12. Samir
Samir
Samir sat there silently and stared out the window.
It was a slow drive back. No one spoke. He glanced every so often to the packed roads ahead of the car and said nothing.
Samir cradled the small canvas bag like a child; scared it would wander off alone.
The sun had begun to set over the city when the driver cleared his throat; the words escaped him.
“Speak, Nazim. Don’t hold your tongue,” Samir said.
“Samir. You know how much I respect you. But don’t you think killing them was a mistake?” Nazim said.
“No.”
“But what if?—.”
“It is done, Nazim. There’s no undoing it,” Samir said. “We must return to Amir at once.”
“And give him the package,” Nazim said. “Shouldn’t we look inside first?”
“No. We were told not to look inside the package,” Samir replied.
“I think he meant the device, Samir,” Ahmed said.
“Enough! I’ll hear no more of this. Amir will be the one to open the package as we agreed before I left him,” Samir said. He shifted in his seat nervously. “We owe Amir everything. Our very lives are his?—.”
“We know this,” Nazim said.
“I have not forgotten what Amir did for us back in the village. It stands today because of him,” Salim said.
“Yes. That’s right, Salim. I recall your sister was taken by a tribal warlord to the south. The African flea they called him,” Omar said. He nudged him on the shoulder. “Tell us the story.”
“No, no. It’s not the time,” Salim replied.
“Tell us! Go on,” Nazim cried.
“I love this story. Tell us again,” Ahmed said. Samir suddenly let out a wide smile and shook his head. The tension in his chest slowly drifted away like a wave crashing upon rocks and carving through its surface.
“I would like to hear it,” Samir said, finally joining in. “It is a great story, after all. A story of great heroism and selflessness. Of honor and duty. A tale we sing to our children and boast about to our visitors. The tale of how our village was saved.”
“Yes, I understand. But why must I—,” Salim replied.
“Because you’re the best storyteller we have,” Omar said.
“And you make the best impressions,” Ahmed added.
“It’s settled, then. I shall tell the tale of Amir and how he saved our little village,” Salim said. “But only the short version as we’ll be arriving soon.”
“Go. Quick!” Omar said, throttling the gas.
“One summer’s eve many moons ago, I found myself walking alone on an old path behind my village.
It was a hot summer’s day and even though the sun had long abandoned the sky, its warmth still caressed me.
The villagers were unusually active this night in preparation for the festival on Eid and my mother asked me to fetch her some things from an uncle who lived not far from it.
I was returning that early night when I ran into Omar,” Salim said.
He turned his head to him. “He had spent all day fishing. And crabbing. Yet returned without a single prawn; I suspected he ate the bait before he even reached the river.”
“That is a lie! I did no such thing,” Omar replied. The rest of the men laughed at his outburst.
“Calm, calm! They know this, Omar. Your fishing skills are abysmal. The bait was lost naturally,” Salim said, ushering more laughs.
“And it was on this day that the two of us walked back to the village together. We reached the center of it before midnight, but it was not empty. No, the streets were filled with other villagers busily preparing for the biggest celebration of the year. That was the last night I saw my father,” Salim said.
The laughter soon died down and what remained was an awkward silence for they knew what came next.
“It all happened so fast. Ahmed was across the street when the fighting started. I remember this. And Nazim was locked in his house, protecting his younger siblings; I recall him shouting from the open window before he closed it. Samir, you were there too.”
“Yes. I did what I could,” Samir replied. “But with our weapons. And the children to protect.”
“And the flock,” Omar said.
“It was impossible. Many lives were lost that night. Many taken never to be seen again. They appeared suddenly like vengeful spirits in the night,” Salim said.
“They went from one home to the next. Killing and raping and stealing. Our families fled into the darkness with gunfire biting at their heels. Several of us hid. Some fought back. Like my father who overpowered one of the men, took his gun, and killed him with it. He was a great man. A kind man.”
“We were young. And foolish. Ignorant of the ways of men,” Omar said. “My brother was killed that night, too. I watched as he tried to stop them from taking what little we had only to be gunned down by the entrance.”
“And those who were older had no weapons,” Ahmed said.
“Or ammunition,” Samir said. “I was able to shoot two of his men. But the old rifle only held four bullets. A piece of junk from the forties that almost exploded in my hands.”
“There’s not much you can do against automatic weapons,” Nazim said.
“And after the massacre and abduction we were left to pick up the pieces. Amir was gone at the time. Busy traveling the world,” Salim said.
“He joined the French Foreign legion and was quickly recruited into its intelligence service. His very existence scrapped. He became a ghost; no ID, no communication and no visits. The years passed since we’d seen him until that night. ”
“When we were busy picking up the pieces,” Omar said.
“And I was frantically searching for my sister. He appeared before me like an Angel sent from above to assist me. At first, I didn’t recognize him.
He had grown taller. And thicker. His hair more golden like honey and his skin bronzed as if by the gods themselves,” Salim said.
“He stopped me during my desperate pursuit of the Flea and his men. A cruel and distasteful man who was shunned from an African tribe not far from our borders. He and his group of misfits grew into a large criminal group that ravaged the towns and villages.”
“It was Amir that helped you track him?” Samir asked.
“Yes! He told me that he had friends in the area. Spies that worked for him and who kept an eye on the village. Although his parents had long past and he had no ties to it anymore he still cared for us,” Salim said.
“He was the eldest son of the village. He had no reason to return and he knew he would not benefit from getting involved. Yet, he did. And it cost him everything. The village was saved but he was thrown out like a dog by the French for it.”
“And the Flea?” Ahmed asked. “That wretched fool.”
“Amir had called for some help before he arrived and we were met by a team of two dozen men at least. From neighboring cities. And some from other countries. There was one man from Nigeria. And another from Morocco. I to this day do not know how he came upon them or how he knew them, only that they’d worked with him in the past, and were happy to help.
It was thanks to him and those men that we saved my sister and the other villagers.
” Salim said. “And when the battle was over the Flea himself was indistinguishable from the sand beneath his feet.”
“Yeah!” Ahmed cried.
“Good story!” Nazim said.
“None of us would be here if it wasn’t for Amir,” Samir said, tamping down the talking. “Helping the village cost him everything. It’s time we pay him back.”