The truckbed was full of boys. Maybe the oldest was fifteen. Faces wrapped with scarves, covering all but their eyes or framing their faces. Every one of them had guns, and a few had rocket launchers. Real fucking rocket launchers. They chattered so fast that Adem couldn't make out the accents at first-the language a blend of Arabic and Somali. He'd gotten used to English at the college, not like at home. But then it clicked and he understood they were dissing him. Laughing at him, pointing. He pretended not to notice.
Jibriil stumbled over whatever phrase he was supposed to tell the man. More laughter from the kids. He had a tougher time with Somali than Adem, whose family had come from the northern coast and were well-versed in English even before they left the homeland. He spoke up, saved Jibriil from further ridicule.
"We have come from the snow to fight in the desert."
The man spat on the ground beside him. "Are you sure you're in the right place? Would you like a nice Coca-Cola?"
The boys in the back: "With lots of ice." "Look at them. Rich boys." "They'll die quickly and we can take their shoes."
Jibriil laughed along with them. It was the right move. The man put the sign into the truck and greeted them each with a big hug. The boys in the back applauded. They reached out their hands to help Adem and Jibriil get in. They slung their backpacks over their shoulders and climbed aboard. The man got into the cab and cranked up.
The other boys handed them AK-47s. Adem only knew what they were because Jibriil told him. Adem sat with the gun straight up between his knees, one hand wrapped tight with the strap of his backpack, now in his lap. Eyes on him like they were waiting for something.
He said, "Where are we going?"
A boy near him, middle-school aged, leaned over and said, "Initiation. Football."
"Football?"
A wide smile. "Yes, football."
Adem turned back to Jibriil. "We're going to play football?"
"Aw, yeah. Righteous."
"I didn't think we would be playing football."
Shrugged. He checked over his rifle like a pro, pulling back on the slide and slamming a bullet into the chamber. "Got to have something to do in-between killings."
*
The ride to Mogidishu was dusty, crowded. Painful. Adem had thought the planes were uncomfortable, but they were bliss compared to this hard-bucking truck, the smell of unwashed soldier boys, death and gases, all of it getting to him. One of the boys offered him a sweaty bandana. Adem covered his nose and mouth with it. Still better than the actual air.
They passed another truck, slow-going with people in the bed and hanging onto the sides, growing like a giant tumor as it made its way into town. Many more people walking, no guns or rocket launchers. Just staffs or bags of food or bottles of water. At one point, the truck stopped and a couple of boys demanded the food and water from some women, vividly dressed and carrying the goods on their shoulders, only the most essential parts of their faces visible. The boys showed no respect. Instead, they were pissed that the women were angry for the soldiers taking the food from their children's mouths.
One boy said to them, "We're you're children! We are, too!" And then he took away the second bottle of water he was going to leave with them and poured it out on the road.
One of the boys told Adem and Jabriil that the woman was actually in business, trying to sell food and khat. Adem kind of knew what khat was. His dad and uncles had talked about it with smiles on their faces.
Adem wondered what they were fighting for, or against, if this was all it took to rile them up. Shoving. Pointing guns. A mother and daughter and two young sons, much younger than those in the truck. The sons made guns with their fingers, danced around. The boys in the truck laughed, urged them on. Adem turned to Jibriil, found him grinning. Adem coughed.
The boys climbed back into the truck, their stolen bread and lamb and water passed around like a prize. They'd also taken some khat. Raw leaves. Many of the boys grabbed at those and chewed. Adem lifted his bandana, took a sip of the tart, lukewarm water, and wished it was Mountain Dew.
*
In the city limits, the truck rattled along past piles of rubble and burned-out buildings. How some of them were still standing seemed physically impossible. Everything was broken. Most of the people the truck passed had guns. A handful were shooting blindly down streets. Everyone else ignored them. Some of the boys in the truck shouted to friends on the street. Smaller children in dusty clothes played soccer, and even some of them had laid their rifles to the side for a while.
What surprised Adem the most was the normalcy. People here were used to this. Guns and rocket launchers were a way of life. They still had to buy, sell, work, and play. They had to laugh, or what the hell else would they do but cry? And they cried a lot. Adem heard wails from blocks away. One growing louder as they passed the aftermath of a mortar attack. Blood seeping into the dust. Bodies barely covered by the fallen tarp. Sandaled dead feet peeking out.
Street vendors. Shelled businesses struggling to keep storefronts open. A lot of smoke and noise. Rifle-fire echoing from all over. And singing. Raw, tone-deaf singing. Adem was surprised. He knew the tune. The words were different, foreign. Still, something familiar finally, after thinking he was more of a stranger here, the homeland, than he was in America. Someone in the truck started singing along. Adem looked up. It was Jibriil. They'd sung together in the high school chorale group, Adem never really on key. But Jibriil had it down pat. A natural. Adem hadn't heard him sing in a couple of years. But he knew this song. Could hardly speak a couple of sentences in Somali without making a mistake, but he knew this song? When had he learned this song?
They twisted through the streets, avoiding rubble from the stone buildings, and crisp, still smoking debris from trucks, military jeeps and vehicles, and small cars. And then they were there. A massive stadium, rising from the ruins. It looked like a ruin itself-battered, cracked, and forgotten. The truck kept on through one of the tunnels, dark and cool for a blessed few moments, before bouncing hard and fast into the field. Adem ground his teeth together to keep from shouting. The stands were empty and sun-blasted. The field itself was dry but filled with desert scrub brush and trees. Like the Earth was reclaiming the space while hell burned all around outside the walls. There were men and boys and other trucks scattered inside the ring of growth. Maybe several hundred people. Babbling. Looking serious. No one was playing football.
The truck came to a stop and the boys jumped off. Adem stood and stretched. He'd been sitting with all his muscles tensed without realizing. The release was painful, but worth it. A full lungful of dry air made him cough. Jibriil shook his head and hopped onto the ground as if he was a veteran already.
Amongst the voices, Adem still getting used to the speed and rhythms after another full semester of American Midwestern accents, one was higher in pitch, reciting poetry. No, wait, she was praying. A woman.
Adem looked around. All male.
Then a voice over a bullhorn: "Come on over. It's time to begin. Come on."
A large group of the men had already gathered near one end of the stadium. The truck driver stepped over to Adem and Jibriil, urged them on.
"What's going on?"
The driver urged more, hands on their shoulders. "Justice."
Close and closer. A couple of men had shovels. The closer to the center of the circle, the younger the men, most carrying stones as large as their hands.
Adem's stomach sank like he was falling. He pressed his lips hard together, not wanting to throw up. Then, someone handed both of the newcomers stones. Adem rubbed the top of his with his thumb. Jagged.
At the center of the crowd, a clear area. Several feet around the main attraction: a middle-aged man and a teenage girl, both buried up to their waists. The girl was in a hijab, her head covered except for her face, praying calmly. Another man went over and crouched, told her to be quiet. The man was begging. Crying.