For Blood And Country

February 19, 2014 - KHALID

I was aroused by the stopping of the truck once more which made it the second time in the past half hour. I knew I couldn’t fall asleep as my eyes were still closed, because every major change in the smooth movement of the truck disturbed me – and there was a lot of that. If the driver wasn't swerving to avoid potholes, he was moving from a tarred road to an un-tarred one. Even as I was trying to rest my eyes and failing I was still alert to some extent. Jack Robinson, one of my instructors used to say that life was a mission itself, and more difficult than anything we would have to go through at the farm – he was right. Every mission I had gone on was different from the last and it was intriguing as well as terrifying but I'm kind of addicted to that rush of blood like everyone else in my line of work. When my supervisor said he noticed that of all the agents under him, I stood out because I had mastered the art of persuasion and reverse psychology – which were important tools in the field, he was partially right. My power of persuasion was not something I learned along the way, it was more of an inbuilt talent and everywhere I went people smart enough always realised it after they had fallen prey of it once or twice.

Even before opening my eyes I knew we had been stopped by border patrol. I heard them exchange pleasantries with the driver in Hausa, which I don't speak much of it even though I was born in Jos, a northern state in Nigeria, but could still pick up a few words. They started speaking in Hausa, most of which I didn't understand until the driver's companion nudged my elbow. I opened my eyes and saw two men, one on either side of the truck looking at me.

The one by the driver's side said something to me in Hausa. "I'm sorry, I don't really speak Hausa." I said trying to sound polite.

"What is your name?"

"Khalid." I said

"What is your business in Nigeria?" Before I could respond the driver said something again in Hausa and then they started arguing as I watched with lack of interest. Then the driver put his hand in his pocket, counted four one thousand naira notes and gave it to the man. I felt numb and fatigue rocked my body as I shifted in my seat between the driver and his companion. I was growing impatient as the man wasted our time but I contained my agitation.

After what seemed like an endless journey from Turkey to Libya through the Mediterranean Sea, I couldn't wait to sleep on a real bed on land for a few hours and have a proper meal. When the man finally told us to go, I leaned back my head and heaved a sigh. Straight to Bama, Finally, I thought as I closed my eyes again.

As the truck rolled into a workshop about an hour later, I opened my eyes with relief. The driver parked well inside the shop and the three of us got down. I stretched and bent and bones cracked in different places as they got back in position.

"Salama alaikum." I turned around and saw a slightly built man probably in his mid-forties smiling at me. He had a light brown Jalabiya and a Takiyah on, with his praying beads still in his hands. He must have just concluded his morning prayers, which puts the time around six, I noted out of habit.

"Walaikum salaam." I said bowing my head. I noticed that my pants were stained in different spots but I couldn't care less at that point.

"Welcome to Nigeria," the man said, "Come, let me show you the bathroom. You wash up and then we talk." His Hausa accent was strong, but his English was surprisingly good. Growing up as a kid in Jos surrounded by native Hausa men, I remembered most of them were farmers of sort or herdsmen and didn't care much about education. Only few of them did, and those few went ahead to become politicians and military men who were either in the hem of affairs of the nation through election or coup before the time of democracy. One of those few that went into politics was my father. He studied law in the University of Zaria but went into politics shortly after he met my mother, a mixed race nurse in a General Hospital in Kaduna at the time. As you could only find few learned Hausa men at the time, you would find even fewer female Hausa nurses, so you could say I was lucky to be the first child of such educated people in the north at the time. Years later, my uncle would tell me how my father's involvement in politics became a real problem between him and my mother before she finally accepted that he wasn't going to leave politics. Politics was a deadly game but my father knew just how to play it. I was watching one of his interviews I loved so much on the internet one day and I remembered the day of the interview, how my mother and sister and I sat in front of our black-and-white television and watching him speak fluently. I didn’t understand what he was saying then but I was so proud of him that I would imitate his hand gestures when I spoke and told anyone who cared to listen that I wanted to be a lawyer like my father when I grew up. It was one of the things that saw me through law school years later. A lot must have changed since I left Nigeria because the man before me didn't look like a politician or a military man yet he spoke good English.

We entered through a metal door into a hallway that linked the workshop to the house and took a right turn. There was a room to my right and inside I saw a kid rolling a praying mat. He couldn't be older than twelve. The man led me down to another door and motioned to me to go in.

"Thank you." I said bowing again as I went in.

"We barely have electricity but that's okay, we have enough lamps and we are used to bathing with cold water." He said standing at the entrance of the bathroom.

"It's okay, the cold water would do just fine, na gode," I said.

"Ah, you speak Hausa!" he smiled revealing a well-set but slightly brown teeth, from chewing kola nut, perhaps.

"Not really, just the basics."

As he turned to leave, I felt my body relax. I turned on the tap and began to clean up.

The events of the past month seemed a bit foggy now even though I had spent the better part of the time replaying it in my mind. When I left the US for Turkey in my uncle's private jet, which was the last time I had a decent meal and a half-decent sleep, I knew my journey would be fagging, but no amount of training could have prepared me for what I had gone through in Turkey and what I knew was still to come. I had been careful to speak less and only when important, that way I wouldn't say what I shouldn't, but then I had to watch so as not to be too quiet before people started asking who the quiet guy was. Looking at my reflection in the mirror now, I looked a bit worn but I knew it was only going to get worse through my stay in Nigeria.

The kid I saw earlier led me to a waiting car when I was done. I could see the surrounding clearly as it was now daylight. The house wasn't painted and had no electrical pole bringing light to it but there were lightbulbs inside and outside the house. The kid entered the backseat of the car with my duffel while I sat in front. The driver who looked a few years older than the kid started the car and headed west. We drove in silence for a while before he entered through the gate of what used to be a school and parked the car in front of a bungalow similar to the one we just came from. I knew we must be at the group's base.

"Make I show you your room." The kid said in Pidgin English.

"Where's the man that met me earlier?" I asked.

"Oga dey busy now." He said pointing to the building we were in front of.

We went into another building to the right of the first and as I began to wonder where everyone was I started hearing murmurs, coming from different rooms in the building. The kid led me to a room down the hall. Inside, there were three bunks and four faces looked up at me as I entered. The kid dropped my bag at the entrance and disappeared back the way we came. "Ina kwana." I said. They grunted responses and got back to whatever they were doing before I entered. A particular scrawny man who looked timid motioned to me to come. I picked up my duffel and approached him by the bunk. He was lying down on the lower bunk bed when I entered and as I approached he climbed on to the top.

"My. Name. Taofeek." He struggled to say.

I said my name was Khalid and extended my hand. He shook it and pointed to the lower bunk and said, "Sleep. Here."

"Thank you." I said and placed my bag on the bed. I had put my Deagle between my clothes in the bottom of the bag, but my Karambit knife was still under my belt. I got the knife as a gift when I was in Turkey. The leader that gave me had said I should swear to him that I would let it taste more infidel blood when I got to Nigeria. I had sworn. You should know I don't believe in things like that which was why I didn't think twice about it before I swore.

I brought out my Quran and placed it at the head of the bed, beside the pillow. I could feel the men's eyes on me but I ignored them and went on to put a show for them. Next I put my tesbiu around my wrist and then down on the Quran. When I was done Taofeek offered to walk with me to the dining room.

It was more like a prison mess hall and there were seventeen to twenty men there from my quick estimate. Taofeek and I sat toward the far end so I could observe everyone and know my new camp mates, most of whom were Hausas but from what I was told, some were from neighbouring countries. One of the CIA agents undercover in an Al Qaeda cell in Turkey – he was the one who vouched for me – had sent to us that they got a news about a retreat to hold in Nigeria by the Boko Haram group. Men who had proven to be true jihadist and are willing to help with the war, were called to join in the retreat tagged "Brothers of the Faith".

"Where you come from." Taofeek asked as we waited to be addressed by the leader of the base.

"I'm from Nigeria, but grew up in America." I said.

"Why?" He asked.

"My family was killed when I was young so my uncle took me out of here to live with him and his family there." I explained.

"Ah." He said, "Me too, my wife killed by army."

"I'm sorry." I said understandingly. That must explain why he is here. Even though most people joined fights like this because they are brainwashed sociopaths, some joined because of the tragedy they had been forced to live through and someone was takin advantage of that to use them to fight jihad. And that had helped Boko Haram, for instance expand their operations to neighbouring countries such as Chad and at the rate they were going it won't take long for them to terrorise the whole of Africa just like Al-Qaeda is doing all over the world.

Toward the front of the hall a man caught my attention. He was seated, facing the rest of us. I asked Taofeek who he was and he said he was Bello, the jagaba's assistant. There were Boko Haram bases scattered all over Borno State and leaders of the strong bases were selected by Shekau himself. Everyone in the sect knew this. This jagaba was one of them. Taofeek said he had military background and that was why he was chosen to head this base. After a while, a man entered the hall and silence fell on the room while he stood there and assessed the small crowd. I recognised him immediately as Major Dauda Gandoki. Dauda was ex-military and was known to be a ruthless tactician back in the day. Now, he just looked like an old man in khaki, but you could still see it in the way he walked and stood that the old man was still agile. It explained why he was chosen to head the base.

"You are all welcome. You have all been chosen because you've proved that you are faithful brothers." He began to say. I noticed he spoke with his mouth slightly twisted to the left and there was a low scar underneath his lower lip; it looked like it was a deep wound and it had been stitched. The last that was heard of Dauda before now was that he was in prison in Bauchi until the prison break where over hundred known Boko Haram members escaped along with other inmates. Dauda must have escaped then too. Hell, it was possible he was the reason for the prison break.

"We are at war," he was saying. "We have to bring down those that don't want to heed the preaching and teachings of the Holy Prophet, and we shall, Insha Allah." The men nodded in response; I nodded too. "That's why you are all here, to learn the truth hidden in the prophet's words that most people don't know or have ignored. This will help you understand better what must be done and why it must be. Allah zaya saka maku da alheri."

After the exaltation and the meal was served, a guard approached me that the jagaba wanted to see me in his office. He then led the way back to the building I had alighted in front of. The room was shabby and the wooden window was supported with pebble to keep it open as the morning light streamed in. The man who greeted when I arrived was in the room along with Major, who offered me a seat.

"It is good to have you here among us. But we run things differently here and I would like you to adhere strictly to whatever rules you are given," he said and waited for a sign to show that I understood what he was saying, then he continued, "You've met malami earlier. Get to know your roommates as you will be learning, praying and practicing together. You are the last person to arrive, so now we can start fully."

"How long before I'm allowed to go out?" I asked.

"You will learn how things are done here and you will learn to the letter before you are allowed to leave here. Even then, you will only do as you are told and nothing more. For you to be here with us, you will not digress from the rules we give you." He said sternly. "We can't afford any more mistakes. Do you understand?"

I said I did and asked, "when does my training start then?"

"It has already started." He said getting up with a puzzled expression, like I was dumb or something. I got up too, thanked him and went out for my first lesson.