A Virtuous Killer

CHAPTER 1

Fatma guides her little troop across the busy flyover that descends into Kano’s main market. Maimouna, her daughter, is wrapped across her back, soft feet poking out either side of her mother’s narrow hips. Asibi, her stepdaughter, walks beside her, tugging at her arm.

Maimouna keeps wriggling! Why is her baby so restless? She’s normally such a good sleeper. Fatma turns her head to one side and tuts. She’s been so intent on getting them in and out of the market, she’s forgotten her daughter is not lying across her back, but on the fake explosives packed tightly between them. How can she prove herself worthy if she can allow her focus to drop so easily? She wishes she could explain to Maimouna that it won’t be long; the men will remove this package as soon as they get this drill over with. Then she’ll be reunited with the warmth of her mother’s back and can sleep as long as she wants, leaving her mother to bask in the praise of Abdullahi, their leader. Her husband, Muhammed, will be proud of her too, but it’s not his praise she craves.

This is the first time the three of them have been out together on their own. Fatma feels no sense of liberation, unlike Asibi, who points at one thing after another: a ragged boy with firewood piled high on his back; a woman gliding past in a purple robe, a basket of mangoes balanced on her head; and now a Chinese man who cuts in front of them. His scowl implies they’ve no right to be there, getting in his way. He quickens his pace and the smoke from his cigarette drifts back in their faces like a parting slap. He wouldn’t be so disrespectful if he knew who she really was. Why did Abdullahi insist on her bringing Asibi? Okay, he said it would make them look more innocent but this child’s just holding her back.

Through a gap in the flyover wall, Asibi marvels at a cluster of coloured parasols below, insisting they’re giant mushrooms. Naturally, she wants to stop and look. Pulling her along is like dragging a reluctant goat to market. The straps of the empty shopping bag are too broad for Fatma’s narrow shoulders and keep sliding off. Her impatience gets the better of her. She kneels down in front of Asibi, taking hold of her arms:

‘Look, I know your father lets you get away with everything but I’m in charge of you today and you’ll do what I say. If you keep stopping to point at every little thing — listen to me!’ She grabs Asibi’s chin and pulls her face round so she has her full attention. ‘If you keep stopping and pointing like this, you’ll be snatched by the market witch. The one with the sharp, pointy teeth who lies waiting for naughty little girls like you. And, you know what she’ll do?’

Asibi swallows hard.

‘Put you in her stew and eat you for supper.’

The tears roll down Asibi’s cheeks, her mouth screws up and she starts to bawl.

‘But if you listen to me and do as you’re told, I can protect you, okay?’

Asibi nods.

‘You promise to be quiet and keep moving?’

Asibi sniffs and nods again. Her bottom lip is up; she stands still and lets Fatma wipe the tears and snot from her face. Fatma knows she’s been harsh, but there’s important work to be done and no time for catering to the whims of little girls. Abdullahi’s words are lodged in her head:

“Don’t rush, don’t look at anybody and don’t stop.”

He had spoken like a father, not the way he speaks to his men, barking commands and issuing threats. “Feel invisible, and you will be!” She’d thought he was joking when he said that, but he stared at her, letting the words sink in, and she realised he wasn’t. She should’ve known better; he never lies to her. She nodded as if she’d understood, afraid he might take back this opportunity for her to show how useful she could be to him.

Abdullahi had told her to marry Muhammed when she’d reached puberty. Muhammed’s a fierce fighter; tall and strong, but shy with her and … boring! He hardly opens his mouth when they’re alone, and he does whatever she asks. Imagine, a warrior like him in thrall to someone half his age and half his size! He could snap her in two if he wanted! She was thirteen when they married, still a girl. And still thirteen when she had Maimouna. Now she’s a woman, a wife, a mother, and, at last, a fighter! Who will they choose to blow up the market? Probably one of those schoolgirls who think they’re so high and mighty. It doesn’t matter. Once she’s done this trial run, they can choose whoever they want. She’ll have done her job, showed that she’s ready to take the next step towards being a real fighter.

They exit the flyover and have to wait while a stream of auto-rickshaws and motorbikes muscle past, stopping anywhere to put people down or pick them up. The blare of horns is so constant, she no longer hears them. She uses the break in their journey to look around. Muhammed told her the market used to be surrounded by huge mud walls with the entrance through a big arch supported by two sturdy towers. Over the years it has spilled into nearby streets, swallowing up any available space. The crowd flows predominantly in one direction which can only mean the centre of the market. She will follow it and keep walking until it thins out and she reaches the other side.

Abdullahi is a great leader. He’s promised her a phone when she completes her mission! There was no need, but it makes her happy. She hadn’t always looked up to him. After her abduction, she couldn’t speak for six days. But he’d taken a special interest in her; said she’d reminded him of his daughter whom he hardly saw anymore. He’d explained that in time she would realise how stupid her parents and all those other villagers had been and he was right. They were like sheep. She knows that now. They deserved to die. He had rescued her from all that and given her a purpose. Alhamdulillah!

The fevered conversation of Kalangu drums neutralises the rattling drone from the generators but not the smell of diesel, or the voices of traders, indignant but resigned to being pushed to the last price. Tethered goats, cattle, and camels express their own displeasure. The stink of dung and vegetables on the turn is masked by the acrid smells of smoked fish and freshly tanned leather. The brightly coloured cloth in traditional West African designs looks like it might catch fire. The old men in the election posters seem to stare down at her with disapproval but she keeps her little band moving forward, navigating the clamour with a mix of fortitude and grace. Plain grey hijabs encircle the faces of the two girls. Their black tunics brush lightly against their skinny legs as they walk between covered stalls, mostly under the shelter of the market roof but at other times in open spaces where the sun’s heat is unrelenting. Nevertheless, Fatma is surprised by a bead of sweat that drips off her nose and onto her lip. It’s hot and dusty as usual, but she has walked much further than this without tasting salt on her tongue. She hopes the fever is not returning, then remembers she is carrying the weight of two babies on her back.

Activity in the market is picking up. Sometimes they must step aside and wait for a space to clear, other times, they are brushed out of the way. People seem to be looking at them more and more, and the attention makes her uneasy. Maybe she’s imagining it. Asibi pulls on her arm and makes her stop. She looks up at her and says:

‘You’re hurting me!’

Fatma swallows hard. She’s been holding Asibi’s hand too tightly. She relaxes her grip.

‘I’m sorry.’

She’s aware of another drop running down her face. It’s not sweat this time, it’s … a tear. What is happening to her? They draw level with the market mosque. Two beggars are propped against the wall looking for eye contact with anyone passing by. A worn-out towel lies in front of them, displaying a few Naira, anxious for company. One of the beggars stares at her before nudging his companion and pointing a grubby finger at them.

Humph! Who do they think they are pointing at her? Asibi points back in response, asking loudly why the men’s legs are like balloons. It didn’t take the child long to forget about the witch, but that’s okay, someone had to put these infidels in their place. She ushers Asibi away, determined to pick up the pace. Asibi doesn’t like it, but Fatma bends down and whispers in her ear,

‘We can’t walk side by side anymore. It’s too crowded. Walk in front of me.’

They press ahead, her hand resting on Asibi’s neck and shoulder. Despite the bumping and shouting, they make progress though Fatma still feels they are standing out from the crowd too much. Fortunately in the bustle of the market, eyes don’t have time to settle. They reach a narrow intersection. People are impatient to pass and while not hesitating to push forward, make it clear they don’t appreciate being pushed from behind. The drumming is louder, but Fatma sees no drummers. It’s not drumming she’s been hearing but a throbbing in her temples that’s been getting louder the closer they get to the centre of the market. She is distracted by a wiry man in a torn white vest pushing a rusty trailer stacked precariously with cases of bottled water. He ploughs through the crowd towards them, issuing warning shouts, looking like he has no intention of stopping. People step aside without thinking. Such is the way of the market; they know he knows if he stops he will lose momentum and won’t get his load mobile again. Fatma moves back too, pulling Asibi in close. Her arms drop over Asibi’s tiny shoulders and her hands press against the little girl’s chest. The movement causes the bag to slip off Fatma’s shoulder and hang from her elbow. The strap is snagged by the wheel of the passing trailer, pulling Fatma’s arm roughly and dragging her off to one side. She cries in pain and manages to untangle her arm from the bag. She loses her balance and stumbles backwards alongside the trailer, trying to grab its rail to avoid falling on top of her baby.

This is not supposed to happen. She hears people shouting as she struggles to stay upright. She catches the fear in the man’s eyes. The wrath of the crowd will fall upon him if he injures anyone, and it will be merciless. But Fatma doesn’t fall on top of her baby. The explosion is thunderous, and she is thrust violently upwards then thrown back on the market floor like a lump of meat. She can barely see. Perhaps it is the whooshing noise in her ears that makes her think she’s in the middle of a waterfall. Or maybe, it’s the warm, pink mist of blood and water falling back to earth and caressing her face. She hears snakes hissing around her and is afraid. She cannot move. The snakes come closer, dancing around her like flames. They brush against her and her face burns. She is plunging down a deep well which she fears will lead to hell. As the final seconds of her life drain away, she thinks of Maimouna and Asibi. She thinks of her parents. She thinks of Abdullahi and Muhammed and as death engulfs her forcing the last breath from her shattered body, she knows her betrayal is pure and complete.

Chapter 2

Abdullahi surveys the chaos from his vantage point behind the unfinished breeze-block wall on a nearby rooftop. There’s little to match the intensity crammed into those few seconds between pressing the detonation command, hearing the blast of defiance, and feeling the shift of warm air on his face. The surge of energy that command releases feels like it has come directly from Allah using his body as a conduit. He watches a cloud of grey smoke billow up majestically into the empty blue sky, fascinated by the way it turns over and over into itself. Allah is expressing His approval. Below the cloud, a section of the market has been reconfigured into a jumble of collapsed stalls, bent corrugated steel roofs, burning wooden frames, and broken bodies, entangled and shrouded in dust and blood. The screaming begins. A couple of survivors make tentative steps towards the injured but most scatter. It’s time to go. There will be time to celebrate later when they watch the video. He hands the detonation phone to Muhammed. Another fighter guides the drone that has been monitoring Fatma’s every move, back to the rooftop, and packs it into a holdall. The three men are quickly down the dusty concrete stairs. They pause at the doorway for the all-clear. The engine of the builder’s truck is running, and they clamber inside. The vehicle slips quietly out of the narrow street and merges with the road. It displays no black and white identifying flag, just a paint-splattered rag, fluttering from a ladder protruding at the back. Election posters of the Governor have been pasted on the sides of the vehicle, obscuring the name of the firm to which the truck belongs.

Ten minutes later, they’ve put sufficient distance between themselves and the mayhem they’ve left behind. While retaining a watchful eye on the road ahead, they can

sit back in their seats and relax a little. They approach another market, its stalls running along the roadside. The throng of pedestrians, rickshaws and traders causes the road to narrow, and their truck slows to a stop. People cross in front and behind them as if the traffic doesn’t exist. Their truck inches forward inducing slaps on the bonnet and demands they give way. Abdullahi makes a mental note to revisit this place and make these infidels pay for their insolence. Thoughts of revenge are soon set aside as the familiar black shape of an armoured car looms up ahead. Their fingers curl round the triggers of their AK-47s, muzzles brushing the floor.

The armoured car is now six car-lengths away. Its lights flash and its claxon bellows like an angry camel and is turned off. It doesn’t seem in much of a hurry. It could bully its way through or go off-road, but it seems content to align with the traffic. Abdullahi knows these infidels fear another bomb could await them at their destination and they have every right to be fearful. He would have been glad to provide them with a special welcome, except that it would have required more time and resources and delayed their escape. No need to be greedy; too much ambition can be an enemy. This scum will remain free to poke through the devastation he has caused, looking for information they have no capacity to find and wouldn’t know what to do with if they found it. Both vehicles draw level as if for a pre-arranged meeting. He sees the sweat glistening between the rims of black berets and sunglasses. One of them glances down at their builder’s truck. While Abdullahi knows he might be better served to look away, he chooses defiance and looks back. Two metres of sticky tarmac separate deadly enemies but only one of them knows that is the case. Abdullahi and his men might be outnumbered, but they are better armed, and will be sure to strike first. More importantly their resolve is stronger. When have these infidels ever had to fight in close and battle for their lives? The policeman locks eyes with Abdullahi expecting him to be cowed, but Abdullahi returns his stare with interest. The bustle of the market and blare of car horns seem to recede even though the gaps in the side windows remain as before. Abdullahi and his men focus on their prey like hyenas. The air above both vehicles shimmers. Is it the impact of the Kano sun or the sign of another energy source mobilising?

The curiosity in the policeman’s eyes turns to suspicion but not yet to realization. A second policeman follows his comrade’s gaze. They exchange words, prompting a third to lean round from the back and peer down. Such swagger. They think they’re checking out a few workmen on their way to a building site. Men they’d love to drag out of their truck, slap around, demand papers from and relieve of any Naira they can find. But maybe they’re beginning to doubt. Abdullahi always seeks out an edge. If he is going to act it will have to be now as the element of surprise is dissolving. His men are primed, he senses their willingness for him to make the call. Half a minute is all they need, and, unlike these infidels, they will not hesitate to drive through anyone or anything blocking their path. A space opens in front of the police vehicle; its engine roars and it moves away. The sounds of the market return, and the builder’s truck moves off in turn. It is Allah’s will.

The truck leaves the road and pulls into an unremarkable side street comprised of modest houses most of which await completion. They approach the safe house. They will rest up for twenty-four hours, except for the meeting he and Muhammed will have later with Ado, the Senator’s errand boy. There is no need for the driver to honk his horn, a tall metal gate swings open, they pass through and park under a corrugated steel roof. Everyone gets out, Abdullahi issues a few commands and equipment is stored, weapons brought inside, and security checked. As soon as the door closes behind them, he bids his comrades gather round. He takes out his phone, holds it up for them to see, and plays the video footage captured by the drone. They cheer and embrace. He steps back to address them:

‘My brothers, today we have hit back hard. Alhamdulillah! The President and his security forces have told the world that Jama’atu Ahlus Sunnah lid Da’awati wal Jihadwe, is on the run. The Governor has told the people that Kano State is secure in his hands. He will have to tell them something else and they won’t believe that either. The end of times is coming. Allahu Akbar!’

‘Allahu Akbar!’ they respond, fists punching the air.

He raises his hand; they fall silent and drop to their knees. He leads them in prayer:

‘In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon His Messenger. As-salamu `alaykum wa Rahmatu Allah.’

They regain their feet.

‘Where’s the bitch?’ says Abdullahi.

‘In your room. She’s sleeping, sir.’ The boy is about fifteen, not yet ready to fight.

‘” She’s sleeping sir!” What is this, a fucking hotel? I’ll soon wake her up! Go up on the roof and keep your eyes open.’ He lets the boy run past then stands on the first stair to address his men again.

‘Muhammed, we leave at seven thirty. Make sure everything is ready. And all of you, remember this day, be thankful, be proud. Now, rest up. Tomorrow we have a long journey back … with no screaming babies or whining bitches to put up with.’

Everyone laughs apart from his second-in-command. ‘Why the face, Muhammed? Oh I see, you lost a wife and two daughters today, and it bothers you. Don’t be so fucking weak! Fatma was like a daughter to me, do I look like I’m grieving? No, because I know she’s in paradise! I’ve told you before, all of you, you must be prepared to sacrifice anything for your faith. “We belong to Allah and to Him we shall return." When it’s your time, Muhammed, Fatma will have seventy-two virgins waiting to welcome you.’

He smiles, ‘But don’t expect to join them just yet. Allah has more work for you to do here, on earth’.

‘Inch Allah,’ says Muhammed.

‘More work for all of us!’ says Abdullahi.

‘Allahu Akbar!’ his men respond.

Fatma guides her little troop across the busy flyover that descends into Kano’s main market. Maimouna, her daughter, is wrapped across her back, soft feet poking out either side of her mother’s narrow hips. Asibi, her stepdaughter, walks beside her, tugging at her arm.

Maimouna keeps wriggling! Why is her baby so restless? She’s normally such a good sleeper. Fatma turns her head to one side and tuts. She’s been so intent on getting them in and out of the market, she’s forgotten her daughter is not lying across her back, but on the fake explosives packed tightly between them. How can she prove herself worthy if she can allow her focus to drop so easily? She wishes she could explain to Maimouna that it won’t be long; the men will remove this package as soon as they get this drill over with. Then she’ll be reunited with the warmth of her mother’s back and can sleep as long as she wants, leaving her mother to bask in the praise of Abdullahi, their leader. Her husband, Muhammed, will be proud of her too, but it’s not his praise she craves.

This is the first time the three of them have been out together on their own. Fatma feels no sense of liberation, unlike Asibi, who points at one thing after another: a ragged boy with firewood piled high on his back; a woman gliding past in a purple robe, a basket of mangoes balanced on her head; and now a Chinese man who cuts in front of them. His scowl implies they’ve no right to be there, getting in his way. He quickens his pace and the smoke from his cigarette drifts back in their faces like a parting slap. He wouldn’t be so disrespectful if he knew who she really was. Why did Abdullahi insist on her bringing Asibi? Okay, he said it would make them look more innocent but this child’s just holding her back.

Through a gap in the flyover wall, Asibi marvels at a cluster of coloured parasols below, insisting they’re giant mushrooms. Naturally, she wants to stop and look. Pulling her along is like dragging a reluctant goat to market. The straps of the empty shopping bag are too broad for Fatma’s narrow shoulders and keep sliding off. Her impatience gets the better of her. She kneels down in front of Asibi, taking hold of her arms:

‘Look, I know your father lets you get away with everything but I’m in charge of you today and you’ll do what I say. If you keep stopping to point at every little thing — listen to me!’ She grabs Asibi’s chin and pulls her face round so she has her full attention. ‘If you keep stopping and pointing like this, you’ll be snatched by the market witch. The one with the sharp, pointy teeth who lies waiting for naughty little girls like you. And, you know what she’ll do?’

Asibi swallows hard.

‘Put you in her stew and eat you for supper.’

The tears roll down Asibi’s cheeks, her mouth screws up and she starts to bawl.

‘But if you listen to me and do as you’re told, I can protect you, okay?’

Asibi nods.

‘You promise to be quiet and keep moving?’

Asibi sniffs and nods again. Her bottom lip is up; she stands still and lets Fatma wipe the tears and snot from her face. Fatma knows she’s been harsh, but there’s important work to be done and no time for catering to the whims of little girls. Abdullahi’s words are lodged in her head:

“Don’t rush, don’t look at anybody and don’t stop.”

He had spoken like a father, not the way he speaks to his men, barking commands and issuing threats. “Feel invisible, and you will be!” She’d thought he was joking when he said that, but he stared at her, letting the words sink in, and she realised he wasn’t. She should’ve known better; he never lies to her. She nodded as if she’d understood, afraid he might take back this opportunity for her to show how useful she could be to him.

Abdullahi had told her to marry Muhammed when she’d reached puberty. Muhammed’s a fierce fighter; tall and strong, but shy with her and … boring! He hardly opens his mouth when they’re alone, and he does whatever she asks. Imagine, a warrior like him in thrall to someone half his age and half his size! He could snap her in two if he wanted! She was thirteen when they married, still a girl. And still thirteen when she had Maimouna. Now she’s a woman, a wife, a mother, and, at last, a fighter! Who will they choose to blow up the market? Probably one of those schoolgirls who think they’re so high and mighty. It doesn’t matter. Once she’s done this trial run, they can choose whoever they want. She’ll have done her job, showed that she’s ready to take the next step towards being a real fighter.

They exit the flyover and have to wait while a stream of auto-rickshaws and motorbikes muscle past, stopping anywhere to put people down or pick them up. The blare of horns is so constant, she no longer hears them. She uses the break in their journey to look around. Muhammed told her the market used to be surrounded by huge mud walls with the entrance through a big arch supported by two sturdy towers. Over the years it has spilled into nearby streets, swallowing up any available space. The crowd flows predominantly in one direction which can only mean the centre of the market. She will follow it and keep walking until it thins out and she reaches the other side.

Abdullahi is a great leader. He’s promised her a phone when she completes her mission! There was no need, but it makes her happy. She hadn’t always looked up to him. After her abduction, she couldn’t speak for six days. But he’d taken a special interest in her; said she’d reminded him of his daughter whom he hardly saw anymore. He’d explained that in time she would realise how stupid her parents and all those other villagers had been and he was right. They were like sheep. She knows that now. They deserved to die. He had rescued her from all that and given her a purpose. Alhamdulillah!

The fevered conversation of Kalangu drums neutralises the rattling drone from the generators but not the smell of diesel, or the voices of traders, indignant but resigned to being pushed to the last price. Tethered goats, cattle, and camels express their own displeasure. The stink of dung and vegetables on the turn is masked by the acrid smells of smoked fish and freshly tanned leather. The brightly coloured cloth in traditional West African designs looks like it might catch fire. The old men in the election posters seem to stare down at her with disapproval but she keeps her little band moving forward, navigating the clamour with a mix of fortitude and grace. Plain grey hijabs encircle the faces of the two girls. Their black tunics brush lightly against their skinny legs as they walk between covered stalls, mostly under the shelter of the market roof but at other times in open spaces where the sun’s heat is unrelenting. Nevertheless, Fatma is surprised by a bead of sweat that drips off her nose and onto her lip. It’s hot and dusty as usual, but she has walked much further than this without tasting salt on her tongue. She hopes the fever is not returning, then remembers she is carrying the weight of two babies on her back.

Activity in the market is picking up. Sometimes they must step aside and wait for a space to clear, other times, they are brushed out of the way. People seem to be looking at them more and more, and the attention makes her uneasy. Maybe she’s imagining it. Asibi pulls on her arm and makes her stop. She looks up at her and says:

‘You’re hurting me!’

Fatma swallows hard. She’s been holding Asibi’s hand too tightly. She relaxes her grip.

‘I’m sorry.’

She’s aware of another drop running down her face. It’s not sweat this time, it’s … a tear. What is happening to her? They draw level with the market mosque. Two beggars are propped against the wall looking for eye contact with anyone passing by. A worn-out towel lies in front of them, displaying a few Naira, anxious for company. One of the beggars stares at her before nudging his companion and pointing a grubby finger at them.

Humph! Who do they think they are pointing at her? Asibi points back in response, asking loudly why the men’s legs are like balloons. It didn’t take the child long to forget about the witch, but that’s okay, someone had to put these infidels in their place. She ushers Asibi away, determined to pick up the pace. Asibi doesn’t like it, but Fatma bends down and whispers in her ear,

‘We can’t walk side by side anymore. It’s too crowded. Walk in front of me.’

They press ahead, her hand resting on Asibi’s neck and shoulder. Despite the bumping and shouting, they make progress though Fatma still feels they are standing out from the crowd too much. Fortunately in the bustle of the market, eyes don’t have time to settle. They reach a narrow intersection. People are impatient to pass and while not hesitating to push forward, make it clear they don’t appreciate being pushed from behind. The drumming is louder, but Fatma sees no drummers. It’s not drumming she’s been hearing but a throbbing in her temples that’s been getting louder the closer they get to the centre of the market. She is distracted by a wiry man in a torn white vest pushing a rusty trailer stacked precariously with cases of bottled water. He ploughs through the crowd towards them, issuing warning shouts, looking like he has no intention of stopping. People step aside without thinking. Such is the way of the market; they know he knows if he stops he will lose momentum and won’t get his load mobile again. Fatma moves back too, pulling Asibi in close. Her arms drop over Asibi’s tiny shoulders and her hands press against the little girl’s chest. The movement causes the bag to slip off Fatma’s shoulder and hang from her elbow. The strap is snagged by the wheel of the passing trailer, pulling Fatma’s arm roughly and dragging her off to one side. She cries in pain and manages to untangle her arm from the bag. She loses her balance and stumbles backwards alongside the trailer, trying to grab its rail to avoid falling on top of her baby.

This is not supposed to happen. She hears people shouting as she struggles to stay upright. She catches the fear in the man’s eyes. The wrath of the crowd will fall upon him if he injures anyone, and it will be merciless. But Fatma doesn’t fall on top of her baby. The explosion is thunderous, and she is thrust violently upwards then thrown back on the market floor like a lump of meat. She can barely see. Perhaps it is the whooshing noise in her ears that makes her think she’s in the middle of a waterfall. Or maybe, it’s the warm, pink mist of blood and water falling back to earth and caressing her face. She hears snakes hissing around her and is afraid. She cannot move. The snakes come closer, dancing around her like flames. They brush against her and her face burns. She is plunging down a deep well which she fears will lead to hell. As the final seconds of her life drain away, she thinks of Maimouna and Asibi. She thinks of her parents. She thinks of Abdullahi and Muhammed and as death engulfs her forcing the last breath from her shattered body, she knows her betrayal is pure and complete.

Chapter 2

Abdullahi surveys the chaos from his vantage point behind the unfinished breeze-block wall on a nearby rooftop. There’s little to match the intensity crammed into those few seconds between pressing the detonation command, hearing the blast of defiance, and feeling the shift of warm air on his face. The surge of energy that command releases feels like it has come directly from Allah using his body as a conduit. He watches a cloud of grey smoke billow up majestically into the empty blue sky, fascinated by the way it turns over and over into itself. Allah is expressing His approval. Below the cloud, a section of the market has been reconfigured into a jumble of collapsed stalls, bent corrugated steel roofs, burning wooden frames, and broken bodies, entangled and shrouded in dust and blood. The screaming begins. A couple of survivors make tentative steps towards the injured but most scatter. It’s time to go. There will be time to celebrate later when they watch the video. He hands the detonation phone to Muhammed. Another fighter guides the drone that has been monitoring Fatma’s every move, back to the rooftop, and packs it into a holdall. The three men are quickly down the dusty concrete stairs. They pause at the doorway for the all-clear. The engine of the builder’s truck is running, and they clamber inside. The vehicle slips quietly out of the narrow street and merges with the road. It displays no black and white identifying flag, just a paint-splattered rag, fluttering from a ladder protruding at the back. Election posters of the Governor have been pasted on the sides of the vehicle, obscuring the name of the firm to which the truck belongs.

Ten minutes later, they’ve put sufficient distance between themselves and the mayhem they’ve left behind. While retaining a watchful eye on the road ahead, they can

sit back in their seats and relax a little. They approach another market, its stalls running along the roadside. The throng of pedestrians, rickshaws and traders causes the road to narrow, and their truck slows to a stop. People cross in front and behind them as if the traffic doesn’t exist. Their truck inches forward inducing slaps on the bonnet and demands they give way. Abdullahi makes a mental note to revisit this place and make these infidels pay for their insolence. Thoughts of revenge are soon set aside as the familiar black shape of an armoured car looms up ahead. Their fingers curl round the triggers of their AK-47s, muzzles brushing the floor.

The armoured car is now six car-lengths away. Its lights flash and its claxon bellows like an angry camel and is turned off. It doesn’t seem in much of a hurry. It could bully its way through or go off-road, but it seems content to align with the traffic. Abdullahi knows these infidels fear another bomb could await them at their destination and they have every right to be fearful. He would have been glad to provide them with a special welcome, except that it would have required more time and resources and delayed their escape. No need to be greedy; too much ambition can be an enemy. This scum will remain free to poke through the devastation he has caused, looking for information they have no capacity to find and wouldn’t know what to do with if they found it. Both vehicles draw level as if for a pre-arranged meeting. He sees the sweat glistening between the rims of black berets and sunglasses. One of them glances down at their builder’s truck. While Abdullahi knows he might be better served to look away, he chooses defiance and looks back. Two metres of sticky tarmac separate deadly enemies but only one of them knows that is the case. Abdullahi and his men might be outnumbered, but they are better armed, and will be sure to strike first. More importantly their resolve is stronger. When have these infidels ever had to fight in close and battle for their lives? The policeman locks eyes with Abdullahi expecting him to be cowed, but Abdullahi returns his stare with interest. The bustle of the market and blare of car horns seem to recede even though the gaps in the side windows remain as before. Abdullahi and his men focus on their prey like hyenas. The air above both vehicles shimmers. Is it the impact of the Kano sun or the sign of another energy source mobilising?

The curiosity in the policeman’s eyes turns to suspicion but not yet to realization. A second policeman follows his comrade’s gaze. They exchange words, prompting a third to lean round from the back and peer down. Such swagger. They think they’re checking out a few workmen on their way to a building site. Men they’d love to drag out of their truck, slap around, demand papers from and relieve of any Naira they can find. But maybe they’re beginning to doubt. Abdullahi always seeks out an edge. If he is going to act it will have to be now as the element of surprise is dissolving. His men are primed, he senses their willingness for him to make the call. Half a minute is all they need, and, unlike these infidels, they will not hesitate to drive through anyone or anything blocking their path. A space opens in front of the police vehicle; its engine roars and it moves away. The sounds of the market return, and the builder’s truck moves off in turn. It is Allah’s will.

The truck leaves the road and pulls into an unremarkable side street comprised of modest houses most of which await completion. They approach the safe house. They will rest up for twenty-four hours, except for the meeting he and Muhammed will have later with Ado, the Senator’s errand boy. There is no need for the driver to honk his horn, a tall metal gate swings open, they pass through and park under a corrugated steel roof. Everyone gets out, Abdullahi issues a few commands and equipment is stored, weapons brought inside, and security checked. As soon as the door closes behind them, he bids his comrades gather round. He takes out his phone, holds it up for them to see, and plays the video footage captured by the drone. They cheer and embrace. He steps back to address them:

‘My brothers, today we have hit back hard. Alhamdulillah! The President and his security forces have told the world that Jama’atu Ahlus Sunnah lid Da’awati wal Jihadwe, is on the run. The Governor has told the people that Kano State is secure in his hands. He will have to tell them something else and they won’t believe that either. The end of times is coming. Allahu Akbar!’

‘Allahu Akbar!’ they respond, fists punching the air.

He raises his hand; they fall silent and drop to their knees. He leads them in prayer:

‘In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon His Messenger. As-salamu `alaykum wa Rahmatu Allah.’

They regain their feet.

‘Where’s the bitch?’ says Abdullahi.

‘In your room. She’s sleeping, sir.’ The boy is about fifteen, not yet ready to fight.

‘” She’s sleeping sir!” What is this, a fucking hotel? I’ll soon wake her up! Go up on the roof and keep your eyes open.’ He lets the boy run past then stands on the first stair to address his men again.

‘Muhammed, we leave at seven thirty. Make sure everything is ready. And all of you, remember this day, be thankful, be proud. Now, rest up. Tomorrow we have a long journey back … with no screaming babies or whining bitches to put up with.’

Everyone laughs apart from his second-in-command. ‘Why the face, Muhammed? Oh I see, you lost a wife and two daughters today, and it bothers you. Don’t be so fucking weak! Fatma was like a daughter to me, do I look like I’m grieving? No, because I know she’s in paradise! I’ve told you before, all of you, you must be prepared to sacrifice anything for your faith. “We belong to Allah and to Him we shall return." When it’s your time, Muhammed, Fatma will have seventy-two virgins waiting to welcome you.’

He smiles, ‘But don’t expect to join them just yet. Allah has more work for you to do here, on earth’.

‘Inch Allah,’ says Muhammed.

‘More work for all of us!’ says Abdullahi.

‘Allahu Akbar!’ his men respond.