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wore the pitiful look of a son cut out of a wealthy parent’s will. Maybe he had hoped to receive some baksheesh and was unhappy when he saw he would not. Or maybe there was another reason, indecipherable to Jeebleh. Af-Laawe scrutinized the passport on Jeebleh’s behalf, then handed it to Jeebleh, who put it in his pocket without bothering to open it.
    â€œWhat about the lift?” Jeebleh asked.
    â€œGive me a few minutes,” said Af-Laawe.
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    WHILE WAITING, JEEBLEH LOOKED AT THE DISTANT CITY, AND SAW A FINE SEA of sand billowing behind a minaret. He remembered his youth, and how much he had enjoyed living close to the ocean, where he would often go for a swim. Time was, when the city was so peaceful he could take a stroll at any hour of the day or night without being mugged, or harassed in any way. As a youth, before going off to Padua for university—Somalia had none of its own—he and Bile would go to the Gezira nightclub and then walk home at three in the morning, no hassle at all. In those long-gone days, the people of this country were at peace with themselves, comfortable in themselves, happy with who they were.
    As one of the most ancient cities in Africa south of the Sahara, Mogadiscio had known centuries of attrition: one army leaving death and destruction in its wake, to be replaced by another and another and yet another, all equally destructive: the Arabs arrived and got some purchase on the peninsula, and after they pushed their commerce and along with it the Islamic faith, they were replaced by the Italians, then the Russians, and more recently the Americans, nervous, trigger-happy, shooting before they were shot at. The city became awash with guns, and the presence of the gun-crazy Americans escalated the conflict to greater heights. Would Mogadiscio ever know peace? Would the city’s inhabitants enjoy this commodity ever again?
    From where he stood, the trees were so stunted they looked retarded, and the cacti raised their calluses and thorns in self-surrender, while the shrubs cast only scant shadows. The clouds of dust stirred up by successive armies of destruction eventually settled back to earth, finer than when they went up.
    Jeebleh did not look forward to seeing the desolation that he had read and heard about. He was heavy of heart to be visiting his beloved city at a time when sorrow gazed on it as never before. Mogadiscio spread before him, as though within reach of his tremulous hand, a home to people dwelling in terrible misery. A poet might have described Somalia as a ship caught in a great storm without the guiding hand of a wise captain. Another might have portrayed the land as laid to waste, abandoned, the women widowed, the children orphaned, and the sick untended. A third might have depicted it as a tragic country ransacked by madmen driven by insatiable hunger for more wealth and limitless power. So many lives pointlessly cut short, so much futile violence.
    â€œWhat’s it been like, living in the city?” Jeebleh asked.
    Af-Laawe replied with what seemed to Jeebleh a non sequitur. “Danger has a certain odor to it, only there’s very little you can do to avert it between the moment you smell it and the instant death visits.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œI’m smelling danger, that’s what,” Af-Laawe said.
    â€œI don’t understand. Can you smell danger now?” Jeebleh asked.
    He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he followed Af-Laawe’s gaze, and saw the three armed youths who had stood guard over him earlier, now in a huddle, mischievously whispering among themselves. And they were also glancing at the stairs of an aircraft being boarded.
    â€œWhat are they up to?” Jeebleh said.
    â€œI overheard their conversation as I went past them. They were taking bets.”
    â€œWhat were they betting on?”
    â€œOur city’s armed youths are in the habit of picking a random