SOURCE: “Nuruddin Farah's Italian Domain,” in World Literature Today, Vol. 72, No. 4, Autumn, 1998, pp. 781–85.

At one climactic point in Nuruddin Farah's novel Sardines, Medina asks her little daughter Ubax to read a note. Ubax picks it up and squints at an arrangement of the alphabet which makes her feel illiterate: “‘It's foreign.’ ‘It is not. It's Italian.’ ‘But that is foreign.’”¹ The exchange brings out a confrontation which goes beyond the circumstantial episode of a mother-child argument, in that it discloses a recurrent paradigm in this novel, as well as in A Naked Needle in Sweet and Sour Milk, and in Close Sesame: Italian is being systematically telescoped into a fundamentally English linguistic structure. When Medina retorts that Italian is not a foreign language, she almost instinctively touches on one aspect of her identity, which derives from her education in Italy, a legacy she seems reluctant to renounce. We already know that “she had taken a degree in literature, then applied her talent to writing for the press; she freelanced while still a student in Italy” （S, 3）. Yet Medina professes a firm awareness of her Somali—or, more extensively, African—identity, no less than a resolute vindication of her role as a woman in a country where women find themselves relegated to a subaltern condition peculiar to a tribal society hardly modified by a socialist revolution which she has come to consider the mere travesty of a ruthless dictatorship. It should also be stressed that Medina draws largely on an African yardstick in teaching her daughter, to the effect that “her [the girl's] favourite story had been a folktale Medina adapted from Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart” （3）.

Another and even more intriguing example which reflects the relevance of the Italian linguistic pattern comes out in Close Sesame. Natasha, an American Jew from New York, speaks with her Somali father-in-law Deeriye in Italian: “And why did Natasha not learn Somali? Her answer was very simple: ‘Somalis have not as yet developed the sensitivity to suffer, tolerate, listen to or take seriously a foreigner whose untrained tongue stumbles on the triquetral gurgles of their language.’”² Vis-à-vis the defensive irony of Natasha's option, Deeriye's linguistic performance seems perfectly consistent, though it sanctions a double paradox: “He spoke perfect Italian and impeccable （standard） Arabic, having learnt both while in detention” （CS, 47）. The paradox does not merely bear on the sheer fact that two people communicate with each other in a tongue that is foreign to them both; there is the further point that, in spite of being an undaunted fighter for the independence of his country against Italy, a reader of the Koran imbued with an unshaken loyalty to the Islamic tradition, and a national hero who will eventually sacrifice his own life in a desperate attempt to reassert his ideals and to avenge his son, Deeriye does not hesitate to use a linguistic medium forced upon the Somalis by the Italian dominators and representing the last vestige of colonialism. The paradox is inherent in Farah's novels, and it transcends the issue of language, if we just consider the cultural and political medley tartly described by Koschin in A Naked Needle:

This road leads you to Radio Mogadiscio, the Noise of the Somali Democratic Republic. Then near the Radio there is … that Green God of a school run under the auspices of the UAR cultural mission. The Saudis, incidentally, have also constructed a school. … When the schools were nationalized to give a ‘boost’ to the Somali script, the Arabs threatened they would leave. Besides, the Russians have built a school, … and the Americans, to balance that, have built the College of Education. The European Economic Community has erected a fancy school. … And the teachers in these schools … should, in my opinion, be the taught.³

Many and often antagonistic factors combine in the medley, and in this respect the graphic blend of Arabic words, the Somali white star, and the Italian tricolor flag featured on the dustjacket of Close Sesame is quite in keeping with the metaphor. A writer born and brought up in a country whose language attained its full status as late as 1972, where Italian holds on at least idiomatically and was taught in schools until a few years ago, Farah has chosen English （which has now superseded Italian in schools but which obviously remains a foreign language） as his literary medium. Nevertheless, he has to come to terms with the palpable reality of the medley. Consequently, Somali and to a larger extent Italian intersperse the English linguistic continuum, into which they are made to fit and at the same time kept distinct by the device of the italic. The synergistic process enables Farah to preserve the different verbal levels in their interaction and avoid the contrivance of translation into a unified pattern that would fatally neutralize the significant linguistic variance. Farah's unique narrative strategy eliminates the need for any artificial mediation, as is often the case with those writers having to cope with the hindrance of characters who possess different mother tongues. I will begin with a careful examination of the Italian linguistic dimension in Farah's novels and attempt a comprehensive survey, from A Naked Needle to Close Sesame, since Italian is employed in From a Crooked Rib in only a peripheral and cursory way. For practical reasons, I have arranged the Italian words and phrases in two groups.

1. SINGLE WORDS AND SHORTER EXPRESSIONS OF COMMON USAGE.

In A Naked Needle we find: Per favore! （Please; 15）, Lasciapassare （Permit; 26）, Butana （a distortion of puttana, rendered by Koschin as “—what? A slut”; 27）, carta bollata di cinque scilini （the final word is grossly misspelled and should be scellini; the phrase means “stamped paper for five shillings”）, in chiaro （implausible, how wrong!; 49）, Comitato di Disciplina （Disciplinary Commission [in roman type]; 55）, piccolo （child; 69）, benedetta （blessed; 90）, benevolenza （benevolence; 90）, sottosviluppati （underdeveloped; 101）, Milite Ignoto （The Unknown Soldier; 106）, Dio mio! （My God!; 110）, caramella （sweet, toffee, candy; 112）, Farmacia （chemist's shop, drugstore; 120）, Tavola calda （snack bar [in roman type]; 120）, agenzia （branch of a bank; 124）, Stella （Star, the name of a newspaper; 133）, tribu （tribe [should have an accent grave, tribù; 133）, Buona sera! （Good evening!; 137 and elsewhere）, Piacere! （How do you do! Pleased to meet you!; 140）, Corriere della Somalia （Somali Courier, the name of a newspaper; 140）, armadio （cupboard; 141）, sacco-cinese （quite implausible [literally, “Chinese sack”]; 142）, per se, in tutto （per se, in all; 143）, Cara/caro （My dear, honey [feminine and masculine]; 157）, Con piacere （With pleasure; 161）, fiduciario shirt （shirt typical of an official, originally of the Fascist Party; 161）, and bell'uome （a handsome man [the second word is misspelled and should be uomo]; 164）.

Sweet and Sour Milk⁴ contains the following: Ciao! （Hello, Hi, So long; 102 and passim）, Autunno of Prague （Prague Autumn [a reference to the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia]; 103）, Prego! （Don't mention it, You're welcome; 106）, suggeritore （prompter; 106）, liscio （straight or neat [in reference to whiskey]; 115）, un dito （a drop [again in reference to wine or whiskey]; 117 and elsewhere）, dibattito （debate, roundtable; 119）, Marxismo e il continente nero （Marxism and the Dark Continent [the title of the debate]）, zuppa di pesce （fish soup; 120）, scaloppina alla Milanese （veal Milanese style; 120）, vino sciolto （wine not by the bottle; 120）, Capocetto Nero （Little Black Riding Hood [the first word is misspelled and should be Cappuccetto], obviously a pun, indicating the name of a restaurant in Mogadiscio; 120）, femminista （feminist; 123）, prudenza paga （caution pays; 136）, prudenza! （caution! beware!; 137）, dolfino （heir apparent, probable successor [should be spelled delfino]; 179）; buttafuoris （[with anglicized plural] chucker-outs, bouncers; 217）, and pudore （modesty; 230）.

In Sardines we have: Basta! （Enough! Cut it out!; 37）, barzelletta （joke; 57）, matrimoniale bedspread （double bedspread; 72）, bandiera rosa （red flag [the second word is misspelled as rosa instead of rossa, which results in an involuntary but politically substantial error, in that rosa means “pink”]; 89）, commizzi （political meetings or rallies [should be spelled comizi]; 89）, socialimperialismo, egemonismo （social imperialism, hegemonism [words that belong to the current jargon of the Marxist-Leninist Left]; 89）, titolari （in this context, political officials or dignitaries; 96）, compagni （comrades [referring to members of the Italian Communist Party]; 211）, l'ideologo （the ideologue; 218）, appunto! （precisely, exactly; 236）, and sfida （parade; 237）.

And from Close Sesame come the following: Residente （resident minister or governor; 32）, soldato （soldier; 32）, Pronto! （Hello! [answering a phone call]; 61）, Grazie! （Thank you! [coupled with the Somali Mahadsanid]; 88）, and localissimo （super swanky place [with the superlative form being deftly applied to a noun]; 90）.

2. CURRENT EXPRESSIONS OR IDIOMS INSERTED INTO LONGER PHRASES.

A Naked Needle contains: Fiammiferi, macchina da barba （partly meaningless: Fiammiferi is correct for “matches,” but the second part literally means “shaving machine” and should be rasoio da barba, （safety razor; 3）; Non ce ne importa! （We don't care!; 3）; Cortesia non costa niente, ma paga molto in ritorno （quite implausible and largely anglicized, this vaguely makes sense and could mean “Courtesy costs nothing but pays much in return”; 22）; Bronto, Istruzione Bubblica? （a remarkable phonetic joke, rendering the phrase “Hello, Ministry of Education?” in either a southern Italian accent or a local accent or both [keeping in mind that most Italian bureaucrats are southern], with initial p's distorted into b's; the joke is completed in the course of the phone conversation: “Istruzione Bubblica? Istruzione Pubblica?”; 23）; Mi deludi （You disappoint me; 38）; Nome e cognome, l'ultimo indirizzo, et cetera （name and surname, most recent address, et cetera [Koschin is registering at the Enrico Hotel, “the only decent hotel in Kismayo,” run by Italians]; 45–46）; Come mai ammiri questo uomo （[question mark missing] Why do you admire this man?; 46）; Troppo en gamba e un grande politicante del secolo （en is a misspelling of in, the disparaging politicante is used instead of politico, and the whole phrase somehow limps. Too smart a man, and a great politician of the [or this] century; 46）; “Italian bastard! / Cosa hai detto? / Eh? / Cosa hai detto? Ti ho fatto male? / Niente. Koschin cut it short. And with niente still on his tongue, Koschin swayed into the restaurant” （[Here, in an argument between Koschin and an Italian, we come across a sizable passage of dialogue wherein Italian and English are equally compounded] What did you say? What did you say? Did I hurt you? Nothing; 46）; Il maestro di coloro che non sanno niente! Oppure che sanno tutto （The master of those who know nothing! Or who know everything [Koschin's ironic remark]; 50）; Tutti si sonno seduti alla mia sinistra （Everyone has sat on my left [sonno is a misspelling of sono, leading to a misunderstanding, as sonno means sleep in Italian]; 101）; Le vie del signore sono infinite! （The ways of the Lord are infinite!; 140）; Non ho mai sentito nominare （Never heard of him [the Italian renders the English phrase with one slight omission, l'ho]; 154）; “He is the poet in residence, the Homer, for un gruppo di vigliacchi, di scelti intimi amiei che hanne il loro mondo nel campo di battaglia e pace” （this contains two misspellings or possible misprints—amiei instead of amici and hanne instead of hanno—plus one infelicity, nel instead of sul; the end makes virtually no sense: “a bunch of cowards, of chosen intimate friends who have their world on the battlefield and peace”; 160）.

In Sardines we find: Come gli ho fottuti tutti quanti! （[one slight inaccuracy, as gli is used instead of li] How well I fucked every last one of them! [the General's scornful remark]; 22）; “Love at first sight, un colpo di fulmine” （an exact rendition of the English expression; 59）; “I called her faccia tosta!” （ruddy cheek; 89）; Guarda caso （Just look [but the Italian idiom is almost untranslatable]; 102）; Uomo bruciato （burnt-out man; 247）.

From Sweet and Sour Milk comes: Morale della storia （The moral of the story; 116）, and in Close Sesame we have: Faccio del te per te? （[Natasha asks] “Shall I make some tea for you?” which is grammatically correct, but in current usage an Italian speaker would say, “Ti faccio del te?”; 46）; Si, grazie. Grazie tanto （[Deeriye's reply, with the first and last words slightly misspelled: si should have an accent grave, and tanto should be tante] Yes, thank you. Thank you very much; 46）; Non ti serve niente altro? （[Natasha again] Do you need anything else?; 46）; No, grazie （No, thank you; 46）; Grazie, grazie infinito （[Deeriye again, with the last word misspelled as infinito instead of infinite] Thank you, a thousand thanks; 50）; Non c'è di che, non c'è di che （Don't mention it, don't mention it; 50）; No, mi dispiacce, Zeinad dovrebbe venire （[Natasha, with the third word misspelled as dispiacce instead of dispiace] No, sorry. Zeinad should be coming; 50）; Tre buoni ristoranti e tre alberghi cosi cosi; tre circoli con ampie sala da ballo （[Cosi should have an accent grave, and sala should be sale] Three good restaurants and three hotels so-so. Three clubs with large ballrooms; 86）; Mursal mi ha detto che verra lui a prendarti. Va bene? （[Verra should have an accent grave, and prendarti is a misspelling of prenderti] Mursal told me that he is coming to pick you up himself. Is that all right?; 87）; Agli ordini, Signore （[a line from a spaghetti western] Yessir!; 145）; Alla cena dei poveri vengono senza invito i potenti （To the dinner of the poor the powerful come uninvited [proverb]; 157）.

Although systematizing Farah's use of Italian or defining its rationale on the basis of our survey would sound rather hazardous, some conclusions seem legitimate. First, we notice the coexistence of words and phrases which are absolutely impeccable or of idioms such as only an accomplished knowledge of that language can produce, alongside ungrammatical or occasionally even meaningless expressions. Second, misspellings are frequent, but we do not know whether the printer and/or the proofreader are to be blamed for this. Third, one should never forget that Farah is working out a linguistic mechanism stemming from oral transmission, from an actual siphoning out. His Somali characters may speak a secondhand Italian absorbed in the family or taught by unprofessional instructors. Hence the uneven skills of the Somali speakers, which are transferred onto the written page and are expedient to a Joycean patchwork engineered by the writer. Finally, it should be recalled that Farah is depicting a transitional scene which is now disappearing: Somalia's linguistic links with Italian are being severed.

The synergistic process evolved by Farah does not simply resolve itself in a series of linguistic gestures. Two further elements deserve detailed scrutiny: a） the impact of Italy on Somali characters and their association with Italy; and b） the presence of Italian characters and their relationship to their Somali counterparts.

Throughout the colonial period, Somalis were purposely denied access to any record or memory of the history of their own country: “How could they make him understand that at school they were told they had no history? Garibaldi. The Tower of Pisa. The Duomo of Milan. Crispi. Il Duce” （SSM, 131; Duomo means cathedral; Crispi was a jingoistic prime minister of the 1890s; Il Duce is of course Mussolini）. The passage testifies to a similar plight recounted in other postcolonial works, for instance In the Castle of My Skin by George Lamming, one of Farah's favorite authors. But a number of Farah's Somali characters have been educated in Italy after World War II, as was pointed out in relation to Medina in Sardines. Farah encompasses the various and contradictory aspects of the almost inevitable link between Somalia and Italy, which usher in a peculiar love-hate relationship. For one thing, he bitterly satirizes the “so called intellectuals of Somalia, speaking impeccable English and Italian” （NN, 135）, as well as the members of upper bourgeoisie: “Halima doesn't speak English, Daud says. Italian. She is from Baidea, the daughter of a one-time member of parliament. You may know him—you also coming from Basso Giuba. / Alto. / Sorry” （NN, 154; Basso [lower] and Alto [upper] evidence the persistence of Italian words in topography）.

Here is young Warsawe, a total fraud: “His mother was terribly apathetic: her son, a Dottore, the most intelligent of his generation, the only Somali who spoke and wrote English and Italian like a native, her jewel of a son as jobless as an ‘unfallen’ angel” （NN, 172）. Koschin, the man without qualities, the disenchanted yet passionately critical intellectual educated in England, so unbelievably vital in spite of his final, tragic ordeal, looks at the phenomenon from a special vantage point. The picture acquires greater complexity in the subsequent novels, where the Italian imprint distinguishes numerous members of the Somali intelligentsia. In Sweet and Sour Milk we are supplied with further evidence of Italy's becoming a true springboard for the careers of young intellectuals or petits bourgeoises. Soyaan had won a scholarship to Italy to study economics at the University of Rome. Loyaan had won as well, but would go to the University of Bologna to study dentistry: “Dottor Soyaan! A title before his name—titles, in this part of the world, being a legacy of the Italian love for pomp and flattery. Dottor Soyaan. Dottore! Dottor Loyaan!” （74）. Soyaan's mistress, Margaritta, is “a tall, beautiful woman, with large breasts, half-Italian, half-Somali” （112）, herself an Italian citizen, working for ANSA, the Italian press agency; this will not prevent her from making a firm commitment to the cause that Soyaan has hopelessly striven to uphold. Quite significantly, a Somali character, Ibrahim Musse, a future victim of the General's iron hand, “the one who was extremely courteous and who bowed as he took leave,” is nicknamed Il Siciliano （The Sicilian）, as if to corroborate the pervasiveness of the Italian frame of reference.

Sardines enhances this dimension to a degree of considerable complexity. Medina graduates and free-lances in Italy; she gives birth to her daughter Ubax in Rome, a traumatic experience, as she is infibulated; and her husband Samater is “one of the best architects ever to have graduated from his university in Italy” （79）. In Milan, Medina, her brother Nasser, and Samater witness the outbreak of the student revolt, with its combination of vocal protests and violent uprisings, led by the so-called extraparliamentary leftist fringes, hostile to both the political establishment and the Communist Party, which was branded as an accessory to capitalism. It is the Italian Sessantotto （Sixty-eight）, a battle fought in the name of the working class and under the wing of Marxist-Leninist ideology paradoxically by an aggressive minority of young people mostly of middle- or upper-class extraction. Farah treats this incandescent phase of recent Italian history with penetrating insight:

A cloister of red flags. A column of student resistance. A pillar of raised fists. … And a sea of youthful faces. … And the shuttle would spin a curtain of chorus-singers: Giap/Giap/Giap Ho/Chi/Minh. A private grievance made public. … The confronto-scontro. The avan-guardia degli operai e dei braccianti. Il Maggio Francese. [The confrontation-clash. The avant-garde of the factory workers and of the farm laborers. The French May.] … Medina, Sandra and Nasser sang and participated like everybody else whereas Samater would hold back.

（S, 199）.

A kind of mirror relationship is established, in that the Somali students respond to the loud, would-be revolutionary ritual performed by their Italian mates with a sense of belonging, although they cannot fully grasp a chaotic and fragmented reality which strangely reverberates on them. Sandra, their Italian friend, preaches her political gospel to Medina and flatly accuses her of not understanding Italy. However, Medina and Nasser write a poem “to indicate that their idea of '68 was different from Sandra's and their European counterparts: ‘In Europe and the USA / it is / question-time in the halls / of learning: / in Southeast Asia / one listens to the lecture on Ethos of Resistance …’” （201）. They are still unaware of the fact that, back in Somalia, they will have to face a tragic challenge and take a stand which will deeply affect their private selves and will ultimately shatter their lives.

Human relationships and the existential stance, as we observe them in Close Sesame, are haunted by an individual and collective madness whose definition Farah admittedly borrows from David Cooper and which symbolizes the general downgrading brought about by the dictatorial regime. The old patriarch Deeriye represents a link between the past and the present. Farah, born in 1945, possesses no memory of that past, and he avails himself of a sourcebook written by a radical Italian scholar, Angelo Del Boca, Gli Italiani in Africa Orientale: La conquista dell'Impero （The Italians in East Africa: The Conquest of the Empire）, acknowledged in the “Author's Note” at the end of the novel. The paradox referred to above materializes in Deeriye quite clearly. He received his education while in detention, imprisoned by the Italians for resisting their authority as colonial masters: “Were it not for that period of detention, I might never have known what it was like being a Sayyidist, a Somali nationalist and a Pan-Africanist all at the same time. I am not saying that the Italians did me a favour by imprisoning me because that taught me who I was—although that's true too” （CS, 201）. But his ideals are being thwarted by the regime. No wonder that Deeriye makes a point of ruling out the General's book Collected Wisdom （“I knew what the General thought and, as Somalis might say, one couldn't read about a goat that bleats only to the tune of its own boastful cry”）, whereas he recollects reading “every line Mussolini had written. … I pored over the Duce for two main reasons. One: I wanted to know what he thought about his own people and about Somalia; I also needed something to practise my reading on” （187）. Italian has so permeated linguistic communication that Deeriye's son Mursal jots a note in Italian on the cover of the secret memorandum written by Soyaan, the political dissenter mysteriously dispatched: “Per un'eventuale distribuzione/pubblicazione” （For possible distribution/publication; SSM, 178）. The supreme, ironic paradox is reached in Somalia's national anthem: “How could anyone call that thing Somalia's national anthem? Perhaps not many people knew that it was composed by an Italian and that there were no words which could be sung to the piano music of the man's composition” （S, 129–30）.

Nevertheless, there is no trace whatsoever of any Italian literary influence. The literary models can be found in English literature （Joyce, Flann O'Brien, Yeats, Dylan Thomas）, in German literature （Hermann Hesse）, in South American literature （Pablo Neruda）, in Russian literature （Goncharov）, in West Indian literature （George Lamming）, and quite naturally in African literature （Achebe, Soyinka） and in the Arabian Nights, from which the title of Close Sesame is drawn. Dante, curiously quoted in English translation by Koschin （“Dante, the wise of the old as well the modern, Amen!” NN, 139）, is not necessarily a case in point; Alberto Moravia is casually hinted at, along with Pontecorvo's film Queimada and the liberal weekly magazine L'Espresso.

As for Italian characters, in Close Sesame Farah digs up, by means of Deeriye's recollections, a few scattered pieces of the history of Somalia in the colonial period. We come across various stereotypes of Italian soldiers and officers: arrogant, obtuse, the appropriate caricature of a latter-day, ragged imperialism, aptly embodied in the figure of Governor De Vecchi, one of the founding fathers of Fascism, the grotesque, self-proclaimed Gran Pacificatore （Great Pacifier）, with a reputation even in Italy, it should be added, of being rather dense. Neither are the survivors of the colonial era spared: shopkeepers, farmers, restaurant owners who try to cash in on the tinsel grandeur of the past. But the nadir is reached in the devastating portrayal of the Casa d'Italia （Italia House）—“The litter-bin of a deglorified idea, and the Italians have it exclusively for themselves. … The Italians therein lubricate their physical agonies and relax” （NN, 107）—or of the “Italian hipsters,” or finally of the academics from Padua University sent for short terms to teach at the National University, the aftermath of “the days the Italians ran the country like a brothel” （NN, 97）. Conversely, Italy is liable to conform to widespread commonplaces, seen through the eyes of Somali visitors as a strike-ridden country （S, 172） where you may still meet people stupidly nostalgic for Fascism, an age when “trains arrived exactly on time” （SSM, 223）.

The crucial Italian character is undoubtedly Sandra in Sardines, the young woman met by Medina, Nasser, and Samater in Milan, and a recognized leader of the Sessantotto. A dogmatic Marxist-Leninist, Sandra is the granddaughter of the former Vice-Governor-General of Italian Somaliland, De Felice. Farah provides an extraordinarily subtle and cogent portrait of the scion of an upper-class or possibly aristocratic dynasty in her haughty and supercilious effort to exercise a concealed guilty conscience by professing a simplistic allegiance to revolution: “My grandfather was a colonialist. Your grandfather dealt in slaves. We're different. We may disagree ideologically, you and I. The question may be reduced to whether you are extreme left or I am” （206）. When officially invited to Somalia to report on the socialist revolution for an Italian leftist newspaper, Sandra, “who had never set foot in Africa before,” pretends she can understand Africa “in a week” （208）, and she lectures Medina as she used to do in Milan. She obstinately clings to her ideological fetish, to her unmitigated self-indulgence, to her self-satisfaction, becoming almost a harsh, sarcastic caricature. In the eyes of Medina, who is painstakingly trying to readjust to the distressful state of affairs in Somalia and to rethink the notion of truth itself, Sandra seems to entertain an unshakable belief that she alone “can say how things are, write the truth.” The mirror relationship is being reversed, and actually Sandra looks down on Somalia moving “in this hall of mirrors, … talking narcissistically on and on and on and on, whereas Africa was the ghost which never cast back an image” （208）. Hers is the updated version of colonialism, and she becomes the harbinger of an abusive truth consciously or unconsciously aimed at repossessing the heart of darkness.

Notes

1. Nuruddin Farah, Sardines, London, Allison & Busby, 1981 （reprinted London, Heinemann, 1982）, p. 199. All subsequent references are to the Heinemann edition and are cited in the text using the abbreviation S.

2. Nuruddin Farah, Close Sesame, London, Allison & Busby, 1983, p. 47. All subsequent references are to this edition and are cited in the text using the abbreviation CS.

3. Nuruddin Farah, A Naked Needle, London, Heinemann, 1976, p. 10. All subsequent references are to this edition and are cited in the text using the abbreviation NN.

4. Nuruddin Farah, Sweet and Sour Milk, London, Allison & Busby, 1979 （reprinted London, Heinemann, 1980）. All subsequent references are to the Heinemann edition and are cited in the text using the abbreviation SSM.