RAMATHAN
The Kharif--The month of Ramathan--The Sahib's gift and others.
It is June, the season of the "Kharif"; the Kharif that has three
elements--wind, dust, and heat. Zeila sky reminds me, this morning,
of a Sheffield sky, covered at dawn with a pall of yesterday's foul
smoke. The atmosphere is such as that near a huge furnace whose
fires have burned out during the night. One can still feel the dead
heat that will, later, take on a new, fierce life, as old Sol, then
tipping the eastern horizon with a dull glow, rises higher into the
heavens.
The sea is grey and dull, the dullness of a cooling mass of molten
metal sprinkled with fine ash. Not the greyness, or dullness, that
heralds a change of weather, but that of tired burned-out nature,
waking unrefreshed from her night's sleep. All night long Nature has
tossed in troubled dreams, and now wakes to life, haunted by a vague
wild feeling of oppression; an undefinable oppression almost akin to
despair.
There is no bright awakening here, with coloured cheeks and
sparkling eyes. The face that nature turns towards the pitilessness
of the new-born day is drawn and anxious. She is too tired to plead
for mercy; too listless to try anew the thousand wiles that she
alone is mistress of. Here is the stokehold of the world, and the
devils who control it are lighting the fires.
At midday the town of Zeila is fast asleep, for this is the month
of Ramathan; the month that all good Mahomedans give up to prayer
and fasting. The average Zeilawi, or Somal, cannot tell you why.
The "Book" says it must be done, and that is all about it. They
have heard and read something of Mahomed's son, or was it Mahomed
himself, being poisoned by a Jew, and perhaps that is the reason.
They will look it up and see. So, whilst the fast is on, they turn
night into day and day into night. All those who can sleep through
the day and pray and feast at night. The fast is observed between
the hours of four a.m. and sunset. Others less fortunate, who must
work through the day, have a hard time. Not a sup of water nor bite
of bread will pass their lips until dusk.
It follows that the work suffers. The chairs and tables in my
bungalow are thick with dust: the house is untidy and uncomfortable.
My servants are fasting. At sundown they come to life, and, after
prayer, break their fast. When they have administered to my wants
they go to the town where they play, pray, and feast all night with
their friends.
To-night I heard the cannon fired at Jibouti by the French
authorities to warn their Mahomedan subjects that the day had
passed. I had been to the sports ground where a few of the keener
lads had turned up to play hockey. Syyed Khudar the Arab, and his
brother-in-law, were there, also Sub-inspector Buralli. Just before
I arrived Syyed and the brother-in-law had quarrelled. Hungry men
are angry men; blows followed words, and Buralli arrested them.
Buralli explained to me that the trouble between the two men was
of long standing--"rooted deep down in their stomachs!" Syyed is
an independent trader, his brother-in-law is a carpenter. The
latter's wife continually twits him with his poverty, comparing her
own hard lot with the easy one of her sister. In consequence, when
the carpenter sees Syyed the whole world turns black--according to
Buralli. But then Buralli is fasting too. After a good meal the
whole world will be lighter coloured for them all. But there was no
hockey.
As the sun sank in the west nature bestirred herself in a
half-hearted effort to brighten up the skies. But all the colours
fell from her tired hands into the sea, and spread across the face
of the waters. Old gold, gold, vermilion, purples, a mad riot of
tones, shades, and natural colours floated bewilderingly on the dull
surface for a few fleeting moments, and were gone. Then the wind
rose and lashed the sea into sullen anger, the while the crescent
moon--symbol of Mahomedanism--smiled down complacently. Oh, Moon,
well may you smile; _you_ "that rule the night and see us not by
day." But the moon smiles on. Perhaps she can see a fairer land than
this. On she goes, through a sky, now clear, and covered with a
million flecks of gold dust.
A chant breaks out in the centre of the town. Farther away a crowd
of men are reciting a kind of litany on two notes, "Allah" on a high
note and "Allah" on a low note; Allah-Allah; Allah-Allah; a harsh
breathing sound. Suddenly a horn sounds from one of the dhows at
anchor. Toot-toot-too-too-t-toot-too! There is a hush, the town is
listening. Something is wrong. Lights appear at the end of the pier,
and a boat puts off. A policeman runs to tell me that a dhow has
broken loose. There is no one aboard except one small boy, and he it
is who has sounded the alarm.
The chanting, praying, and singing in the town re-commences. Again
there is an interruption. This time a woman screams. Scream follows
scream, until I send to inquire what is happening. My orderly
returns and informs me, with a grin, that a "bint" is being soundly
spanked by her mother. The young lady has been gallivanting without
permission, and the sound of her cries heard all over the town will
doubtless deter other young ladies from keeping their appointments
this night. How the disappointed swains will bless her!
For a little while longer I sit listening to the noises of the
night. The wind falls abruptly, and the sea calms down. Shoals of
fish dash through the shallow waters with a noise like the splashing
of cattle crossing a ford. I lie down at last on my camp bed, placed
for coolness on the veranda, and dose off. I am awakened by the
maddening throbbing of a drum, beaten to warn the faithful to pray
and prepare the last meal of the night. I look at the time; it is
only one o'clock and people may eat up to four. Oh, why do they beat
that wretched drum at this hour? On, on it throbs. In despair I take
my pencil, and write until the throbbing ceases. It has ceased now.
To-day, the 29th June, is the last evening of Ramathan, that is if
we see the new moon. Yesterday evening the townspeople failed to
catch a glimpse of her, and even though one man came from El Kori to
say he had seen her in the western sky for a few seconds, and though
the big gun at Djibouti fired ever so many shots at sundown, our
Kathi must needs have four witnesses sworn on the Koran ere he could
grant permission to the people to break their fast. As for the big
gun, have we not heard, but a few days ago, that the peace treaty
has been signed, and might not the firing we hear from the French
side be on that score. So all this day the Zeilawis have fasted, and
at intervals the French gun has boomed out. I am certain we are a
day behind, but the Kathi was quite right to run no risks.
Just now Buralli, and Mahomed the interpreter, came to ask
for permission to bury an Arab close to the Sheikh's tomb.
He was a very influential man who has died, according to the
sub-assistant-surgeon's diagnosis, of carbuncle on the neck. Of
all days in the year this is the best one to die, for on it the
gates of Paradise are unlocked--no one is denied--and the Arab is
considered to be a very fortunate man. Not that he had ever done
anything to make his reception at heaven's gate in any way doubtful,
but the accident of the day makes things certain. My servant, who
is something of a radical, was much impressed with the fact, after
I had granted permission for the body to be interred near the tomb
(which, being near to the town, is closed to the public as a burying
ground) that a distinction could still be made between a rich man
and a poor man, even after death.
Well, to-day ends the Mahomedan old year, and it is, practically, in
this part of the world, New Year's Eve.
I have been astonished to-day to discover how popular I have become,
and I have met with nothing but thoughtfulness and consideration for
my convenience and comfort shown by people, some of whom I hardly
knew by name. This morning the jail-master came, personally, to see
with his own eyes that the one and only cocoanut tree in front of my
bungalow was properly watered by the prisoners. Again this evening
he came, and, although fresh water is as precious here as beer in
England, this jolly good-hearted fellow had that tree watered again.
I was touched, but not to the extent of more than half a rupee.
It is New Year's Eve, you know, and one can show one's appreciation
of thoughtfulness and kindness in others in the shape of a small
gift--silver rupees preferred--without hurting the recipient's
feelings. All the sahibs make small gifts at this time. My servant
taught me that. He said that, although he had never yet asked his
master for a present on the Yom-el-'Id, and never would, he had
never yet failed to receive one on that day. Being in a strong
position to do so I felt tempted to break his record, but no
ordinary mortal likes to be an exception to the rule, and I have
fallen into line. The people expect it.
Haji Abdi Kheiri, a Somal trader, and by way of being one of our
Napoleons of finance, called on me this evening to donate twenty
rupees to the poor fund, a good way of ending the old year. He has
made some profitable deals in cattle at Djibouti, and assures me
that God expects it of him to come down handsomely for the wretched
poor. He has already one wife, and is reputed to be looking round
for another, with the result that there is much excitement amongst
the ladies of the town. He is a stout man, and, compared with the
slim handsome bedouin Somal, is rather coarse looking, but the
majority of the townswomen would overlook that, and would jump at
the opportunity of getting their pretty fingers inside his money
boxes. Good luck to him I say. May Allah prosper him further; it
will help the poor fund.
Unfortunately, the peace of this day has been upset by people whose
nerves have gone a little wrong on account of the long fast and the
broken nights. The Midgan, sandal-maker, passed from the hut of
one of his wives, where he had been visiting, to that of another,
who said to him, "You never take off your shoes when you come to
_this_ house," meaning by that he was paying too much attention
to the other wife. As the shoemaker made no reply the woman took
off her sandal and beat him with it, screaming the while for the
police. When the police came she said: "You must lock us both up
as we have been fighting." The police did, and at this moment
the Midgan is spending some time in the same compartment as his
neglected wife--and has his shoes off. Then Fatuma binti Ahamed,
aged fourteen, was sent by her mother to buy milk in the bazaar
from a woman who measured it out in a dirty cup. Fatuma, being a
clean little person, objected, and, as the woman refused to clean
the cup, she called her some names, which, by the way, are quite
unprintable. But the milk woman had a lusty daughter, and between
the pair of them they dealt severely with Fatuma. An Arab says he
found them playing at tug-o'-war with her; one pulling at her neck
and the other at her legs, also it was a very frightened little girl
who ran home half naked to report why the milk was delayed. Her
father has been making a great fuss, and the law, as represented by
the D.C. right down to the office boy, and even the jail-master, has
been called upon by him to vindicate itself. He was so unreasonable
that I was strongly tempted to put him in with the Midgan and his
wife until he cooled down. But then, some European daddies are just
as silly when their little girls get into trouble through their own
foolishness, and I have overlooked his nonsense.
* * * * *
The people have now seen the moon. It is nearly seven o'clock, and,
though the sky is grey, the waters of the full tide are tinted
with gorgeous colours, a phenomenon I have not yet seen in any
part of Africa but here. Policemen, sailors, rich men, poor men,
beggarmen, thieves, are all at this moment out in the open praying
aloud to Allah. Strangely enough at this hour, and for the first
time since I have been in Zeila, I hear the voices of children at
play, above the prayers of the adults. The Jibouti gun is booming
away, and, as if to mock it, someone is firing an old blunderbuss
outside the town. There is, as usual, not a woman in sight, but I
can hear a few girls' voices thrilling out the wild African call,
"Lu-lu-lu-lu-luuh!"
The praying is over, and now to food. We have killed the fat sheep
and prepared the tastiest of dishes. Neither little child, old
woman, nor any single soul need go hungry to bed in this town
to-night. The people are rejoicing, and all must share in their joy.