“You have to unlace it,” Sadiq told him.
“I can’t,” the boy moaned.
The same rule goes for everything in life, his father said: “Use your brain, not your brawn!”
The youngest boy was built like Sara and Ayan, compact and stout. Sadiq crouched to loosen the tangle of laces.
Ayan was the first to leave. “Bye!” she said, smiling to them.
The door slammed behind her. There was more space in the hallway once she and the suitcase disappeared. Leila took her turn in front of the mirror and copied her sister’s movements. When the garments were on, she remained standing, her schoolbag on her back.
“Do you want a lift?” her father asked. He was still struggling with Isaq’s laces.
On days Leila started class at the same time as her younger siblings, she usually joined them in the car, even though her school lay just a short walk away.
“No thanks,” she replied.
Her father looked up in surprise.
“I need to lose some weight, get more exercise,” she explained.
“You? You’ve no fat on you! You’re a stick!” Sara said, rolling her eyes.
Leila just smiled and gave both her parents a hug.
“I love you, Dad,” she whispered in her father’s ear. “I love you, Mom,” she whispered to her mother.
The declarations of love were in Somali. The siblings always spoke Somali to their mother. With their father it varied, and between themselves Norwegian was most common.
“Will we walk together?” Ismael asked.
They both attended Rud Upper Secondary School. Leila was in the first year of the health and social curriculum; he was in his third year, studying electronics. They rarely accompanied each other in the morning, but since she had been “her old self” the previous evening, it seemed strange not to go to school together, as they had always done in childhood.
“No, I’ve got to…” Leila replied.
Her brother did not catch her answer, just noticed her disappearing out the door with her rucksack.
Finally the rest of the family was all set. The smaller boys ran up the steps, Jibril first, followed by Isaq. The terraced block of flats was built on a steep slope. In order to exit the upper side of the building, they had to ascend three flights of stairs.
Kolsås ridge, rising up like a dark wall behind the housing estate, was shrouded in a layer of fog. Sadiq unlocked the car while the boys argued about who would sit in front.
“Okay, okay, okay,” their father chided them. “How was it last time? Jibril was in the passenger seat; now it’s Isaq’s turn.”
They waited for the car to warm up, then Sadiq swung out from the parking lot, much too sharply, much too fast, as usual.
At Bryn School, Jibril, who was in his sixth year, wanted his father to leave right away; being seen with Daddy was embarrassing. But Isaq, who had just started school two months before, asked their father to walk him into the schoolyard.
When the bell rang, Sadiq drove home to collect Sara and take her to a doctor’s appointment. Lately she had been suffering from headaches, pains in her neck, fingers, wrists, legs, and feet. She was often tired and run-down, felt cold and clammy. Were there any remedies? Maybe iron supplements would help? Calcium? Vitamin D? She had begun taking fish oil capsules, but they had not helped. “What I need is hot camel milk,” she used to say. That would make the pains go away. She was living in a country at a time of year when the sun did not warm her up, scarcely gave off light. She was not made for this.
They drove to the local shopping center and found a spot with free parking for three hours, then they walked to the Bærum Health Clinic. When the family came to Norway, they were settled in Bærum, an affluent neighborhood nine miles southwest of Oslo. At the clinic, their family GP listened to Sadiq’s translation of his wife’s problems, posed a few questions, examined her, and came to the conclusion that what she needed was not more pills but a change in lifestyle. Sara had to exercise more and start walking, and she should lose a considerable amount of weight.
After the appointment, Sadiq drove his wife back home. She lay down to rest, as she often did during the day.
The boys were finished with school at half past one. Leila usually got home shortly after them. She would take off her hijab and floor-length cloak, wash, pray, and eat a little something before going into the room she shared with Ayan. There, she would turn on her PC to do homework or listen to sermons and Koran recitals. The girls spent a lot of time in their room. “Don’t come in!” they called out, irritated, if anyone tried the door handle.
While other mothers fretted about their daughters having boyfriends or dressing indecently, Sara had nothing to worry about. Her daughters always did as she told them. They asked permission for everything, even to knock on the neighbors’ doors, she boasted to her friends. It was gratifying that they did not melt too much into Norwegian ways. Ismael, on the other hand, was a source of concern. He was slipping away from his Somali background, she felt, and was in danger of becoming too Norwegian.
* * *
The minute hand on the clock passed three. Ismael had come home early from school, having promised to help his little brothers with their homework. They were lagging behind in a number of subjects. The three of them were sitting around the kitchen table. Strange that Leila was not home yet.
Sara tried calling her. Her mobile phone was turned off. Ayan did not pick up either. Maybe the girls had something scheduled for the afternoon that she had not been aware of.
She waited awhile before phoning again. First Leila. Then Ayan. Finally Sadiq. None of them took the call. She asked Ismael to send a
