Racial Union

Kandahar is relatively big province in Afghanistan. Afghanistan is a nation everybody that is alive in this world knows. Yeah, I said if you are alive for if not for the pandemic, most of us don’t really know what is going on in our families let alone our neighborhood, nation and the world.

I recall my days in service when they used to organize those Mr. and Mrs. camp like they call the competition.

It is modelled after the miss world pageant where the organizers ask questions as braw and brain test to determine who is something outside muscle and all face.

It happened that one of the contestant who was flat chested was the one who finished top on this occasion to the disapproval of the female fans. The guy was able to answer questions about Afghanistan directed to them:

“What is the capital of Afghanistan?” 

He was the only one that were able to answer it. All the machos and the beauties were guessing and guessing wrongly and the flat chested kept raising hands like kids and the organizers has to give him chance.

“Kabul” he blurted out. 

They kept directing Afghanistan related questions and he kept getting them right that the organizers has no choice but to hand him number one position.

You see why I said everyone who is alive knew about that country. Even the old folks in my interior village knew that country. They are alive more the muscles and faces strutting around in pants.

I am not here to tell you about the war or the Taliban who has this ingenious way of being in the news always. I am here to tell you about a girl, one beautiful creature that came from that God forsaken nation by name Kajiha.

She is from the family of 20 and her mother being the 3rd wife of a poor cocaine hustling farmer.

Kajiha was into schooling while Americans were there. It is a miracle that it was even the dad that put her there. Unheard of incident. The father figured out the importance of American language if he is to breakthrough while they were there. So he did his calculation well and Kajiha landed in school. The father was smart enough not to allow her near the military base in Kandahar with cocaine for rumours circulating around was enough to deter any sensible father and girl away from there no matter the money coming from there.

The father channeled her towards the capital to meet the dealers coming from Pakistan and other far Eastern countries. The father decided that it was safer to deal with civilian foreigners in Kabul than the military in Kandahar that would at times not pay fully and still force the girls leg wide open.

She is first of the seven siblings from the mother. 3 boys and 4 girls. In that family, the father was keen on hijabs, Americans or no Americans.

“It was improper dressings that led to those girls raped by the infidels” he warned.

So Kajiha was always in hijabs 24 hours each day.

Anytime she makes a trip to the capital, she usually packed her goods on her body and cover them with oversized hijabs. She noticed early on that the soldiers weren’t the only problems the dealers pass through. Kidnapping, rape and robbery from the local guys too.

Their males mainly illiterate and out of authority per say from the Americans presence and out of money resorted to ambushes, robbery to make ends meet. 

Even the male dealers resorted to the tactics Kajiha is using now. Body packing and oversized clothes. At times with military escort, things moves smoothly but without it is always based on luck. If the military suspecting gun and bomb being smuggle into the capital and decides to search and found the drug, it is 50-50 sharing formula always.

Kajiha has been into the capital business for more than 8 months before an African man that comes from Pakistan each month met her. With other girls that comes from other provinces, they usually pool resource and hire a room or more for themselves.

The African man on noticing that Kajiha don’t have phone had bought one for her. I knew you are running mad with all manners of imagination, it has nothing to do with courting or pleasure. It was strictly business. The man Mr. Ibu had been dealing with kajiha for months without seeing her face even for once let alone knowing the name.

The woman always dresses like a masquerades. Mr. Ibu on his part weren’t interested in any other thing outside businesses. Anytime he is in Afghanistan, he like to hurry anything he is into and return to Pakistan. Afghanistan is never secure in his estimation.

The old lady that supplies him suddenly stopped coming and the sign language he uses with her makes transaction longer. She is really old.

When he first met the masquerade, he had started with sign language and was surprised to find out that the lady can speak English 65 percent. Like him, the lady was always in a hurry to see things through and get the hell out of the place.

Security is not right but jealousy is. Once goods and money change hands, the girl’s back is already has way gone. He initially was skeptical about her speed thinking that the girl was out to play him. Some mix all manners of things with the drug and sell to people. 50 percent of your money gone, customers lost. The business is risky one. But for months, Mr. Ibu has not encountered any problem. Her goods were always in top order and transactions easier and quicker.

He decided on one of his trip that the lady was too good to loss. He bought phone for her, gave her money to buy line and left his number with the lady and explaining it was to let her know in advance when he would come.

Just three days after returning to Pakistan, his phone ringed. He picked the call:

“ Ah, is that you chocolate. It is me Kajiha calling. Do you see my number?”

“ Oh, Afghan lady?”

“ Yeah, Kajiha Afghan lady, you see my number?”

“ Yes, it appeared. Do you say Kajiha?”

“ Yes, chocolate, that is my name”

Mr. Ibu chuckled. Chocolate. Just like paki people. Every black person is chocolate. He was imagining the face from the voice. Since he started dealing with her, he has never seen her face or shape. Always on over sized hijab from head to toe.

“well, my name is Mr. Ibu”

“ Mr. ifo”

“ No, I-b-u not Ifo”

“ Oh, Mr. Ibu, thanks for the gift” 

“Ah, my pleasure”

Their next three trip the format remained the same. Fast and furious. No small, no big talks. Just exchange of items. On the fourth trip, Mr. Ibu waited for his masquerade as usual, he was surprised to see one beautiful girl of about 19 or 20 heading his way, had it been that the voice wasn’t the same with that of the masquerade, he would have cleared from there. In his line of business, if you has sense, you keep pleasure and beautiful girls away from you.

“ Shit, I can believe you are Kajiha. The same lady I had been dealing with for months?”

“Yeah, Mr. Ibu. Kajiha”

“What is wrong, where is your hijab?”

“ In the hotel”

“Hotel?, You stay in a hotel?. I thought you come direct from your house”

“ My house?, I come here from Kandahar”

“Kandahar, another province?”

“ Sure. 6 hours by bus” 

Both were talking and smiling for about three minutes, they both forgot their business modus operandi of no loitering and no talking.

Two more trips later, decision of visiting Pakistan to see him was reached, plans and direction mapped out well. The girl had smartly taught her immediate younger brother how to received remittance from their local bank that service the locals and military. 

She never for once mentioned to her family that her customer is an African man let alone the plan of visiting Pakistan for him. She told the father it was to break new grounds for higher returns and the father agreed.

A month later after terminating call back home for about two weeks early, the father sent his son to go look for her.

On getting to Islamabad with the girl picture and walking around for seven days with the pictures showing people, it was by luck that one African heard him speaking Urdu and mentioning Kajiha and Afghanistan and paid attention.

“ Can I see the picture please?” the African demanded.

After eyeing the picture for a second, he told the boy that the girl is in Nigeria with her husband. He narrated how the girl got pregnant and being afraid of the father followed Mr. Ibu to Nigeria.

“She got married last week” the African told him.

He connected him to Mr. Ibu's friend from whom he collected the number and on hearing his sister’s voice, turned red with anger that lasted for days before returning to Afghanistan.