Mustafa worshiped and despised his wife. They had been together since they were teenagers and refugees. She had never questioned his choice to start the gang. He needed her, but had been fighting to keep his distance, not let her know what was really going on with him. Not that afternoon, though. Behind her, his hips slapping her ass as loud as their yelling had been, Idil was not letting him off the hook easily. He held on and ached and longed for her to come so he could release the tension in his muscles. He was concentrating on the texture of her skin—smooth, satin—and the long straightened hair that hung over her head like a veil, when she called his name in a gasp and he felt her tense and that was that and my God I love this woman, I do I do I do, the bitch.
Afterwards, together on the 600-thread-count Egyptian sheets bought with his Target discount—maroon like wine, her favorite color—the sweat rolled off, their legs tangled as she remained across the bed on her stomach and he propped on his pillows, he told her everything. About the promise he had made. And then told her, "I can lead the Killaz again. I want back in."
It didn't start another fight. Instead, she let a low, soulful laugh spill into the sheets. Turned her head to him. "Aren't you a bit old?"
"It's the only way."
She didn't say anymore for a while. Instead, she looked into his eyes, her just-fucked smile getting to him. She reached over and lightly scraped her fingernails on his thigh. Then, "It's a risk."
"The kids today, they take the ease of it all for granted. I can use that against them."
"What about the police?"
"Did you ever need to worry about that back then? Wasn't I always careful?"
She finally slid out of the tangle and pushed herself up to his chest to rest her head there. "This is too dangerous. We're not thinking hard enough. Some other way, Mustafa, my heart."
"Mine." He hugged her closer to him. "But there is no other way. I couldn't keep going eight hours a day and then spend more, every night, looking for her. It was killing me. It's why I had to cut loose from Target."
"I know."
"You know."
She lifted one sharp nail to his chin, pressed deep until it broke his skin. A bead of blood ran down her finger. "My blessing extends only so far. If you die over this, I will curse your soul, and it'll be me haunting you."
He took her bloody finger, slipped it into his mouth, closed his lips and sucked it clean. "I never doubted it."
*
Prince Heem kept his eyes on Mustafa and told his guard in the T-shirt, "Let me out."
The guy started to scoot, but froze when Mustafa shook his head and laid his hand over the guard's arm. "No, you'll stay where you are."
"Why ain't you shot him yet?"
Near the door, the .44 looked heavier and heavier in the gatekeeper's grip. He finally had to two-hand it. Didn't even have the hammer cocked. He stood only a foot away from the TVs, one now showing a double-penetration scene, black-and-white-on-black, and the other replaying the death of Heem's virtual soldier in slow motion and silence. If the gatekeeper fired now, he would miss. Hard trigger pull, too much time to flinch, too much recoil.
Didn't matter, because the next thing that happened was a black man with a chest like a linebacker shoved an AR-15 against that man's throat. He dropped the .44 and went to his knees. Another couple of gentlemen came in behind him. Guy named Teeth from the Black Ice Boyz, and then one of Mustafa's Killaz from back in the day, Rafael, who had gotten out to join the Army, then fought in Afghanistan, stayed five tours, came back home after Mustafa had already stepped aside, and none of the new blood remembered who he was anyway.
The one with the assault rifle was just off the boat, Mustafa's cousin Dawit. Mustafa owed him big time but the man was still up to help out. That left EGX out in the apartment, making sure no one got wind of what was going down in the kitchen.
Look at them all, Mustafa thought. Black leather jackets and gloves, jeans and a T-shirt, Teeth in his North Face, middle of fucking August. Shit, like some sort of marauding Blaxploitation flick come to life. Scared these new kids shitless having real guns pointed at them by men who had killed real people and not got thrown in jail for it. Or in Rafael's case, even got his ass paid.
Except one. The nigga between Heem and Mustafa, all muscles and dreads and tank top. Hadn't said a word, barely moved. Now he brought up a Glock from under the table, swung it towards Teeth, and this was not what Mustafa needed. Hell no. Did not need the blood, the noise, the attention. And he didn't have much time. He whistled and held up a hand. Rafael reached for his back jeans pocket, pulled out a black plastic brick and tossed it over. End over end. Perfect timing. Mustafa snatched it out of the air, righted it, and shoved it into the gunman's shoulder. Stun gun. Fifty fucking thousand volts. He got stiff and Mustafa worried he still might jerk the trigger, but he dropped the gun on the table and Mustafa swiped it quick.
He let go. Nigga fell forward onto the table. Teeth was pissed, seething, "Shit, gonna point that shit at me? Fuck no, man, that ain't even right, man."
Mustafa finally had Prince Heem to himself. Said, "Now you and me are going to talk about what my Killaz have been up to lately, you dig?"
*
Mustafa met EGX at the kitchen door and marched Heem through the party, leaving the others to hold down the kitchen. A classic on the speakers, "Humpty Dance", hitting the part where he goes, Humpin', funkin', jumpin', and the kids laughing because "this shit they parents be listening to." They knew to move it when Prince Heem walked by, stone-faced with three stone-faced old dudes surrounding him. Some serious business, none of it theirs. Down the hall, past bedroom number one, the door opening to let out a couple while another slipped inside. Grunts and moans. Mustafa took a peek and saw all sorts of legs and feet and hips and tits writhing, African, Caucasian, Asian, Hispanic, a literal fucking UN in there. Mustafa wondered how many were underage, bareback, not telling their conquests about the herpes, gonorrhea, HIV. Not worth spoiling their fun.
Another bedroom, door closed, a line of amorous kids sweating pheromones. At the end of the hall, opposite the bathroom—a drunk girl taking a squat on the toilet while a guy had a chubby chick bent over the sink, and another guy was pissing into the shower—was a closed bedroom door. No line outside. Just another of Heem's Killaz, texting while guarding. A young one, had to be fifteen if even that.
He looked up, then back at the phone screen. "Someone in there."
Heem, over his shoulder to Mustafa. "You sure you want—"
"Let's see her."
Heem shrugged. "You heard the man."
Teen Guard gave him a squint. "Who he?"
Another shrug. "Nobody. Don't worry about it."
EGX shoulder-bumped Heem's back. "Go on, tell him."
The Prince's cheeks were so tight, Mustafa thought a blade might bounce right off if he tried to cut him. But he sniffed a couple times, then said, "He's Bahdoon. He's in charge now."
The guard kept texting, eyes down. "Uh huh."
Mustafa pushed past the others, grabbed the guard round the back of his neck, said, "Go enjoy the party. Find you a bitch or something."
Kid looked at Heem, then Mustafa, then shrugged and texted his ass down the hall.
Mustafa stepped out of the way, nodded at Heem. "You first."
The Prince's eyes, Jesus, like some Wrath of Khan shit. Epic. But he did it. He grabbed the handle and turned and pushed and they all tromped right in on this teenage Somali girl giving some fat piece of shit a blowjob. Fat fuck hadn't even taken off his hat. Leaning back on the bed, mattress all up in the air, pants at his ankles, while the naked girl knelt between his legs, bobbing up and down.
The Somali girl's eyes went wide and she went "No no no no" and tried to cover herself. Reached over for her direh, bright pink and green, and her hijab, bundled them against her nakedness and backed into a corner, slid to the floor.
The fat piece of shit, still on his elbows, was all, "What the fuck, Heem? Goddamn!" Swiped his h
at off and covered his cock with it. "That ain't right."
Heem chinned him. "Go on, now, get out of here. You'll get a refund."
Took him a while to rock upright on the bed and then bend over a good two inches, all he could move, to lift his jeans. He didn't bother belting up, just held them with his fist and waddled out, cursing under his breath. Then all eyes turned to the girl. She'd managed to wrap the hijab around her head and had spread out the direh across the rest of her body, huddled small beneath it.
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.
TWO
Adem 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 s
ome 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.
Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Page 2
