Andrea Busfield - Born Under a Million Shadows

“Ismerai wouldn’t take it,” May explained.

“But who should I give it to?”

“Anyone, as long as they don’t live around here,” she said, and walked back into the house just as the gate opened behind us and Shir Ahmad’s head appeared.

“Fawad,” he hissed, waving at me to come over. “I think someone is looking for you.”

“Who?”

“Come see for yourself. I think he’s in disguise.”

I followed Shir outside, and he pointed to a dark figure across the road, standing a little up the street from us. It was a boy drowning in a giant-sized patu , wearing dark sunglasses and apparently reading the Kabul Times . He looked suspicious, like a spy, and not a very good one at that because the whole street was watching him.

As the newspaper lowered, I recognized my friend.

“Spandi!” I shouted, which made him drop the paper altogether as he reached for the patu to cover his face and turned quickly away to look at the wall.

I ran over to him, laughing. I’d totally forgotten he was still in hiding.

“I’ve been a nervous wreck,” Spandi moaned as we walked toward Shahr-e Naw for no reason other than we had nothing better to do. We’d gone to Pir Hederi’s beforehand, but Jamilla had taken no orders before she left for school, so the old man told us to “go enjoy the sunshine before the government taxes that as well.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I told Spandi. “It left my mind.”

“Honestly, I was convinced you’d be dead by now, but I had to check. I’m glad you’re alive and all that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a good friend, Spandi.”

“The best you’ll ever have.”

He laughed. And though I joined in and called him a homo, in my bones I knew he was right.

After we walked past the Ministry of Women’s Affairs, trying to sneak a look at the ladies as we went because it annoyed the guards, we moved on toward Chief Burger to pick up a Beef 5—a fried sandwich of shredded meat, potato, and egg that left your lips slippery. After the winter our whole bodies were dry as old twigs, and the grease felt good, like medicine.

With our bellies full, we wandered over to the park where the poor and the hungry gathered to share their misery and jump on anyone fool enough to join them. There, by the side of the wall, opposite the A-One supermarket, we found Pir the Madman, picking through a rotten heap of rubbish with the rest of the city’s unwanted dogs. He wore no shoes on his cracked black feet, and his wild curly hair had matted together, making it look like he was wearing a badly made helmet.

“Fleas!” he shouted as he saw us coming. “The fleas return to bite the dog!”

“The only fleas are on you,” said Spandi, laughing.

“Fleas on me, fleas on you, all fleas pleased to be fleas,” the mental sang, roughly scratching at his head as he did so. “Isn’t that so, little flea?”

“I guess,” I replied, realizing he was talking to me and wondering how it was possible to fall so low that you had to spend your day ankle-high in shit.

Nobody really knew Pir the Madman’s story. He was just the mental who managed to survive everything Kabul could throw at him. But I guessed it was a bad one, and it made me sad to think that at some time in his life he must have been a boy like me with everything to look forward to.

“Here, Pir,” I said, moving over to him and holding out the coat May had given me, and that Ismerai had given Georgie, “a coat for the king of fleas.”

Pir roughly snatched it from my hands and tucked it under his arm, quickly shifting away from us, back toward the park, as if he was scared I might change my mind. As he reached the wall, he cocked his head to look at me in a way I didn’t understand. Then he jumped over the wall and ran in zigzags across the mud brown grass.

“A coat for the king of fleas!” he shouted. “All hail, the king! The king of fleas!”

“Nutcase,” Spandi remarked as we turned to walk back to Wazir Akbar Khan.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Still, that was a good thing you did there, Fawad.”

“Not really,” I said. “It was just a coat that nobody wanted.”

“COME ON, FAWAD!” Spandi said, running toward me as I cycled to Pir Hederi’s to start work for the afternoon. “Kabul’s on fire, and we’re missing it!”

“What do you mean, ‘on fire’?” I asked, bringing my wheels to a stop to look at the sky for smoke and flames and other fire-type signs.

“The Americans have killed a load of people, and now everyone is rioting,” he explained, reaching my side and collapsing against the seat of my bike. “The radio says hundreds of people are marching in the streets and burning everything in sight. Someone told me they even set fire to a Chinaman in Shahr-e Naw.”

“No!”

“Yes, really!” Spandi insisted, his cheeks red with excitement where they used to be gray.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why not?” he replied. “It’s a riot! There are no rules!”

“Okay then, let’s go before we miss it!”

Spandi jumped onto the seat of my bike and grabbed hold of the back of my jacket for balance, and we raced off looking for the riot.

Now, you would think it would be quite easy to find hundreds of rioters setting fire to Chinamen in the city, but by the time we got to Shahr-e Naw the place was empty of anyone looking even a little bit angry. Only the charred remains of police checkpoints, broken shop windows, and stolen goods dropped on the street showed that anything serious had happened there. However, after following the trail and asking a few other boys where everyone had got to, we finally found a small crowd of people in Taimani shouting “Death to Karzai!” and “Death to America!”; they also held posters of the dead Northern Alliance leader Ahmad Shah Massoud high above their heads. We guessed this was about as good as it was going to get, so we joined them.

By the time we fell in behind the snake of people, there weren’t that many left and most of them looked like students, but we decided to help them anyway, shouting “Death to America!” because that seemed to be all you had to do to become a member of a riot. A man in black just in front of us turned around with a smile when he heard our voices, which encouraged us to scream even louder. “Death to America! Death to America!” we yelled at the top of our lungs, laughing together in the excitement of it all.

As we marched through the streets like a crazy gang of American-hating brothers, a couple of the older boys tried to pull down any guard huts they found outside houses with foreign signs in front of them. And although Spandi and I weren’t strong enough or brave enough to help them, we made up for our weakness in noise, scrunching our faces into masks of hate like we saw the others doing.

“Death to America!”

“Yeah! Die, America! You’re rubbish!” Spandi shouted.

“And you smell of cabbage!” I screamed.

“And dog shit!” added Spandi.

“And you fight like girls!”

“And cry like women!”

“And you all eat babies!”

“And shag worm-bum donkeys!”

“And—”

I felt a tug at my neck.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” an angry voice exploded in my ear.

I turned around to see James behind me. Once again I’d forgotten he sometimes had to work for a living. Along the road behind us were a handful of other white faces holding pens, notebooks, and cameras.