He tried to doze on the corner. But then the girl. Then the fear.
"I want to fight," one of the soldiers said. "When do we get to fight?"
Adem asked, "When was the last time?"
"Couple of days ago. That's the thing. Between battles, it's boring."
Sure. Boring. Five prayers a day. Scared of everyone because Adem didn't know the enemy from his own people-not that it mattered. They might kill him as easily as the opposition. So many things were forbidden by Sharia that Adem had to be careful not to offend by accident, even if the soldiers all seemed to look the other way when it came to football, the internet, TV, and American rap. Again, Jibriil was his guide. Funny, since Jibriil had been the one who ditched school after eleventh grade. Got a job. Got new friends. Turned out he was studying harder than Adem thought under this "Rockstar Muhammad". Strange nickname, since the Imam was in his fifties and no doubt hated rock and pop and hip-hop and all the other soul-destroying music his followers clung to.
Jibriil laughed. "Ready for action, Adem? Getting impatient?"
The others laughed too. Pantomimed Adem all wide-eyed, rushing into the firefight. Another one of the gang. Adem knew he hadn't made much of an impression, and Jibriil was doing all he could to bring his friend into the conversation, make him sound like a true warrior. But both of them understood words could only go so far.
Another said, "How about lunch?"
That got them stirring, talking, moving. "This corner can watch itself for a while."
*
They all sat on the ground outside around a rug, one of many, under a ragged tarp. They were on the edge of town, an HQ growing from rummage and junk found in the streets or burned-out buildings. But then there were the fine command tents, or the rooms in these buildings set up with modern media-cameras, internet on laptops, flat screens-run by generators. Where did the money for that come from? Or for the tanks, trucks, guns, rocket launchers, the food? Adem wanted to ask. He wasn't sure if it was forbidden. Jibriil never brought it up. Someone somewhere was supporting this threadbare army very well.
The temperature under the tarp wasn't much cooler than it had been in the shade on the corner, but Adem was already beginning to be able to tell the difference between one hundred twenty degrees and one hundred fifteen. For lunch, flatbread, some sort of stewed meat, and rice. Water, not cold but not bad. Mostly clean. Adem tucked in, a few bites of gamey meat, not able to place the taste under all the spice. Crazy spice. He'd gotten used to the bland cafeteria meals on campus. Coughed as he swallowed. The water didn't help put out the fire. Someone passed a glass of milk along to him.
"No, no, too hot for milk."
"It helps ease the tongue. For girls who can't take their spice."
More laughter at Adem's expense. He was starting to feel like the class clown, except he hadn't done anything other than act like his usual self. Even surrounded by other Somalis, he was the odd man out.
He sipped the milk. The odor made him pause, like smoke. Like char. And it was warm. He held the glass away. The milk dribbled down his chin, thin as water.
"Come on, drink your milk. Makes you grow strong! Like a man!"
The aftertaste was cheese and salt. Was this some sort of trick? More hazing? He pushed ahead, tired of being the butt of the joke. Another swig. Strong, warm, not like the milk back home. But the sting in his mouth faded. Kept drinking, even as he gagged. Downed the whole thing. Felt ill. Less laughter when he was done. Some "Well done" and "He's getting better".
Jibriil leaned over and said quietly, "Just so you know, that's camel milk."
Adem's esophagus reacted on its own, backing up as he tried to swallow, making it worse. He turned from the group, letting loose behind him. The burn of the spice came back. The warmth of the milk, the saltiness.
Cheers all around. Shouting. "Pussy American boy. Can't kill a man if you can't handle your milk."
Adem tightened every muscle in his body. Forced himself to swallow. Counted to ten. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned to the other soldiers again. He motioned for another glass of milk.
One of the other boys, who they called Madoowbe, called for one of the women who had served them and refilled their glasses. One came with a pitcher, her guntiino striped orange, purple, and red that was almost pink. She reached out to pour. A long-sleeved t-shirt under the dress. Adem wondered how they could stand the heat. He'd seen Minnesota kids in winter wear shorts, so maybe it was the same idea. Plus the scarf wrapped around her head, revealing only her face.
And what a face. Must've been about his age. She wore thin wire-rimmed glasses. When she looked at him after pouring a full glass of the camel milk, it wasn't the shy, submissive look he'd gotten from most Somali women here the past three days. There was something different. Electric.
Adem picked up the glass, waved it around like giving the toast at a wedding, and then gulped it all down in one slow pull, the boys pushing him on. One of the younger teenagers, Abdi Erasto, took a photo with his cell phone. When Adem finished and slammed the empty glass back onto the rug, they waited just long enough to applaud him. He smiled. Winked at the girl who had poured the milk. "Thank you."
Her face lit up, a grin. Cheeks lifting. She left the table. Adem felt queasy but glad to be on everyone's good sides. "The server, she was my inspiration."
Quiet. Not the response he expected. A look at Jibriil, whose mouth was an "O", head subtly shaking. Adem turned to his food. He'd lost his appetite, even though he was starving. And he suspected that the mystery meat in the stew was also camel. He sat there drinking water, trying to chase the burn down his throat again.
A shout from across the room. A soldier standing, pointing at another. A man around the same age as Adem, but a hundred or more pounds heavier. He froze when the shouting started.
Two other soldiers approached the fat soldier, these in elaborate uniforms, Eyes visible but the rest of their faces hidden from view by scarves, red and white diamonds, twisted and wrapped around their heads tightly. AK-47s in their hands. So now the target began pleading, his voice pitched high.
"I didn't mean it. It was an accident. I didn't know." He began pulling flatbread from his pockets and from under his shirt, dropping them on the nearest rug. "I swear, I didn't."
"Don't swear." The soldiers closed. "Come with us."
"Please, no, it was a misunderstanding. I-"
One soldier lifted the butt of his rifle and slammed it into the fat guy's back. He scrunched, his shoulders contracting, but he stayed on his feet.
Adem said aloud before he could think about it, "What did he do? What's going on?"
No one answered.
"For nothing? They're taking him away for nothing?"
Madoowbe said, "Shut up. Don't get involved."
Adem thought about arguing, getting in deeper, when Jibriil said, "He stole that food. You saw how fat he was. He was taking food, stockpiling it for later. I'll bet he's done it before but happened to get caught this time."
"Didn't we have plenty of food? Was it really a big deal?"
"Everyone gets his fair share. He could've asked for more, though. Instead, he stole it. From the mouths of his own brothers. Can you imagine?"
Somber mood around the table. The others obviously either knew the thief or felt bad for him regardless.
"But…" Adem waved an arm at all of the rugs around them, overflowing with food. "There's more than enough."
"That's not the point." Madoowbe was pissed. Held a triangle of bread like a blade, shook it towards Adem. "We are modest. We await our reward in heaven instead of seeking momentary pleasure on Earth. And we don't steal."
It took all of his strength to not bring up the women on the road, the food the soldiers took. Not to mention the very land they'd taken by force and were eating on right then. Instead, he stifled his American side. Took a deep breath. Said to Jibriil, "What's going to happen to him?"