XII.
AL-FASHIR, SUDAN
21 DECEMBER 2013
0701 HOURS

Taanish looked over his shoulder to make sure that Mujeeb wasn’t aiming the gun at someone behind him. Only the Toyota and a corpse lay there. Taanish was certain now; Mujeeb was going to shoot him.

“Mujeeb…” Taanish said.

“I’m sorry, Taanish. This is wrong. We’re killing innocent people. It’s time this stopped.”

“Mujeeb…” Taanish repeated.

“Don’t you get it? Jubo? We just massacred innocent people there for no reason.”

Taanish was furious. “You think this is for no reason? Look around you. These people killed friends of ours. We had to take the damned city back from them. That’s why we had to kill them.”

“They did it because we did it first. We slaughtered them long before they did anything to us.” Mujeeb held the TAR-21. His mind was racing. He hoped that Taanish’s Uzis weren’t hidden somewhere nearby. He hoped no one else would kill him. He hoped the TAR-21 wouldn’t jam. Mujeeb was scared, but also a bit downcast. Taanish Jaabir had always been an idol to him. They had known each other for years. He was an idol, but more importantly, he was a friend. When Mujeeb’s mother died, Taanish was there for him. Mujeeb remembered all that, but still he could not drop the gun. Janjaweed men gathered around the steps of the Silver Mosque. They debated trying to stop Mujeeb, but one man cried, “No, let them sort it out.”

This was clearly just a fight to them. A few even joked about who would win. Is that all we are to these people? Just dogs ready to fight? A gunshot rang out from a nearby street. A black rebel with a machete ran toward Taanish. Mujeeb aimed and killed the rebel.

Taanish took the chance. He charged toward Mujeeb, and kicked the gun out of his hand. Mujeeb fell back onto the steps. The fight was on.

What is the point of this? Taanish is the President of Sudan, if he dies some other monster will be put in his place and I’ll be executed. But whatever, that’s for the future. I started a fight; it’s time to prove myself. Here and now.

Mujeeb felt the blow of Taanish’s shoe against his stomach. He lay in the fetal position. Taanish spoke.

“Is it that easy? Are you that much of a weakling?” Taanish asked. Mujeeb grabbed the commander’s ankle, pulled and twisted it. Taanish tried to wiggle his foot out, but fell onto the steps himself. Now Mujeeb had the advantage; he was on a higher step. He rolled down, and his back landed on Taanish. He then hit Taanish’s chest with his elbows. The commander threw his body onto the street. Taanish stood up, and ran toward Mujeeb like one of those American football players he saw on TV sometimes. Mujeeb ran and jumped into the bed of the truck. He stood on the edge and kicked Taanish in the face. Taanish’s upper half bent back, and everyone saw that his nose had been broken. And I heard the crack. The Janjaweed were cheering this fistfight on. A few other civilians, some black, some Arab, came to watch as well.

Mujeeb looked around him. He grinned, knowing he’d dealt Taanish a major blow. He jumped down from the Toyota, and tried to punch Taanish.

Taanish was too fast, catching Mujeeb’s fist in his hand. Mujeeb tried again with the other hand, and Taanish deflected that one was his other hand. He then hit Mujeeb with his open palm. I recall seeing that this was as effective as a fist. I did spend a bit of time at a martial arts school in France. Mujeeb had a bruise on his chest. But Mujeeb went for the time-honored move, kicking Taanish between the legs. He got a direct hit, and Taanish cursed. Mujeeb then punched him in the cheek, and heard his jaw break. I’ve broken your nose and your jaw. You’ve yet to break anything of mine. I’m winning. The men were cheering, their cheers switching from “TAANISH!” to “MUJEEB” depending on who was getting the upper hand.

The fight wasn’t over. Taanish turned around, and went for the TAR-21, which was lying in the gutter near the mosque. Mujeeb ran after him, and grabbed an AK-47. It was empty, so Mujeeb used the shoulder strap and wrapped it around Taanish’s neck. Mujeeb turned the gun in a circle, choking Taanish.

Mujeeb felt certain that Taanish was about to pass out. He heard choking noises, but Taanish bent down, and grabbed Mujeeb. He threw Mujeeb over him, and onto the ground in front of him. He took the AK-47, and pulled the trigger. The click told him all he needed to know. Damn empty gun. Mujeeb realized the TAR-21 was under his leg. He kicked it up onto his leg, and then kicked upward. The gun landed in his hand, and he spun around and pulled the trigger.

He hit Taanish in the leg. Blood spurted out. He fired again, and severed Taanish’s index finger. Then came a gunshot from above and a hammer-blow to the thigh. I’ve been shot, but not by Taanish. One of the Janjaweed had shot Mujeeb with a pistol. Mujeeb looked up, and the gunman yelled.

“You shot him! I shoot you! You’re both wounded now, makes the fight fair again!” Jackass. Mujeeb tried to stand up, and found it almost impossible with the blood pouring out of his thigh. His pants were soaked with sweat and blood, and the dust was making his clothes dirty. Taanish stumbled to the truck, and pulled out his QSZ-92. He aimed it at Mujeeb.

“Don’t even think about it!” The gunman from above yelled. “That isn’t fair!” Mujeeb understood now. They weren’t allowed to use the guns; otherwise they’d both be mowed down by the bloodthirsty Janjaweed. These people don’t care who wins this fight. They don’t care about what they are doing. They don’t even care that we both hold authority over them. They just want a spectacle.

Well, I’ll give them what they want.

Taanish made an obscene gesture at the gunman, much to everyone’s delight. But even better, he dropped the pistol, realizing it would be hard to pull the trigger with no index finger. He could just use his left hand, but I imagine it wouldn’t be a good idea to tell him that.

Mujeeb walked closer to Taanish. Taanish spat up blood. He spit it into the ground, and punched Mujeeb in the stomach. Despite his wounds, the punch was a hard one. Mujeeb felt nauseous. Taanish then pushed him onto the ground, and pulled out the QSZ-92. The gunman above yelled a curse, but Taanish fired a shot at the man, hitting him in the shoulder. He cursed again, and Mujeeb heard the man above drop the gun.

Mujeeb knew he was dead. He raised his head toward the sky, and what he saw gave him peace. Salaam.

Above in the sky was the white vapor trail of what looked like an airplane. But Mujeeb knew better.

“Before you kill me, Taanish, I want to ask you something.” Taanish looked at him with a sadistic grin.

“Fair enough.” Taanish said. “What do you want to know?”

“What time is it?” A sudden shaking came. It felt like a small earthquake. The crowd looked around. Mujeeb looked around, and spoke again. “Salaam, friend.” That was the last Mujeeb, or Taanish, or the wounded gunman above, or anyone within thirty miles of the center of al-Fashir knew.

It is said in the Quran that those who show mercy will be shown mercy, and that those who show no mercy will be shown no mercy. But today, all, merciful or not, would be shown no mercy.