It was as if the man was trying to convince himself. Grasping, holding on to any shred, all on faith. Adem hadn't really thought about it. He was still one of them. He hadn't made up his mind, had he? Being rescued from a bad situation-from pirates, for God's sake-convincing his dad to come back here, none of that made him free yet, did it? Finding Sufia, taking off together, only the two of them, that was freedom. What was waiting for him if he found Jibriil? Or if he flew back to Minnesota? What was there, really?
He didn't hesitate. Walked right up to Chi, slapped the barrel aside and grabbed the gun, gave it a hard yank. Chi held on. Adem yanked it again. Chi let go. He didn't step away, though. His nostrils flared. His left eye blinked over and over.
Adem stayed close. Eyes to eyes, except Chi was blinking and looking down, anything to avoid looking right at Adem.
"You stay here, then. I'll go, you know, rejoin my brothers."
He backed up, turned, let the rifle dangle in one hand. He'd probably get rid of it as soon as he could. Same with the suitcoat. Ridiculous. They all knew who he was, all the anonymous warriors in their checkered headscarves. He could always rejoin their ranks, cover his face, march in formation. There was a peace in that, the feeling of being part of a cause so much larger than himself. God said, and thus you do it. It was comforting. He wouldn't have to compete for grades anymore. He wouldn't have to work so hard to make inroads with the white kids in a Midwestern farm town who pretty much thought he was Muslim already anyway. Why not stick it out awhile, see where this led? He still had plenty of questions, plenty of doubts, but he wouldn't get any answers by running back home.
Then again, there was Sufia. The exception to the rule. The wrench in the works. Someone so beautiful, smart, able, and she chose to come back in spite of what sort of life awaited her here. She fought him tooth and nail until that last moment, asking to go to Cairo.
He had to find her. He had to see if she'd meant it.
He looked over his shoulder, expecting Chi to catch up. But his cousin had already sat on the hardscrabble ground, his back against the Rover, eyes closed. Adem thought about calling to him, waving him over. But then he heard himself sigh and say, "Fuck it," and he kept on like he was bulletproof.
*
The BBC. Really? What sort of masochists were these reporters? They followed "Mr. Mohammed" for a couple of blocks, asking breathless questions, fending off the people on the street who recognized the pirate negotiator from the stories they'd heard from soldiers or read on the internet with their smartphones.
"No, you have me confused with someone else."
"But you heard about the raid? The ship sinking? The pirate leader escaped. Did you know he had rigged the ship with explosives?"
Adem wanted to ask questions, find out more. Mahmood blew up the ship? And Adem hadn't even known that part of the plan. He wanted to ask if the crew was lost. What about Derrick Iles?
The reporter kept on in that terribly same voice they all had, chipper but serious. "Weren't you arrested? How are you out? Why do you have a rifle?"
"I told you-" He stopped. The cameraman stopped too, moved even closer. The reporter, arms crossed, expecting an answer. Adem shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not this Mr. Mohammed you think I am. Sorry."
Adem tried to brush past the cameraman, who said, "Don't touch the camera!" So Adem lifted his rifle and butted the stock into it. Let the audience chew on that. The cameraman said, "Hey! You stay away!"
Adem kept walking. A man joined him, tried to hand him a cup of water. Told him he was praying for him. Adem wasn't sure if he should drink the water. Poisoned, maybe? Why were these people so nice to him? They hated the soldiers, hated those who had come into their city, attacked it, reduced it to rubble, and then forced them all to live under an increasingly severe set of Sharia rules. So why was Mr. Mohammed such a folk hero to both sides?
The man read Adem's mind. Said, "See?" He took a sip himself, then handed it to Adem. "Drink, drink."
Adem thanked him. He drank the cool water, which only made him thirsty for more. None of that. He didn't need distractions. He gave the cup back, thanked the man again, and kept on. A faster clip. He wanted to outrun the reporters, the well-wishers, the soldiers, all of them. He didn't care.
Soldiers on the corner, watching. Starstruck as if he was a soccer star. A couple of them already on their mobiles, leaving Adem alone. If anything, at least now someone knew he was coming. Alone, armed, and angry.
*
He began going over to the soldiers he saw. Most of them knew him, both as Adem and Mr. Mohammed. They acted as if they were all friends-asked about Bosaso, about the pirates, about being on TV, about the food, the beds. Laughed. They asked to see the scar on his neck.
Adem played along, sure. Anything to get on their good side. He asked about Sufia, described her, if anyone had seen her. He didn't come up with much. Some of them had seen her on TV in the background when Adem had been speaking. They said she was an angel. Then they said she was like, who was it, you know-Halle Berry. Yes. Like her.
For some reason, Adem began drifting towards the sea. He knew the way to the hospital, or whatever it had been before they turned it into one. The smell of the sea, the salt, leading him along. Smiling and waving now. Jibriil had to know, right? Phones were ringing all over town. Maybe Jibriil would be waiting for him. He couldn't send Adem back to Bosaso now. Every block showed him that, more people now, like they were coming out specifically to see him. No, he couldn't go back. He was too important for… what? Morale? What sort of guy could appeal to both sides? Hell, they might have to make him President. Not that he'd have any true power, but the people would look up to him. It made Adem unkillable. Invincible! Necessary!
Sufia could be at his side while he ruled, right? If she didn't want to leave a fugitive, maybe she'd be okay leaving on diplomatic missions. Adem and Sufia, President and First Lady, jetting all over the world to extend a hand of diplomacy as they tried to stabilize the motherland. Spend most of each year on the road in the best hotels, chauffeured cars, first class flights, Michelin-starred restaurants. All paid for by pirate money.
If that's the way it was, then who was he to say it was wrong? Let the boys enjoy their playground in country. They needed someone like Adem out there in the upper echelons to legitimize the killing. A calm voice, a good suit, and a politician's handshake. For the cause, of course.
Closer still. He could hear waves now. He had lost the coat, rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, soaked with sweat and stuck to his skin. The last time he was on this street, he could barely walk. The soldiers were embarrassed by him, having been saved from a proper death and coddled here. His leg cramped a little. A phantom pain, had to be. He hadn't felt any cramps in weeks. Muscle memory, maybe. If he were to go left instead of right, he would end up on the beach, where they found him and changed his life. No matter what had happened along the way, he no longer thought coming to Somalia had been a mistake. It had taken until this moment-right as he came to the front of the building, people crowding around now, waiting for him to go inside-to understand that it had all been baptism by fire. Burned away everything about Adem that had held him back. Scorching, painful, but in the end he had come out the other side a new man.
A man who was going to walk inside, find the woman he loved, and win her over.
He dropped the rifle. He didn't need it. The guards at the front door weren't trying to keep him out. One even opened the door for him.