Adem was surprised that Sufia was allowed to tend him, although it was only for mundane things. When it came to bedpans, changing bandages, a wet cloth to wipe down his skin, there were men to do that. Even once his colleague Garaad, not someone Adem had expected or hoped to see. He came to help clean his "brother", grabbed him by the hair above his bandage and pulled, wiped his face, his chest, his feet. Smiling as he did it. Regaling Adem with all the great battles he was missing. All the punishments doled out to the traitors. "But you feel sorry for them, no? Even though you killed a man for stealing bread."
"I didn't mean to-"
A hard yank on his scalp. "You did. That's all that matters."
When he was done, Garaad peeled back the bandage from Adem's neck. Adem slapped at Garaad's hand, but the soldier easily grasped Adem's wrapped fingers, squeezed, sent a river of pain through Adem's arm, shoulder, neck. Garrad examined the neck wound with a slightly open mouth, almost titillated by it.
"It would have been a deep cut. Right through half your neck. He knew what he was doing."
Garaad poked the wound. Adem seethed.
The soldier slapped the bandage back into place and stood. "Lucky man. Blessed, even. Or one might say 'privileged'? One might say."
Adem caught on. Didn't answer. Some of the boys must have thought it was only because of Jibriil that Adem was recovering in such luxury. Or that he was recovering at all instead of his body being paraded up and down the streets as a cautionary lesson to other traitors.
On his way out, Garaad made a finger gun and went "Pow, Cowboy," in English. Then he swept through and was gone, laughing.
Adem closed his eyes and wondered what his friends at college were doing as the snow piled higher outside their dorms. He wished he could give them a call.
*
More days passed. A crutch, some practice, and he was up and around. The room wasn't as long as he'd thought, his bed being at the far end instead of floating in the middle of a sea of them. Adem never saw any doctors around. The closest was when Jibriil visited, which was less often as he improved, and asked what he needed. Like asking a surgery patient to guide the scalpel. But whatever he asked for-pain meds, clean bandages, antibiotics-showed up almost as soon as Jibriil had gone.
Adem began chewing khat. It gave him a boost of energy, helped with the pain. Spit green out the windows. Loved to stand there, looking out while chewing, walking from window to window. Some afternoons, he saw children playing football in the lot behind the building.
Sufia found him one afternoon, chewing, spitting, watching. She watched with him, didn't say anything.
Adem said, "Isn't it dangerous for them to play that? Won't they get lashes?"
"Since when do boys care about that? If they get caught, they'll run."
"They're crazy for it. Willing to risk their hides for it."
"What do you expect? It's football." Something else to make her laugh. A nice smile as she looked out the window. "As long as they're having fun. There's not supposed to be much of that anymore."
He turned to her. "Then why are you here? We're working for the side that hates fun."
"I can ask you the same thing."
"I didn't know."
Sufia turned her face to the floor. "What a terrible answer." She began to walk away.
Adem hobbled behind. "I should have, you're right. Just another ignorant American. But please, why you?"
"Let's not discuss this. It's not right." Busied herself, taking sheets from beds, balling them up.
"Okay, okay, but, let's talk." Finally caught up, tried to get in front of her. "It helps me feel better."
"Sure it does."
"Do you like soccer?"
Sufia stopped, rolled her eyes. "I thought it was bad here, I had no idea. In London, you'd think the college boys were on the team, the way they talked. ' We won. Look at us.' Is that a better obsession than the word of Allah? The will of the prophet? It's only a ball."
"I know, right? The whole sport, so boring. I mean, you know, back in the states we really like basketball. That's got some speed to it, always moving, always taking a shot. Got to think quick, move quick."
"I've seen it." Wrinkled her nose.
"Really? You didn't like it?"
She balled up the next sheet more fierce. "Sweaty boys in, in, baggy shorts. They're not shorts! They look like they're wearing a dress. At least the footballers are manly. That's how sinners are supposed to look."
"Seen any American football?"
She barked a laugh. Adem looked around. His guard was now at the window where they'd just been, watching the kids play until Sufia let that noise fly. Now he watched them both with angry eyebrows.
"Isn't it time for you to get back to bed?" She said, still the hint of a smile there, fading into the gracefulness of her smooth, caramel skin.
Adem wanted to reach out, touch her cheek. Maybe even lean in for a kiss. Simple things. Natural things. All the things the God of this army said he should never ever do. He didn't understand.
"One day you can tell me more about London. I've never been."
"Maybe that's a good thing." She carried her sheets away. He stood watching her go. Turned back to the guard. Still staring. Still had angry eyebrows. Adem winked at him and eased his way back to bed, all thirty-three excruciating steps.
*
Sufia finally told him about London. Whispered about it one morning when Adem ventured down the stairs and outside for the first time in nearly a month. She said it seemed the whole world could live there together and be perfectly fine. She had to be careful. It was so easy to get caught up in the world-the clubs, the shopping, the indulgent food, the books and movies.
"Like my father told me when he called me home. He said, 'The devil throws everything he has at us because all we have is the Word. He knows what we've hidden and shines a light on it.'"
They were slowly walking along the road in front of the building. Still in Mogadishu, but an area where the buildings weren't mostly rubble, the pavement wasn't broken, and where Adem thought he heard the ocean. Could be they were near the shore, sure. He would love to see it, would have to ask Sufia if it was a possibility.
"Then why? If you had all that, what was it that made you come back here?"
"Weren't you listening? All that was taking me further from what I had been taught. I wanted to see the country again. I want to see it beautiful again." Her face gave away something sad, though. "I thought…I mean, I still think one day…I thought it would be different, that's all."
"Less hell, more heaven?"
A nod. "I know war is ugly. Necessary, but…maybe you soldiers should remember that we're all on the same side."
"Hey, don't blame me."
"You know what I mean."
Jibriil had found Adem some clothes, regular T-shirts and pants and sandals. They fit a bit loose, which was more than fine. Adem wondered if they were taken off dead soldiers. Any other place but here, he would not have worn them, but for the moment they were a blessing. His toes didn't send spikes of pain when he took a step. His nose bandage was down to a minimum. The cuts on his head, mostly healed. Only his leg held him up, and then the pain along his spine, the bone spurs. But when he was with Sufia, despite the looks of men and women and soldiers all around them, he felt as good as before the beating.
Adem asked, "Would you ever think of leaving, though? For good? It's okay to love your country from far away."
"It's not the same."
"Think about it, though. London again? Or Dubai? Or, out on a limb here, the States?"
Whatever rhythm they'd had froze over. Adem felt the chill. Sufia stopped walking. Adem nearly fell over trying to stop himself. He worked his way around until he was standing in front of her. Very close.