07.2 A Nest in the Woods

Shakir returned to the foreground and the girl had gone into the annex. He sat down and dug into the stuff she brought.

She appeared from the north with an ekel broom and began to sweep the verdure.

“Where is your mother?” he asked.

Samara stepped up and replied, “She’ll be here at sunset to prepare dinner.”

“My name is Shakir,” he told her.

“I know. Toibé told me two days ago to clean the house and prepare your room.”

“Are you related to Toib Manikfan?”

“Yes,” she smiled generously to show yellowish teeth, “my mother’s father and his father’s younger sister are cousins.”

Shakir nodded incoherently.

She began to sweep the turf from there. A tight golden skin wrapped her slim legs as she bent down.

He sat there watching her movements. A girl with flat chest and a large birthmark on her left shoulder. She was tiny and four feet nine inches tall.

“How old are you?”

She straightened correcting her vibrant scarf top from the rear, “Thirty.”

“Really!” uttered Shakir, “I thought you were much younger. Are you married?”

“I was,” she returned, “now divorced. I have two boys, five and seven years old.”

“Are they staying with you?”

“Yes.”

“I have to go to Bèrumathi,” said Shakir getting up, “I’ll be back in an hour. Will you be here?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

Shakir rode on the bicycle and returned before sunset because he won’t be able to find the narrow path after dark. Samara was in the annex with her mother. She wore a blue slip to avoid mosquitoes from biting her legs.

Food was prepared at their home and carried on plates to Etherevari. He sat down to dine, “I usually don’t eat alone. Why don’t you join me?”

Both women choked embarrassed. Her mother sought an excuse, “I am going home. Sama will take care of you,” and she left.

Often these ladies won’t eat at the table with a boss. Shakir was only twenty-two years old. Samara stood standing and she won’t sit.

“There was another official before me!”

“Riza,” said Samara, “left two months ago.”

“How old was he?”

“In his fifties, I guess.”

“Do you know Footloose Habib?”

“Yes, I know him. He’s in Malé.”

“I know.”

After dinner Shakir went to his room. Samara came in just about the right time as he undressed.

“I come to bed you,” said the woman, “I will light a mosquito candle.” This house was fully stocked with necessities. “Do you want a rub?”

“What?”

“A massage!”

“Of course, I can’t resist.”

The woman tucked the blue slip on her waist and climbed the bed to sit on her rear to his face. In the glow of a flickering flame, her skin excelled even brighter. Shakir shakily put his hand on her thigh.

She knew his consent was assenting so she took off her scarf top and blue slip leaving the gold and silver on her sheeny body. A table couldn’t be shared but the bed.

“Won’t you be missed?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder, “Mother will take care of my children. I can go home at dawn.”

 

Shakir’s boss imparted, “I have to go to Maradu. Come with me. We go on the doni. The English want to acquire land plots in Maradu and the Atoll Chief has asked me to deal with it. What do you think?”

“It’s up to you, Toibé,” replied Shakir.

“During the World War when they ran the naval base, they were using those places in Maradu. One is the slipway and the other is a prison house. I am thinking to let the English have them. What do you say?”

“It’s up to you.”

“I’m not sure how Malé is going to react but I am going to take the responsibility. They want the lots only temporarily, they say,” said Manikfan.

Both climbed his sailing boat and set sail to Maradu. It was Friday afternoon, rainy and cloudy in the sky.

They visited the slipway on the eastern coast in the north of the island and then to the bunker-like quarter in the northern end. Toib Manikfan agreed to pass the lots to the British without condition that could only complicate matters. He signed papers and put down the representative’s seal issued by the central government.

There came two folks with a piece of paper and their names on a list. “Both of you are invited to attend a wedding party,” one of them said, “since you’re in the island, we invite you.”

“Very kind of you,” said Toib Manikfan, “but it’s going to rain.”

“You can sleep at the office if it rains,” suggested the chief, “you must not miss this dinner.”

“What do you think, Shakir?”

“It’s up to you, Toibé,” replied Shakir.

“Alright, we come.”

This house stood newly painted with glass-fitted windows and the lawn filled with white sand. The main hall was large enough to accommodate all the invitees if it rained. An excellent buffet laid on a long table placed in the middle to go round and fill the plates. Two big bowls of rice topped with the best of a kind imported from Burma.

Addu cuisine, spices and side dishes, were just nonpareil to any other region in the archipelago.

Mariam Mala attended this party. She passed Shakir within inches but neither knew each other.

Atoll Chief whispered, “This house is built on British donation and completed in six months.”

“Is that why they call ‘Fairview’?” asked Shakir.

“I bet,” he chuckled, “these curtains are from India. Bride’s father is a merchant. When he refused to give up Dooran, the English gave this stone house and pulled him out.”

“It’s a wise gesture,” expressed Shakir.

“I doubt,” alleged the chief, “they want to rush things to evacuate Gan. I am not sure who pays for relocation.”

Rain came down and they ran into the office on Mahan Magu. “We should have taken your Moto Guzzi,” cursed Manikfan, “this rain will not stop.”

Chief Hazir arranged two folding beds placed beside the desks for them to rest.

Next morning Manikfan said, “We will have a cup of tea. It’s shining bright.”

They came across three guys pushing a wheelbarrow as they turned to Athiri Magu on the way to Koka. “Ali Huzeir!” announced one of them.

“What happened?” asked Manikfan.

“Beaten,” he sighed, “they dumped him on Dooran athiri. He is out again to hook old women.”

“Old women!” uttered Manikfan.

“Mostly married women,” he frowned, “he cannot save his dick if someone wished to cut if off.”

“Three months ago, he got caught sleeping with Redi Ahamma’s wife,” another one added.

Savari Shakir peered at the young chap knocked out in the barrow. His pants ripped. A fair boy who just turned seventeen.