Things
were set to plan. And any leak would confirm that somebody was talking too
much. Of late, the local Cheka was
sniffing out any bit of a puzzle that was not adding up. The head of the mob
sat in a pensive mood, occasionally commanding orders to the younglings who
squatted on the carpeted floor. Attentive. “This is for God and country. This is
for Allah,” he thundered in measured tones. “This is a calling. Allah has
chosen you.” The younglings stared at him with the same awe they had done at
others. Most of them pictured the painted heaven of several virgins waiting to
appease their tender souls.
“In
life we have stood for something. And that thing is to defend Islam,” Abdul
Sheikh growled for the umpteenth time, now raising his voice in controlled rage
to none in particular in that small room. It was a single room on the second
floor of a four-storied house in the outskirts of the city. He had rented it
almost a year ago and had settled the rent in advance for six months. The
landlord was a local Imam and their relationship was fortified on the grounds
of Islamic faith and hence no cards below the table had been seen. Sheikh
banked on his radical influence that had cultic following in the local Mosque
but still-Life is warped. Abdul had been
raised and praised in the estate where he stayed for his rallying campaign to
unite young Muslims. He was a leader. A progressive with the zeal of Malcolm X.
Yet his radicalization had been growing steadily. His choice of literature was
subversive. On a recent lecture to the Muslim youth, he had called for an
enlarged vigilance towards the enemy. Those in attendance heard him use
invectives towards ‘the enemy.’ Everyone present knew who the enemy was. I was
present and I too knew the enemy.
But
it is this set plan I want to talk about. The tales of Abdul are mythological
in our community and everyone loves telling them time and again. Abdul called
for one of the ‘volunteers’, he called them so, and asked for the confirmation
of the ‘tools.’ Everything was intact.
“And
sir, when is the job?” one of the volunteers asked.
“The
job will be on a future date that you will all be informed. For now, your
fundamental duty is to praise Mohammed. We have to read his teachings and
convert our brothers and sisters still in the bondage of the enemy. Our
relatives across the Atlantic, our folks sweltering under the yoke of the enemy
in Europe, in Asia, here at home-our duty is to redeem them from being duped
and fooled by the enemy.” He made a momentary pause that is characteristic of
seasoned speakers and cast his sunken white eyes on his silent listeners. “Yes,
you have to save the brother next to you. You have to save your mother at home.
Your uncle who is always arrested by the enemy just because of his religion. I
mean-young men-listen to me. And listen very carefully. The enemy has crossed our
deadline. And we have to act. Now or never.” He was now almost frothing and one
of the young men hurried and gave him a white handkerchief to mop the sweat
covering his entire face. His fists were now clenched stiff and he waited for
the questions. The audience remained in that cemetery mood, still recovering
from the petrifying sermon. One of the boys made as if to ask something but the
confidence melted way faster than Google takes to find results. The room wore
an ominous silence for the mean time and the racing heart beats of the kids
palpitated loudly inside their rib cages that it could have been noise itself.
“So,
young men,” he stressed on ‘men’ “You are all aware what is before us. The duty
before our hands is momentous and perilous at the same time.” “The enemy is not
sleeping. The enemy never sleeps. The enemy will never sleep.” A small pause.
“Everyone must play his role accordingly to plan. Life is all about plans. Your
make plans and then you execute. That is what our job is all about.”
“What
about if they catch us? My friend told me they take people to some remote
island and torture them there. Not here at home, but far away.”
“Lies.
You are being brainwashed. Allah will protect us. You must believe in yourself.
Everybody must believe the enemy will be defeated.”
“If
the enemy is not defeated, what is to be done?”
“The
enemy cannot be pardoned to live. They have persecuted our members. They
continue exterminating our youth on least suspicions. How can the enemy be left
to live?” “Tolerance is not allowed here, volunteers. Violence must be met with
violence.” He made another significant pause and wiped his yellow chubby cheeks
as he readjusted his cleric frames. A religious ideology had hardened him and
he seemed to owe none an apology. Abdul had felt the scars of the enemy and he
could not jest at those who yearned for redemption. He could not hesitate to
redeem lost and confused souls like these kids who still valued the enemy as
human beings.
“From
tomorrow, intensive trainings will kick-off. Attendance is compulsory and
failure to turn for any session will amount to hanging or getting shot.” At the
mention of the last words, a section of the audience gasped in horror. In the
intricate business of the Holy Call, the odds are stacked to the shelf against
the volunteers. It was a fact acknowledged by these kids even before
recruitment but still the words evoked a sense of shivers. “And please,
remember the trainings will be conducted both day and night. The most obedient
and committed volunteers will win the chance to carry out the job. Push
yourself and heaven is yours kids.”
He
then chorused as they all rose up: “For God and country.”
“For
God and country.”
About
six months later, the trainings came to an end. There were causalities of
course. Two volunteers had been shot for fainting during the training and
another three hanged for complaining they were being exploited. The rest
qualified with ten chosen for the Holy Call. Abdul once again convened a
session with the graduates where he reminded them of the virtues expected of
them. He reiterated the fundamental objective of annihilating the enemy and his
followers without any feelings of remorse. The head of that cell, a tall, lanky
man with a long bushy beard garbed in a flowing white robe and black sandals
turned up and paid each and every one of them.
“The
Supreme Leader sends you Holy greetings.” He told them. “He says you are very
brave young men. History owes you. A fight for what you believe in is worth
dying for. Go and spread the cause. Destroy the enemy.”
From
the meeting, everyone was dispatched to his respective station of finalizing
the plan. Six young men aged below twenty-one years had exemplified highest
level of obedience and obligation to the Holy Call to execute the duty on the
stipulated date, at the exact time and in the specific venues with the utter
most precision. There were further instructions that the enemy must suffer as
many casualties as the ‘tools’ of choice could achieve. Other arising news
would be communicated later.
On
the appointed day, six young men awoke from their humble hideout with two to
die for Jihad. They assembled their explosives dexterously and packed enough
grenades brought early in the year by Abdul from the country they called the
Motherland. The plans were to hurl three grenades at one bar along Mfongoni
Lane during the premier league derby and the other at the TCC bus terminus
where from reliable sources, people gathered, waiting for buses to take them to
their estates. However, the heartbeat of the conspiracy lay in two young
suicide bombers, Hamed and Abdikadir who would run into another throng in
another equally jam-packed bus station. The aim as repeated by Abdul was to
kill the members of the enemy as possible. Stab where it hurts most. That was
the ultimate rule.
Dusk
came naturally in the city as it has done on other occasions and city dwellers
went about their duties as usual. On the streets also walked six young men
heading to different directions to heed a call. In the city, people brush
shoulders with all shades of people. And nobody cares anyway. Everyone heeds
his call to survive. Two youthfully
dressed Muslims took a corner and embarked on the poorly lighted alley of
Mfongoni Lane. On their away, they bypassed two officers on patrol smoking
leisurely with caps pulled to their faces. Another two arrived at the TCC bus
terminus and searched for a strategic hurling point before escaping on a
waiting van just a few meters from the station. The last duo strutted on to
their target station, knowing very well they were doomed to die young for a
cause. They penetrated the multitude normally, just like young fellows try to
push you in an overcrowded place and you assume it is all hormonal gush of
energy. Almost half an hour later, it was all breaking news on our screens:
Bomb explosions in the city!
The
End.
No comments:
Post a Comment