<\/p>\n
Khalid’s phone vibrated under his pillow at three in the morning. It was his friend Sema. There had been two bombings, he said. Not in Mogadishu but Kampala.<\/p>\n
Later that day Khalid watched the scene on NTV. Red and blue lights flickered, sirens blared, while dead bodies and broken chairs lay on the blood-stained ground. Al-Shabaab took responsibility for the suicide bombings in a video rebroadcast during the newscast. Men in black, full-face turbans holding AK-47s stood behind the announcer and shouted \u2018Allah Akbar!\u2019 at the end of the video. The army spokesperson who was interviewed said, \u2018This is war. We are going to hunt them down.\u2019<\/p>\n
They are here, Khalid thought. His family had run away from them in Mogadishu.<\/p>\n
The morning after the bombing, Khalid and Sema went to their football club office in Makindye. Makindye FC, a team in Kampala\u2019s U-19 football league, was preparing for a club tournament in the U.K. Coach Mike had told them that the appointment for the team\u2019s visa interviews at the British High Commission had been postponed due to the terror attack on Kampala.<\/p>\n
\u2018They could strike again, anywhere. But keep practicing, yeah?\u2019 He clapped his hands and went around the room patting backs but placed an arm over Khalid\u2019s shoulder and pulled him aside. \u2018The board called\u2026 you won\u2019t travel with us. I\u2019m sorry.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Why?\u2019
\n\u2018You know what happened in the city last night\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n
Khalid walked out of the room downcast. He had been the team\u2019s goalkeeper for two years and the league had recently crowned him most valuable player. Sema found him in the parking lot, alone, squatting under a mango tree breaking twigs with his fingers.<\/p>\n
They decided to go to the Super Bet outlet five minutes away but outside the grounds the police were everywhere, on patrol in the streets with their sniffer dogs. They wore blue camouflage Counter Terrorism Unit uniforms and red berets, their armoured vehicles parked along streets.<\/p>\n
\u2018Let\u2019s go to the market instead,\u2019 Sema suggested looking at Khalid fearfully.
\n\u2018No.\u2019
\n\u2018Just trust me. It\u2019s safer.\u2019
\n\u2018I’m scared, man.\u2019 Khalid\u2019s mind was racing with thoughts and questions. What if he was arrested as a suspect? That would be the end of his football career. What would happen to his mother?
\n\u2018They won’t arrest you. Just pull out your national ID,\u2019 Sema said placing an arm over his shoulder after easily reading his thoughts.
\n\u2018It’s just an ID. I don’t look like a Ugandan. What should we do?\u2019
\n\u2018Keep calm. They’ll come for us if you look nervous.\u2019<\/p>\n
“Us!” Khalid was glad for the brotherly gesture but knew he was alone in this mess. His friend wore a confident face but there was doubt in his voice. <\/p>\n
The two boys reached Usafi Market and there was a security queue. A police officer was checking IDs. He looked at the cards, then at the faces, one at a time. Cars lined up, police dogs sniffed around, wagging their tails, while a police officer opened car boots. Then the officer waved a hand and shouted \u2018Cleared,\u2019 to his colleague, who allowed the cars to drive in.<\/p>\n
The boys gave the officer their IDs. He barely looked at them and let them pass the barricade. Inside, they moved past the stalls, pretending to look for something to buy, killing time while they decided what to do next. Suddenly they turned and there were two police officers behind them.<\/p>\n
\u2018You, stop,\u2019 one of the officers shouted.<\/p>\n
Khalid took off while Sema just stood with a puzzled look on his face. A vendor shouted \u2018Al-Shabaab!\u2019 At this, more vendors started shouting and chasing. They followed Khalid fanning out to close off all the exits. Khalid ran towards the short fence that surrounded the market and jumped over it.<\/p>\n
Sema was arrested, handcuffed and taken aside to be interrogated. \u2018You are friends with the Somali. You must have information to give us. Where were you last night?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018At home.\u2019
\n\u2018Doing what?\u2019
\n\u2018Sleeping.\u2019
\n \u2018What about your friend?\u2019
\n\u2018He was at home too, sleeping.\u2019
\n\u2018How do you know this?\u2019
\n\u2018This kid is lying,\u2019 a police officer shouted from behind the armoured vehicle. \u2018Just keep him in custody until he tells the truth.\u2019<\/p>\n
They drove Sema around the city at the back of their blue patrol pick up until the evening, when they stopped in Kisenyi slum, hoping that he would show them Khalid\u2019s home so they could search it.<\/p>\n
Khalid had taken off and down the road he was almost knocked over by a Volkswagen Golf. As he dodged it he fell and bruised his left knee. He tried to run but could only limp. The Golf drew up to him and a voice shouted, \u2018Get in! Get in, now!\u2019 Khalid jumped into the car.<\/p>\n
\u2018How is your knee?\u2019<\/p>\n
Khalid turned to look at the driver properly for the first time. She was a tall, young woman cramped in the seat of the small car.<\/p>\n
\u2018I am Achol,\u2019 she said without taking her head off the road. She wore sunglasses over her head. She glanced at him and reached out for a piece of tissue from the tissue box on the dashboard.<\/p>\n
\u2018Khalid.\u2019<\/p>\n
\nHer smile revealed two missing lower front teeth. Like a sunny sky turned cloudy and a voice that carried concern, she said, \u2018I heard about the mob attack against Somalis.\u2019 She spoke with a slight accent. He took off his white tagiya and wiped the beads of sweat on his forehead with the palm of his hand. And then he rolled up the left side of his trousers past his knee to look at the damage.<\/p>\n
\u2018I saw the pictures in the newspaper,\u2019 Achol said, handing him a copy of the New Vision<\/em>. He took it but felt like hurling it into the back seat. <\/p>\n \u2018On TV they say the death toll is rising by the minute.\u2019 Her gaze quickly swept over him, his short black curly hair, his beard that had not been shaven for perhaps a month, the quiet brown eyes and the finely chiselled features, like a beautiful brown mask that hugged his graceful youth.<\/p>\n \u2018There were two blasts. One at an Ethiopian restaurant and the other was at Kyadondo Rugby Club. It\u2019s so unfortunate. Why would anyone be so brutal to fellow human beings?\u2019 Achol asked. \u2018How long have you lived in Uganda?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Five years.\u2019 He looked at her not understanding.<\/p>\n \u2018Oh, my country is South Sudan. They also won’t stop fighting.\u2019 Khalid felt like he had finally met someone who understood what it was like to come from a country at war. His family had made the decision to leave Somalia when their home, a three-bedroomed house on Makka al-Mukarama road, in the Darul Salaam neighbourhood, was bombed. Before that they had lived in fear and anticipation of that moment. His father was a senior police officer and it was a relief when his official car, a dark blue police Land Rover pulled up in front of their home just before 7 p.m. every day. However, on some nights his mother paced around the house waiting for her husband to get home. Because of the insecurity Baba had even stopped coming to Khalid’s football games at Al- Noor School. The family had all together stopped going to Gezirah beach on Saturdays. Weeks before the bombing Baba had said, \u2018We can\u2019t go to the beach anymore, it is unsafe these days.\u2019 His mother even dragged Khalid off the street one day outside their home when soldiers followed him as he rode his bicycle.<\/p>\n That day, Khalid woke up to the deafening bang. When they managed to leave the house, half of it was in ruins and his brother was missing. Neighbours arrived with torches shining their lights through the heaps of rubble. During the search his brother\u2019s arm was spotted sticking through the rubble of their house\u2019s remains. His hysterical mother pounded Baba\u2019s chest screaming, \u2018Why didn\u2019t you do something? Next they will shoot you!\u2019 His ever-calm father just stood there with tears in his eyes.<\/p>\n Now his mother liked to say \u2018We carried nothing\u2019 when they moved to Uganda. \u2018Be grateful for life my dear. Your brother died.\u2019<\/p>\n As they drove out of the city Achol told Khalid about herself. All she knew about her country was what she saw on TV. The malnourished refugees flowing into Uganda every day. She had become a generous donor to the Southern Sudanese refugee camps, guilty because she knew her father\u2019s wealth was blood money which he had carried out of the country when it fell apart.<\/p>\n Now she turned into a dirt feeder road and drove a short distance before slowing to climb a hump.<\/p>\n \u2018Is this where your home is? Khalid remembered the day he picked his Ugandan national ID from the office of National Identification and Registration Authority. He had been so happy. He had read his application number FR212309X to the issuing officer, signed the form walking out a new person, a Ugandan. He thought he would finally belong to a peaceful country. He even secretly hoped that he would play for the national football team Uganda Cranes one day. Now that was all gone.<\/p>\n Night fell quickly on Kisenyi. Smoke billowed in the sky. Police officers and sniffer dogs patrolled the neighbourhood, police cars were everywhere and after every few hundred metres there was a barricade. Somali men were marched into the darkness, handcuffed to each other followed by the police.<\/p>\n When they arrived in Uganda Khalid had been grateful even to live in a slum because it was peaceful. It was better than living in a place where there was always the fear that bombs would drop on them. But now the same bombs had followed him here. The cramped room he lived in was no longer worth it. Khalid felt his breast pocket. His fingers caressed the ID at first, then tightened the pressure around it. Now it felt just like a piece of plastic.<\/p>\n \u2018Stop,\u2019 Khalid said to Achol. She braked and parked outside a shop with mud walls within a poorly lit neighbourhood. A soundtrack blared from the hut with the Luganda translation of a Latino soap.<\/p>\n Khalid then looked ahead where he saw more police. Then, he saw Sema. He was pinned against a wall speaking to a police officer. Khalid\u2019s eyes locked with his friend’s through the window of the Achol’s Volkswagen Golf.<\/p>\n \u2018Don’t step out,\u2019 Achol said.<\/p>\n The car engine began humming again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Lost<\/strong>
\n\u2018I was born here,\u2019\u2019 Achol said. \u2018I have never been to my home country.\u2019<\/p>\n
\n\u2018Where do you live?\u2019\u2019
\n\u2018Kisenyi.\u2019
\n\u2018Okay.\u2019<\/p>\n
\n\u2018Somewhere near yes though I wouldn\u2019t call it home.\u2019<\/p>\n
\nKhalid took off while Sema just stood with a puzzled look on his face. A vendor shouted \u2018Al-Shabaab!\u2019 At this, more vendors started shouting and chasing. They followed Khalid fanning out to close off all the exits.\u00a0 Khalid ran towards the short fence that surrounded the market and jumped over it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":3127,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2136","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2136","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2136"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2136\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3128,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2136\/revisions\/3128"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3127"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2136"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2136"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2136"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}