Weaponized || Muse Daniel

“She received our letters and also appreciates the money Father sent her through her lecturer.”

“Does she say anything about closing?” Father had inquired.

“Yes, she will finish her course after two weeks and she also wants to get married. . .”

“Married? To whom?” Father was almost shouting.

Khamisi read on.

“Her course mate. He is not a Muslim.”

---

It had been a tiresome day. Although his body complained of weariness, Khamisi’s mind strongly insisted on not missing the 7 o’clock news. Usually, on his return from work, the rest of the family joined him in the sitting room. Today, everything seemed off.

He had been welcomed home by his youngest daughter, Akala, who on seeing him had uncontrollably uttered the words “my… Daddy, my Daddy” and then rushed towards him. This had been followed by a heart-warming father-daughter moment. As usual, it started with Akala tightly hugging her father’s legs with her small arms, and then seconds later, his gigantic hands would lift her into the air before drawing her into a tighter embrace. The bond between Khamisi and this little one made her elder siblings envious. His wife too, occasionally felt uneasy watching the interaction between the two.   

“Stop treating the kid differently,” she would say, pausing, as if she had given him time to internalize her words.

“You are going to spoil her,” she would add. But her words always fell on deaf ears.

Unlike other evenings, the rest of the family did not come out to greet him. It was as if none of them had even realized he was back. When he settled into the sitting room with Akala, he turned on the television. The broadcast was already on. His eyes quickly latched on to the smartly dressed female news anchor whose voice, beauty, and eloquence always made the news interesting to watch. Everyone in the family knew pretty well that whenever Father was around, the choice of station for the evening news was never a subject of discussion. (What none of them could ever tell was whether their father particularly enjoyed watching the news or watching the news commentator.)

For the first few minutes, he listened to the news without any keen interest. To him, some of the issues covered had become too unspectacular in his society. Police brutality, corruption allegations against government officials A or B, youth protests, and regular homicides had always sounded like the choruses that created the desired rhythm in the daily bulletin. He was almost unmoved when it was reported that a popular college professor had closed himself in a house before setting it ablaze.

Suddenly, the news presenter was interrupted. “Breaking News: Muslim Al-Shabaab strikes again. Ten dead, scores injured.”

The words flashed across the screen. Overcome with emotions, Khamisi silently made two short prayers. One for the affected families so that they would receive comfort, and another for his family, so that Allah would continue protecting them. Pictures of the bomb blast scenes followed. Khamisi stared keenly at the picture of the woman who was alleged to be the suicide bomber. Her face was completely covered with a black niqab,which paired together with hijab, also black, made it impossible to ascertain her identity. How could anyone know who she was?

According to the report, the woman had entered the hotel masquerading as a customer. She had ordered a drink, which she sipped slowly. As the other customers enjoyed their meals and low-tone conversations, she sat silently in their midst until the time was ripe for her mission and she rushed towards the most crowded area, and then detonated her hidden bomb. A video of the militia’s spokesperson claiming responsibility for the attack followed. His message was curt. He warned the government of imminent attacks, and then vanished. 

This was the second time in six months that the country was plunged into deep sorrow from terror attacks. The previous one had occurred in a university. More than two hundred students had lost their lives while a considerable number of survivors had been left critically injured. With both attacks, the country was becoming immensely insecure. Some neighbouring nations had acted with speed, sending red alerts, which cautioned their citizens from visiting the country.

When the news came to an end, Khamisi did not wait for dinner. He went around checking on each of the family members. He started with his oldest and middle daughters who were in the study room. They were busy struggling to complete their jigsaw puzzles.

“Good evening,” Khamisi broke the silence.

“Good evening Papa,” his daughters replied.

Anita, now twelve, was the first to respond, followed by her nine-year-old sister, Alima. Like he usually did, Khamisi went on to interrogate each of them over their daily learning experience. In these sessions, Alima always responded with more academic aptitude than her older sister, who was two classes above her. The difference between them had always surprised their parents and teachers. At some point, their parents had hired a private tutor for Anita’s extra coaching, only to realize that her grades kept bowing to the law of diminishing returns.

Outside the classroom though, Anita was always unmatched. She was the captain of the netball team and in charge of the drama club. A year ago, her spoken word poem, Voices of the Unheard to the Sleeping President, had been awarded the winner in the children’s category during the Annual National Drama Festivals. Despite Khamisi feeling very proud when they were invited to shake the president’s hand because of her talent, he was still dissatisfied. To him, talent was not enough. He wanted his daughters to excel in academics.

After finishing with the children, Khamisi went directly to the kitchen. There his wife and their house-help were busy preparing the family a meal. Immediately Anditi saw him, she could tell that her husband was disturbed. In the family, she was Khamisi’s therapist. Within a few seconds of eye contact, she could read through her husband’s moods, almost with the ease of solving a one-plus-one problem. She informed him that his favourite food was being prepared, but his body language relayed that he was unwilling to engage in any conversation beyond pleasantries like “How are you?” and “I’m fine.”

Assuming a supine position, Khamisi relaxed on the bed with his eyes closed. His mind seemed to wander through a thick forest of thirty-year-old memories. He remembered that he was barely seventeen when a conflict erupted between his father and the village elders. The events of that evening, which later became the genesis of his family’s downfall, stuck out to him. In his mind, they had just finished their supper when his father asked him to read them a letter. The letter was from his elder sister, who was a final year student at college.

“What is she saying?” His mother, who could not tell the difference between alphabets ‘c’ and ‘y’, asked, after he tore open the envelope.

Khamisi quickly read the first few lines.

“She received our letters and also appreciates the money Father sent her through her lecturer.”

“Does she say anything about closing?” Father had inquired.

“Yes, she will finish her course after two weeks and she also wants to get married. . .”

“Married? To whom?” Father was almost shouting.

Khamisi read on.

“Her course mate. He is not a Muslim.”

The following day, Khamisi was determined to know Father’s stand on the issue.

“Will you let them take her?” Even at his tender age, he knew that this idea of marrying a non-Muslim was unacceptable.

For about two minutes, Father was quiet, as if he wasn’t going to respond, then he cleared his throat.

“Son, who rules the jungle?”

“The lion,” Khamisi had replied immediately.

“Listen carefully. A long time ago, a misunderstanding arose in the jungle about territories. In response, stronger animals resorted to killing those in dispute with them. Seeing the worsening state, Tortoise, who was the oldest and most respected animal at the time, called for an emergency meeting. To solve the crisis, the animals unanimously agreed that they needed an overall leader who would control them and resolve such disputes. Cheetah, Elephant, Lion and Hyena were all suggested for the role. Since the position was to be reserved for one of the four, it was further suggested that Hare and Tortoise would serve as the jury. The next morning, the members of the jury sent a formal invitation to each of the four contestants to a tough test in which two of them would be eliminated by death. On receiving the message, Hyena withdrew his candidacy. He offered, instead, to help in removing the bodies of those who would be hurt or die during the process. On the final day, only Lion and Cheetah turned up for the trial. The event attracted many animals, all of them driven by an unquenchable desire to know who their new king would be. Both candidates were required to pass through a very dark tunnel. Cheetah was the first to make his trial. On reaching halfway, he heard the deafening buzz of angry bees approaching and, sensing that his life was in danger, he retreated swiftly and was disqualified. When Lion’s turn came, he kept roaring even as he approached the swarm of bees. Little did he know that the bees were under instruction to scare away the contestants without causing any bodily harm. That was how he succeeded and became the king of the jungle.”

Although Father had not attended school beyond the third grade, Khamisi believed that he was certainly one of the wisest persons on the face of the earth. He often spoke in parables that took Khamisi months to decipher. That afternoon, he went away knowing that no further answer would be given.

When the news about Khamisi’s sister’s marriage was shared with the clansmen, everyone was united in disapproval. A section of them even blamed Father for giving her daughter too much education, which had now ‘poisoned’ her.

Khamisi leaned against the wall, eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Brother Sadik, have you forgotten the ways of our forefathers? Tell me, when did women get the audacity to dictate who they should get married to?”

“Not just that,” another voice added. “Have you ever witnessed our holy people exchanging marriage vows with pagans?”

“But don’t forget how the world is changing. Our ways of yesterday shouldn’t undermine today’s progress.” Father, who had been silent for the best part of the conversation, finally responded. 

Days later, his family was grounded. None of them was to engage in communal activities. It had started with being barred from joining others during prayers. As days went by, rumours that Sadik and his family had denounced the ways of their people began to spread. The previous night had been deathly quiet, except for the evening breeze, which cut through the tree branches, leaving them whispering sweet lullabies.

A few minutes past 3 a.m., Khamisi heard a commotion. At first, he had thought that this was one of those nightmares he often struggled with. But this was no nightmare. Their cowshed and kitchen were on fire. When he reached outside, his parents were already struggling to put off the enormous fire as they called for help. No help was offered, and the three hands were not enough. Everyone understood the message that his family had been excommunicated, and this was the final send-off.

                             *       *       *

Khamisi woke up before the alarm.

His wife was deep asleep so he made sure to move around stealthily so that he wouldn’t disturb her. If Maggie were awake, he knew the kind of questions he could have been expected to answer. Questions like “Why didn’t you eat your supper yesterday? Why do you look depressed? Is everything fine at work?” Blah…blah…blah. Sometimes, he was even scared of her. Too inquisitive, he often thought. Her numerous questions made him feel she would have made a good nurse or maybe a police officer. Although his stomach was empty, he felt much better than he had the previous night. After taking care of his personal hygiene and crossing off the tasks on his to-do list, he left for work. 

Mornings were usually hectic. He had to do everything hastily so that he could catch up with public transport. In case he missed one of the shuttles, he would be forced to use a motorcycle, which was not only expensive but also required battling with dust. The bus station was empty, except for two matatus parked opposite Mama Watoto Shop. He quickly entered one of them, joining two other passengers. As he sat quietly behind them, their conversation caught his attention.

“These people are going to turn the whole country into ashes.” The speaker appeared to be in her early thirties.

“Who?” Her neighbour inquired.

“Don’t tell me you aren’t aware of how those Muslim terrorists killed innocent people!”

“Oh my God, save us from these heartless humans. How many lives did they claim?”

“Ten. Their armed men attacked Umoja Hotel, fired bullets, and set it on fire.”

As he listened, anger boiled within him. At some point, he had thought of interrupting them.

“The attack was carried out by terrorists, not Muslims!” He wanted to shout, but he kept restraining himself. As much as he felt the need to speak up, he also knew that it could easily backfire on him. 

After about thirty minutes of waiting, their matatu was set to go. Twenty passengers were squeezed into the 14-passenger PSV and the driver still felt there were two more spaces to be filled on the way. All he cared about was money, some to pay bribes to the men in uniform, the taxman, and keep his business running. The matatu briefly stopped opposite Mulembe Filling Station—a five minute walk away from Khamisi’s workplace. Khamisi had barely stepped down when the vehicle began to move. If he hadn’t been quick, his feet could have easily been mauled by the accelerating tires. For a few seconds, he stood at his alighting point, staring at the matatu as it vanished into a thick fog of dust and exhaust fumes.

It was a very busy morning. At one point, he could be balancing the ledger accounts then he would remember the lagging figures of the previous day’s sales to be filled into the spreadsheets. When he felt tired, he stopped everything for a moment and then took deep breaths while gazing at the president’s picture hanging on the wall. For seven years, Mr. President, dressed in his black coat, fitted white shirt and a red tie, had been smiling down from that wall.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

It was his manager’s secretary. “Number 1 is calling you,” she said, before leaving.

He was surprised. These kinds of summons were rare. In most cases, Number 1 usually made direct calls whenever there was a need for inquiry or urgent direction. Was something wrong? Had he been fired? First, he went through the records, making sure that he had a good grasp of the current data, just in case it would be required of him.

At the first eye contact, Khamisi felt less nervous. His manager’s charming smiles were welcoming.

“Are you familiar with the Leave Policy of our company?” She asked.

“Not very much, Madam.”

“Here is a copy.” She handed him a 60-page A5-sized booklet.

“Thank you, Madam.”

“The Board is pleased to offer you a two-week leave and the particulars are indicated in the letter.” She handed him a white envelope with ‘Confidential’ watermarked at the top and bottom margins.

“Thank you. God bless you, Madam.”

Leaving his manager’s office with the envelope and booklet, Khamisi’s mind raced through a world of the wildest imaginations. Back in his office, he picked a few things before going for the ‘work leave’. As he learned after finally reading the letter, there was nothing like a work leave. He had been suspended. Perhaps Number 1 understood the two as being synonymous? Furthermore, he was not alone. All his Muslim colleagues were also on the list. According to the letter, some of them, if not all, were terrorists.The letter said that they belonged to a dangerous militia group, funded its operations, and were planning to attack the company.

That afternoon, the taxi driver dropped Khamisi outside Roja Villa Restaurant.

Whenever he felt the need to kill a few hours of the day, he often visited this place, mostly with friends. Several times, he had come in depressed and left feeling replenished.

“Your name?” the man at the gate asked as he checked his card.

“Khamisi bin Sadik.” he responded, looking at the man in annoyance. 

“Bin Sadik. Are you carrying something?”

 “Something?”

“A gun or a bomb to blow this place, the same way you did at the other restaurant yesterday.”

Angrily, Khamisi snatched his card from the man and started moving away.

He had only taken a few steps when he felt someone firmly holding onto his hand. He retaliated, trying to regain his freedom but the man could not let him go. With all his strength, Khamisi struck the man with his right elbow. As the man fell to the ground, Khamisi felt heroic, but only for a few moments. The man on the ground reached into his pockets for a small gadget. When he pressed one of its numerous buttons, several people rushed to the scene.

Khamisi stood there in disbelief. Thirty people, each of them armed with a club, machete or stone drew closer to him. His heart pumped heavily as he made two backward steps, knelt before the charging crowd, and then raised his hands helplessly in the air.

From the crowd, a man marched swiftly in front of the rest and stood a few metres away from him and tried to calm the crowd.

“He is just a Muslim…not a terrorist! He is one of us…our brother….”

For a few seconds, there was silence. Even Khamisi could feel the serenity amidst his fears. For the first time, his eyes skimmed through the crowd. To his surprise, some of those who were threatening to have his existence terminated happened to be his immediate neighbours. The same people he had interacted with daily for over three decades were now wearing cannibalistic faces, their hearts weaponized against him and their hands ready to strike. All that period, it had never crossed his mind that his religious beliefs would turn into his greatest undoing.

Suddenly, their voices rose again.

“Kill him!” someone shouted.

“Let him pay for all the terrorism!” Another voice added. Seeing the determination of the crowd, Khamisi covered his face with his sweat-filled hands, bowed to the ground, and said his last prayer.

END