Muhammad. The man, sporting a bushy mustache beneath a hooked Arabic nose, rested his fingertips on the edge of the wooden table, perching on his chair. He wore his peaked hat at a jaunty angle, and he seemed to be suppressing a laugh. “We were about to come and see you, so you’ve saved us the trouble.”
Sheikh Muhammad narrowed his eyes, waiting for the man to continue. However, the officer grinned and drummed his fingertips lightly on the table. What are we waiting for? the sheikh wondered. Muhammad could sense his son, sitting alongside him, growing ever tenser by the moment.
As the door opened the officer said, “Good,” his eyes following the sergeant who had joined them. The sergeant stood between father and son, just behind them.
“So,” the officer resumed, “you’ve been going around encouraging people to overthrow the government.”
Sheikh Muhammad’s forehead creased, “That’s nonsense.”
“We have witnesses who’ve heard you spreading lies and stirring up the simple people of your village.”
Muhammad leaned forward, fixing his steady gaze on the officer, determined not to be intimidated. “My ‘simple people,’ as you call them, are citizens of this country. Yet, we’re being attacked by Janjaweed, and it’s your responsibility to protect us.”
“You’re spreading sedition and encouraging revolt,” the officer interrupted, “and that’s against the law.”
“Nonsense,” Muhammad frowned, his features grim.
The officer nodded slightly to his sergeant, and a second later a truncheon swung down on Muhammad’s head. As he collapsed, the chair rattled across the cement floor.
His son instinctively reached out to him, and the truncheon sliced through the air, catching his wrists. A jolt of fire-like pain shot up his arms, and he hunched over, almost breathless with surprise. A second blow from the truncheon caught the top of his spine, and he plunged forward onto the floor. The sergeant planted his feet on either side of his prone body, delivering a third blow to the side of his head, after which he lost consciousness.
“Leave my son alone,” Muhammad gasped, pulling himself upright. “It’s me who’s to blame for whatever you think I’ve been saying.”
“So you admit you’re plotting to bring down the government?” the officer commented, clearly amused.
“Why are you doing this to our country?” Muhammad asked, blinking the blood out of his eyes.
The officer smirked, and sat back in his chair. “It’s not your country, and you don’t belong here,” he said, his voice turning into a snarl of contempt. “You slaves have to be cleared out so this land can be for the Arab people. We gave you the chance to live as proper Muslims, but you want to have it your own way.”
“It’s called democracy,” Muhammad retorted wearily, trying to pull himself upright. “And it’s perfectly possible to have democracy and Islam.”
“Not in Sudan, it isn’t,” the officer grinned, watching the older man struggle to his feet.
“You seem so certain that you’re right and everyone else is wrong,” the sheikh continued, trying to stand upright. “But no one gave you the right to kill people in the name of God. You’re more of a slave than I am; you’re dancing to the tune of a gang of corrupt murderers in Khartoum, and you’ll pay the price before God one day. Then maybe you won’t be so sure of yourself.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed as he considered Muhammad’s words. For a moment the sheikh thought he saw the doubt register; the man ground his teeth, preoccupied. Then he nodded to the sergeant, and sat back once more, a look of distaste quickly replacing the uncertainty.
* * *
It was just before dusk that evening when Zara heard the high whine of a vehicle approach. Mother and daughter were squatting, side by side at the fire’s edge, stirring a cauldron of spicy lentil stew, making flat bread on the inner sides of a pot-like earthen oven.
Zara was immediately wary. Cars and trucks were not a daily sight in their village, and the appearance of a military jeep brought everyone from their huts. Zara went to the gate of their compound, her heart in her throat, hardly able to breathe. She could see from the faces of her neighbors that she wasn’t the only one who was petrified. As they stood side by side, the bright fabrics of the women’s robes and headscarves looked like a glowing mosaic of color in the dying rays of the sun. The kaleidoscope of peach, rose, turquoise, emerald, and yellow was in sharp contrast to the crowd’s wary mood.
The jeep stopped at the narrow entrance to the sheikh’s compound, and two soldiers leapt down from the back, machine guns strapped across their chests. They let down the tailgate, struggling with a large sack. Meanwhile the driver and the officer climbed down from their seats.
The villagers took several steps back, silently watching the soldiers lifting their load out of the jeep. There was a gasp as a bare foot flopped out of the sack, and the crowd withdrew further. Zara almost cried out, but she was too frightened to make a sound. A moment later she felt her mother by her side, her breath shallow and rapid on the back of Zara’s neck.
The soldiers dragged the sack behind them, pulling it into the center of the family compound. At the officer’s instructions they upended it, and the broken and lifeless body of Zara’s grandfather slid awkwardly onto the ground. His face was a raw mash of flesh and bone, while his long white robe was torn and smeared with blood.
Zara stared, unblinking, at the sheikh, her soulmate and inspiration, too appalled to even move.
The officer surveyed the crowd of villagers, flashing them a smile. “It seems your sheikh suffered from a weak heart,” he announced.
The villagers gaped at him, hardly daring to breathe.
“He had a heart attack in our offices, and we’ve brought him back to you, with our condolences.”
The crowd reacted with a subdued muttering, too intimidated to challenge the soldiers or to show disrespect. Then Zara heard a wail of grief as Sheikh Muhammad’s youngest wife, the mother of Cloudy, stepped forward, her fists beating her chest.
“My husband!” she shrieked. “Look at what this cowardly dog has done to my brave husband!”
An arm reached out from the crowd, pulling her back, but she shrugged it off and surged forward, screaming abuse at the officer.
“Have you no heart?” she rasped. “First my son, and now my husband? What kind of dogs are you?”
She stepped forward, shaking both fists at the officer, her screams echoing around the compound. The officer scowled, reaching for the pistol on his hip. He pulled it from its holster, leveled it at her, and fired two bullets into her abdomen.
“One less stupid black bitch,” he snarled, replacing his pistol. As she lay moaning, he gazed down at the spreading puddle of blood. “That’s what you get if you attack an officer of the Sudanese security.”
The crowd, frozen with shock, hung back as the dying woman whispered her prayers. Blood seeped through her yellow robe as she curled into a fetal position, her breath coming in panicky gulps. Zara heard her begging for mercy, in the name of God. Then the woman groaned as the officer nudged her head
