Free Sweetness in the Belly by Camilla Gibb Page A

banditry, these lands were theirs: neatly ordered plots passed down through the generations.
    But on the west side lay a new city, a largely Christian Amhara neighborhood that had evolved since the time of Harar’s annexation into the Ethiopian empire. In 1887, the Muslim city at the heart of an expansive kingdom became a regional capital in a Christian empire. One jewel in somebody else’s imperial crown. A royal residence stood across the road from the hospital, home to the duke and duchess of the province.
    Hararis thought of this neighborhood as a site of sin and depravity, a haven for buda, the evil eye, and forbade their children to enter these parts. But one had to pass through the area to leave the city for destinations west. Like Dire Dawa, the market town an hour away, or the capital, Addis Ababa, three days away over winding roads. Hararis shut the windows of minibuses and held their noses when they passed through, alleging the stench of brothels and beer.
    Outsider is what they smelled; contamination is what they feared.
    I did not see sin and depravity. I saw a wide boulevard where the austerity of buildings and asphalt was interrupted by the velvet trunks of eucalyptus trees and the occasional burst of color from a flame tree. I saw people swinging their arms freely because they were not funneled between compound walls. I saw the whites of people’s eyes because the road was flat and dry and did not demand their complete attention. I saw Dr. Aziz’s back and Bortucan’s chubby cheek mashed against his shoulder, her eyes closed, drool sliding from the corner of her mouth. I saw the sun bouncing off Dr. Aziz’s shoes.
    Inside the hospital, people leaned against the peeling green paint of the corridor walls or held their heads in their hands as they slumped over on hard wooden benches. Men and women in white coats strode down the halls with clipboards in their hands, ignoring the pleas of “Yaa docture! Yaa docture!” from the leaners and the slumpers.
    “Assalaamu alaykum,” Dr. Aziz greeted one of his colleagues; “Good morning,” he greeted the next; “Ciao, ragazza,” a third; and to a fourth, “Have you finished with that book yet, Mouna?”
    “What have you got here?” asked a young man with a stethoscope hanging around his neck, stopping to rub Bortucan’s cheek.
    “Another botched infibulation,” Dr. Aziz groaned.
    “You’re a hero, Aziz,” said the other doctor, slapping him on the arm. His English was equally as good. He was just about to move on when he caught sight of me. “Who is this?” he asked his colleague.
    Dr. Aziz appeared unable to answer.
    I said plainly: “I’m her sister.”
    “Masha’Allah,” said the man, savoring each syllable. “A farenji speaking Harari! I’ve never seen such a thing in my life! Where, dear God, did you find her?”
    “Goodbye, Munir,” Dr. Aziz said sternly.
    I pulled my veil closer, lowered my head and carried on down the corridor, staring at the heels of Dr. Aziz’s shoes, which seemed to squeak in protest with each step.
    Moments later, I was watching the doctor thread a needle into Bortucan’s arm. The needle was attached to a tube that ran from two plastic sacs hanging from a hook on the wall.
    “If you must circumcise, we try to tell them,” he said as he squeezed one of the sacs, “make a cut in the clitoris, but do not remove it. And do not in any circumstance infibulate.”
    Fluid dripped down from both bags, disappearing into Bortucan’s arm. Her eyelids fluttered closed. Dr. Aziz helped a nurse unwrap the bandages, sponge away the blood and clean the wound, and then he pulled out the thorns. I could not watch, although he was swift and efficient and there was no more blood than what I had already seen each morning. He restitched the wound with surgical thread, leaving a hole much bigger than the size of a matchstick at the end.
    “At least this way she’ll be able to urinate and menstruate properly.” He sighed.