeezes like a dishrag under your Kevlar plate carrier.

Dread of copping a squat in one of the gruesome outhouses you’ve occasionally been forced to piss in gives way to a final, urgent contraction under your palm. With the checkpoints, it’s at least twenty minutes back to Peace Hotel. Even if Ibrahim comes out right now, you aren’t going to make it.

You start duckwalking toward the compound.

“Where are you going?” Moussa asks.

“I have to shit, man.”

Moussa nods, holds up three fingers to the militiamen, and points at you. Three guys hop off a technical, AKs at the ready.

“Really?” you ask. “To take a shit?”

Moussa takes another drag of his cigarette.

You cinch your sphincter and limp through the gate into the compound. Trailed by the militiamen, you approach the two outhouses in the back.

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