Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (3 page)

Mustafa nodded. Cracked his neck left, then right. Breathed hard through his nose. "She speak English?"

He saw her nod. Heem said, "Little bit."

"Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"Yeah, sixteen. But we've got younger. Long as she's got tits. And I don't go for that, um, lady circumcision bullshit. These girls, they've got all their parts."

EGX whispered, "All that's holy." Mustafa turned and sliced his hand in the air.

Heem pointed to the girl like she was on a car lot. "Only been here a week. She's still shy, but she's got the skills. Might get a good year out of her if she can relax."

Mustafa didn't say anything. The room smelled like old spunk and piss. He wondered how many johns had sweated their asses all over those sheets. How much cum had soaked into them? How many more men tonight? He called Dawit over, whispered in his ear. He shook his head.

The Prince said, "Look, you in charge, I'm gonna let that happen out of respect for you, man. But there's a lot you need my help with. If you want, spend some time with the girl, do what you got to do. Enjoy the party and we'll get on all this in the morning."

Mustafa finally looked up at Prince Heem, smiled nice and wide, and said, "Fuck that. I'm ready to start making money, right here and now."

He didn't look at the girl again as he hustled the men out of the room and closed the door.

––––––––

A
dem had sworn he would never lie to his father again. Mustafa had risked his life for his son right out in the open, hunted him down in Somalia and brought him home, rattled some sense into the clueless boy Adem had been just three years ago. After all that, he had vowed to always be open and honest with his father.

Now he was climbing off a plane in Yemen. He had told his parents he was going to Saudi.

Part of his "pilgrimage", foraging deeper and deeper into his newfound Islamic faith, the one his parents had abandoned. The one he hadn't been sure he wanted to follow until he returned from Somalia, one of the lucky "disappeared" boys who had sneaked out of Minnesota thanks to some underground recruiters, flew to the motherland, and fought in someone else's war they had made their own. It hadn't been the right choice. He knew that now. But without his experiences over there, he wouldn't have discovered his need for more out of life than his father expected—more than a college degree and smart career choices.

This would be his first time out of the country since Somalia. He was still under surveillance by the Feds, he knew. Probably would be for years to come, at least in America, so he'd told his parents that before he decided his next move—either graduate school or the TeachAmerica program, teaching history in dilapidated high schools for a couple of years—he first wanted to "make a pilgrimage."

He had told them in the living room, his parents on the far ends of the couch while he stood before them. Mustafa and Adem's mother looked each other without talking for what felt like a day's worth of prayers. Some sort of parent telepathy. After all, it was his fault that Roxy didn't come home so often, having been at college in Madison when he "got lost." She blamed Adem for nearly killing her father with his stunt. She had followed her mother's path, a modern Somali woman, not bound by the old ways. Now she stayed in Madison, only calling home once a month, if that. Living with a sociology professor, he'd heard.

Adem had waited a while for the atmosphere to calm down before telling them his plans, since things were heated with his dad getting fired. There were shouting matches and frayed nerves. Maybe he should have found his own place after graduation, but he had been saving every dime for this trip.

Mustafa covered his mouth and chin, stroked his goatee. "We don't even know if they'll let you out of the country."

"Yeah, I mean, I've thought about it a lot. I can check first, right? I can give them the whole schedule. Really, it's cool."

Another glance at Mom. She said, "Alone?"

"It's okay. I can join a tour group. I don't mind."

"Have you thought, maybe, about Florida? New York?"

"Dad—"

"Canada? England?"

"Dad!" No, he couldn't lose his cool. This wasn't about
permission
. He was twenty years old. He was an adult. This wasn't even about
approval
. Really, it was about acceptance. The beard, the hair, the clothing, the daily prayers, the mosque and the discussion group he'd joined. None of it radical, no. He steered far from those cats, damned hypocrites one and all. With each new step forward, his parents had reacted with silence, then offered alternatives, then some hurt words when he brushed off their suggestions, and finally the quiet understanding that he'd found another path, not theirs. One day he would show them how to follow his lead. Telling them did no good. He had to live by the Prophet's words first.

"Dad, millions of people do it. It's safe. I'm going to Mecca. I need to..." He balled his fists tight, thumped his heart. "
Feel it
. Didn't you ever feel it? Come on, Mom? Dad?"

It had been difficult to get used to Mom without her hijab, wearing make-up and jewelry, her hair relaxed and straightened. One day he was home from college, and she was Mom. The next weekend she was just another American woman.

She sat on the couch, hand propping the side of her face, lines around her eyes and mouth he'd only noticed within the past six months. Funny how age sneaked up on your family that way.

He had dropped the bomb. Quietly, respectfully, but still: "As much as I love you both, you can't stop me."

This had caused his mother to erupt. Off the couch, shaking her head, out of the room, on and on in her native tongue about the ungrateful little bastard acting all superior to his own parents who'd given him so much, all those opportunities. Mustafa remained on the couch, steely-eyed. Like hypnosis. Adem was afraid to look away.

His father exhaled through his nose, long, slow. Then blinked.

"You'll write us. Emails. One a day."

Nodding. "Yes sir. Yes. Absolutely."

Mustafa didn't say anything else. Another terminal bout of staring, Adem's mother's voice pinballing off the walls of the apartment. Adem was a "bad son" and "ungrateful cow" until Mustafa finally stood without another word and left the room, a quick pat on Adem's shoulder as he passed. A few minutes later, his mother quieted down. Adem left the apartment, went out with friends, discussed the famine in Somalia, had a bite to eat, all the while with a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. Getting away with it hadn't made him feel as triumphant as he'd hoped.

The other thing nagging at him as he had prepared for the trip was his father losing his job at the Target warehouse. He'd been a man of action, suddenly gone limp. He moped around their apartment, a new quietness about him that felt as hard as his belt had felt on Adem's backside when he was a boy. Arguments between his mother and father mostly came to a halt when he pushed through the door, but he'd begun to stop outside and press his ear against the wood, try to make out the gist of it. Something about honor. Something about going back. Something about his mother refusing to worry like that again.

The words gave him shivers. He remembered his father, years ago, like the hip-hop stars on TV. A thug, but an admired man. Adem would give him that. Those other hard men dropping in and out all night when Adem should have been asleep. He couldn't sleep with that noise, so he would do what he did at the front door—press an ear against the wall, close his eyes, and listen to his father tell the other men to do terrible things, all for money. No, not even money. All for "brotherhood". Whatever.

Of course childhood memories were always cloudy, but Adem realized at some point things were changing. He was in high school when it happened, after that concert with the gunshots in the parking lot. His dad went out one day, came back home with a red polo, bullseye insignia, much to his mother's amusement. Or delight. The man who had virtually ignored his son all those years started driving him harder at school. Warned him about the street gangs, the drugs, the lowered expectations. Pressed him to aim high in college. Still not a TV dad like Dr. Huxtable, but not absent either. He was...fine.

Mention the troubles Adem found himself in several years ago, though, and you would have seen a different side of Mustafa. Quiet rage. He wouldn't shut you up but he refused to talk about it. If you kept trying you'd find yourself on the losing end of his fists. Several men had died helping Mustafa find Adem in Somalia on his last "pilgrimage," including one of Mustafa's closest cousins, and a white cop who gave Adem a chance to escape when he should've been the one condemning him to death. So to now tell his father that regardless of what he had told the authorities, his college professors, his mother, and Mustafa that the first trip wasn't finished with him yet, of course that had to have been a huge blow.

Or, Adem thought, let's really stab this in its heart: Sufia wasn't finished with him yet. The woman he had left behind, scarred forever with battery acid only because he had fallen for her. He had to find her one more time.

He couldn't tell you when it happened, exactly, but after being banned from the internet by the Feds until they agreed to waive it for school reasons, Adem typed in a search
: "Mr. Mohammed" "Somalia" "Pirates"

The persona he had created when his friend, Jibriil, appealed to the group's leader to let Adem participate in a different way than just being a young warrior. Since a number of Somali pirates funneled their ransom money back into the terror cell coffers, it was decided Adem's talents would best be used interpreting and negotiating for the rag-tag kids hijacking the ships. It kept him alive. It allowed him to live in comfort at the port city of Bosaso. It gave him a chance to draft Sufia as his assistant, where he grew closer to her while she began to pull away. In the end, she suffered dearly for his arrogance at the hand of Jibriil.

But something strange had happened after the whole operation fell down when his dad and the white cop came for him, took him back to Mogadishu so they could face Jibriil one more time and try to find Sufia. Somehow, Mr. Mohammed became a folk hero. His legend grew by leaps and bounds so much that by the time they arrived on the outskirts of Mogadishu, all of the soldiers wanted their photos taken with Mr. Mohammed. They mobbed him like a movie star. They reached out to touch his hands, his suit, his shaved head.

And then he and his dad had barely escaped the city with their lives. They returned home to long debriefings, interrogations, and threats. But they found a way to deal their way out of trouble. For nearly a year, Adem pushed the thoughts of that trip into the back of his mind.

Until that web search.

The legend was now global. Mr. Mohammed sightings all over. He had become like a holy man for the pirates and the terrorists and the soldiers. He had faced down the infidels and the corrupt and escaped intact, waiting for the day he could return safely and resume his work. Hundreds of pleas from pirates in chatrooms—"Please help us, Mr. Mohammed. We will give you sixty percent." "We are weary, two years on this ship. Please come and give us our freedom!" "We need you! We pray every day for your wisdom!" And on and on.

Adem could only hold back for so long. A few months, but then no longer. While there were plenty of frauds out there purporting to be the "real" Mr. Mohammed, the fans always found them out, debunked them. Adem created a handle—"MrMohammedWaits"—and said he had been contacted by the great man himself, who had authorized him to consider some of these requests in turn for information about his former assistant, Sufia.

No one believed him. They bombarded him with questions.

Every one of which he answered correctly.

It was then he began to save his money and rethink his future.

*

H
e de-planed in Sana'a, Yemen's capital, and was surprised to find the mood to be business-as-usual all around. He'd heard that protests and government pushbacks had everyone tense, fearing a possible airport shutdown. Adem wouldn't have known from what he was seeing. The shops were open, the lights on, and plenty of businessmen, both in western suits and Arab
bishts
and
keffye
, engaged in casual conversations. Or reading newspapers. Or checking their phones for emails and texts. Echoing announcements. Adem had to adjust his ear. He'd kept up his Arabic much better recently, planning for this trip, but to have so much come at him at once knocked him off his game for a little while. Reading it was easier, and he found the signs pointing to the Exit. He was prepared for the heat this time, had changed clothes in Cairo, now wearing a long, white, thin shirt, lightweight pants, and sandals. He rolled his one barely-packed suitcase behind him. He remembered the last time, when his bags had been scavenged by young soldiers, eager for American brand-name sneakers and jeans while at the same time cursing the country they were most associated with.

At the doors near baggage claim, a young Arab man waved at him. He wore a thin beard. Shorter than Adem, wearing similar clothes, a little darker shade, green. Online he called himself Hasan. He was the first, from all the chat rooms and forums Adem had combed through meticulously, that had a solid lead on Sufia. Described her affliction as Adem had remembered the last time he saw her—screaming at him, bleeding from the throat where her skin had been shredded in the acid attack, the way some of these soldiers punished "bossy" or "modern" women. Took away their faces, forced them to hide behind thick burkas.

Hasan responded to Adem's call, the "girl with wire-rimmed glasses (he hoped she still wore them) and a jaw like a zombie." Yes, he had seen her. And yes, she was in Yemen. A half-blurred cell phone pic got Adem's hopes up, and he started planning the trip.

They greeted each other with an embrace, smiles, everything the last trip had lacked. Hasan took the handle of Adem's bag and rolled it past the tinted glass doors into the sun, not as hot as it was in Somalia, but brighter, maybe. Adem slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Yes, much better prepared this time.