wif baraka.
An he mutters to himself not to talk, he mutters himself not to talk. Da luggige atendant finks hes got a mental condicion. Da ticket soked wiv swet.
And despar filld his univers as de atendant disapeared in da back. Da Feds about to absail out da sky and bang him up in a meat wagon.
Da pickney griping.
And do you see da African cleener dragging her polythen bag? Yea, shes bin lost here forever. Dere’s djinn in every airport!
Dat djinn, shes gonna mess wiv his head, sez Alif.
And her litter picker clips da cretures foot till hes vex.
Sorry, my dear, shes mumbling.
An his patting da child bare vexed. An he finks he hears her mumble, Are you all waiting with dis gentleman?
The atendant com back wiv a babby’s green holdall. And Noble Atid waches da slaves neck. Surely dey see his neck vein pulse! And Noble Atid wispers: Dey know, dey know wat yu do. Yore blatant.
But Naseeb lifts the exquizit heft.
And da pickney Jonah griping.
Da Followers throw dere sheeld arond. But dat creaturs lost his hart, his feet cant goo strait. And he sits with Jonah, whoz soaked in s__t. An he cant think straiht. And he feels in da green bag. Feels for a nappy. Feels for a polathene bag packt in Peshawar.
And his Protectors assume da semblans of two airport Feds. To mess wiv his hed. Two airport Feds com from the other side o th concorse. And Yor slave hears handsets jammed wiv noiz, feels them standing dere wif agate eyes.
An his hand grips da polathene in da bag.
And the babby stares at dem. Soaked in s__t.
And Five-O smiling back. Da pickney’s Protectors, immezurably strong, say: Pooh! I think the babys trying to tell you somthing.
An next man Hamza raizes his MP5 and farts: Well put that on th record!
Astaughfirullah, and Noble Atid rasps on dere walkie-talkie: Back to yr stacions, gentelmen.
And dey melt back.
Dat creturs rooted. Till Jonah starts howling. And he legs it to the exit—da pickney howling, Five-O about to absail out da sky, his body so hype it wud a shattered if somone askt direcsions.
And Noble Atid wispering: They know wat you do, they kno wat you do.
Da carpark streches as far as da rack and wind of Mikail spanning horizons with his wings. And still no one stops da slave.
When he reches da car Yor servant triz to clean da scribeless child. Yea, an innocent stepdad wiv his Pampers. But hes shat up to his neck. Screeming Old Bill down. An da servant trying to wipe him wid da babygrow and hose him with a bottle a water.
Jesus, he weeps, Plese, Jesus.
Yea Yor creture stuffs da soiled garms in a carryer bag. And unzips da baby holdall. (Packt in Peshawar two weeks ago. Da Companion of da Left Hand recorded it). Now he tekes out a blak polathene parcel and sticks it in da cronic nappy bag n ties it up.
Da future like a garden o grassy eaze & largess, an companionable houris wif sherbet—he can tuch it!
Da slave drives dazed. Somewere up da motorway he miht crash, an da pickney inherit a kilo of smack.
Da Followers throw dere shield around da car. As if they cud deflect his corse an atom’s bredth.
As if they cud protect him when da car lost power. When da car lost power arond da island he almost passes out.
Da Protectors for da child, immezurably strong, asume da semblans of da Sahaba: O Followers! Man yor frail bark! Catch the dowtful wind and eaze him to his reward.
Da Followers for Naseeb cry battle criez, flash agate eyes, Ya Seen! Haul to, Protectors! Keep this bag o nails straiht, Alif! Ya Seen! Ya Seen!
The Protectors for da scrybeless child, thir wite robes ripping, flash dark: Yallah, habibin, lets speed him to his doom! Allahu Akbar!
Dey chant da battle criz o da Sahaba, Ta Ha! Ta Ha! And thir Powers crackle.
Da pickney Jonah slept.
Dat creatur drove round twice arond da block befor he parks.
And walking up da starewell, babby in one arm, two bags in the other, Yur slave he trembles.
Yea, deres more dred letters on da mat. And Alif shoots out a protectif shield: Long as he doznt open them his safe.
An he checks Alesha’s shift.
Put da pickney in bed.
Put a green bag on da kichen table.
Owner of da World.
(Maghrib: 1759 GMT)
Da slave cuts da smack.
But da Noble Scribe must stay his entry, for dis creatur may yet repent or pray.
Blazing a spliff as he weiys again. Digital scales. Starch. Polathene bags. Razor blade.
And da scribeless babby waching in th doorway, gets pushd away to a video. But da babby wants to wach.
Thru his eyes.
Dat slave hes teazing into score bags.
—End of th day ya cyaant beat da painkillin propertys of ma erb, mon. What you say? Hanh? They make a natural plant ilegal innit... They want ya to buy billions of asprins an s__t. But yu get natural herb yeh—like s__tlodes a medical benefits—
And one of his fones is warbling.
—Jonah, get that for us.
An he chups his teeth an skins up and checks da caller. Coz he never ansers.
And da babby maks a dash for da bags. And Yor creture scolds him in Pashtu:
—*Ey ey ey—not till you do som work arond th house!
And Jonah yowling. Dat slave he hurriz to seal da bags. And hes cooing baby Urdu wif a blade a powder:
—*Nice—tasty tasty... Baby num num. Why dont you eat? Peple died so you coud have a taste.
An da slave makes th call to Ali.
—Nice num num... Ali Baba! Salaamalaykum! Heh heh heh. Good, chacha. Got something for ya... Yeh man, yeh man—Im a big boy now. Ain it... I cant, boss. I cant just yet. Paciense, chacha. So how soon we sort this? Oh, com man—deyr gonna loze this! I need it upfront—dis aint smalltime s__t... *Pacience, chacha, paciense. I’ll let you kno. Yeah, you let me know, I got peple on hold... I gotta sort few ting. Few ting ain it... Heheheh, yeh-man. You an me chacha! I tole you wed make a team!
Truly, blazing his weed not warmer dan
