Once Mohamed had a dream about his son. The dream kept him up until the early hours of the morning. He was caged under his blanket — battening his mind with the thought of his son suffering alone in this life. His four-year-old son, Yonis, had appeared to him as a young man. Yonis stood tall facing Mohamed. A fuse of Somali incense mixed with Yonis’s presence surrounded Mohamed in the dream. Dad I made it, I made it out of Mum’s house alive.
Mohamed had been recently diagnosed with Oropharyngeal cancer growing in the middle part of his throat. While the doctor was speaking to him, Mohamed wondered if he was being punished for failing to protect Yonis from his wife, Fadumo. He had picked the wrong woman to mother his boy. His mind was about to collapse that afternoon as he sat ruminating on snapshots of Yonis banging his head on the wall upon finding out his father had died.
This situation was insufferable for Mohamed. Life was suffering. He knew this all too well. This was as true to him as his own mortality. The treacherous journey from Somalia over the Gulf of Aden to Yemen, where Yonis was born, on to Australia, now seemed trivial to him compared to how unrelenting life wrapped its arms around his son’s small body.
In Somalia, people called Mohamed a philosopher. Still barricaded under his blanket, Mohamed thought to himself, if a stranger broke into this house, I would protect my boy, I would sacrifice my life to save him. At least then Yonis would have known his father died to save him. Perhaps then life would become weakened; perhaps in this knowledge, life would take a few steps back.
Just as Mohamed was about to scream into the abyss of his mind, Yonis swung open the door to his father’s bedroom. He sprinted towards Mohamed’s bed and jumped on his exhausted body, laughing uncontrollably at the discombobulated look on his face. Infected by the squeal of the boy, who knew nothing more than this moment, Mohamed chuckled in amazement. He embraced Yonis in his eagerness to wrestle, but felt a rush of shame, fearful that the boy might associate Mohamed’s morning breath with his childhood.
Alright kiddo, that’s enough.
Why?
Listen to me.
Yonis crawled out of Mohamed’s bed sulking. The dream about Yonis was circling Mohamed’s mind. He sat on his bed for a few more minutes alone to tame this vivid image of his son.
Yonis was fumbling around in the kitchen. Mohamed sneaked up on him, kneeled and bear hugged him from the back with one hand. Do you think I forgot about the stunt you pulled in the bedroom? Overcome with surprise and joy, Yonis embraced his father.
They were both coloured with hysteria as Mohamed lifted Yonis onto his shoulders. It was hard to know if Yonis was getting heavier or if Mohamed was getting weaker. What was true was that cancer had a growing interest in Mohamed’s body. There was no doubt in his mind this was part of life’s cruel obsession to hurt his boy.
Mohamed carried Yonis as he trotted to the living room reciting a poetic line, there is company in loneliness, while holding tight to Yonis’ knees. Each time Mohamed repeated this line, the air in the house began to feel as damp as wet cotton.
Papa, I want sugar and bread.
Not right now. Your mother promised to get you and I a chocolate sundae when she returns.
How long papa?
Patience, son.
When Mohamed reached the living room he felt doddery. He slowly dropped to his bony knees, bending his balding head, which Yonis leaped over. When he got up, Mohamed walked to the couch and Yonis followed. He wilted onto the couch while Yonis climbed onto it and pretended to fall asleep, finding comfort lying next to his father’s round belly. Mohamed shivered in his unconscious sleep and Yonis giggled.
Yonis as a three-year-old came into Mohamed’s mind this time. Yonis was in the living room when Fadumo slammed him to the ground. She was taken aback by the rush of shame that rose through her face. She helped Yonis up and told him how brave he was. But Mohamed yanked Yonis out of Fadumo’s arms. Dreams are real when everybody in them is haunted.
Mohamed died when Yonis was ten. The morning sun was a presence in Yonis’ room that day. Fadumo hid the news of his passing from Yonis until visitors came over to bring their condolences. True malice lives in the finer details of one’s actions. She could not stand how much Yonis resembled his father. You remind me so much of him, she said, huffing — and you never listen.
The last time Yonis saw his father alive, Mohamed was standing outside their home pleading with Fadumo to stop the chaos.
You have one son and only one chance at this. Mine is being cut short, Yonis remembered his father saying.
He was standing and peeking behind his dad to see what shape Fadumo’s face turned into.
Get lost. What do you know about parenting? If you really loved him, you would have stopped the cigarettes that are about to kill you!
Mohamed folded and reached for something in his bag like his life depended on it. He always regarded Fadumo’s cruelty more bitterly than God’s willingness to punish the sinful. Yonis wanted nothing more than to run away, except he couldn’t let go of his dad’s leg. Instead, he braved his way to his mother and pulled her leg towards his father. He peered up at Fadumo as she yelled at Mohamed. He looked so tall under the glorious sun, brandishing his Australian citizenship certificate against the sunlight while strangers walked past him one by one with a quiet contempt in their eyes.
Then Fadumo nudged Yonis softly, which made him drunk with affection. He’d never felt this kind of softness from her; for once she was able to separate her hatred for Mohamed from Yonis, for once she appeared to care — even if momentarily.
Magan Magan is the author of poetry collection Stop All the Clocks, co-editor of Verity La La, and the host of the Inner Self Rising Podcast and YouTube channel, a show for free thinkers focused on self-development and living authentically.