He paced the house, smoking, peering out the window, cleaning his gun, loading and loading it again.
Twice, he fired his weapon into the street claiming he'd seen someone trying to climb the wall.
“They're forcing young boys to join,” he said. “The Mujahideen are. In plain daylight, at gunpoint. They drag boys right off the streets.”
“And when soldiers from a rival militia capture these boys, they torture them.”
“I heard they electrocute them—it's what I heard—that they crush their balls with pliers.”
“They make the boys lead them to their homes. Then they break in, kill their fathers, rape their sisters and mothers.”
He waved his gun over his head. “Let's see them try to break into my house. I'll crush their balls! I'll blow their heads off!”
“Do you know how lucky you two are to have a man who's not afraid of Shaitan himself?”
He looked down at the ground, noticed Aziza at his feet. “Get off my heels!” he snapped, making a shooing motion with his gun.
“Stop following me! And you can stop twirling your wrists like that. I'm not picking you up. Go on! Go on before you get stepped on.”
Aziza flinched. She crawled back to Mariam, looking bruised and confused.
In Mariam's lap, she sucked her thumb cheerlessly and watched Rasheed in a sullen, pensive way.
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