Face-Off. Chris Karsten
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an airplane hangar. Three storeys high, it could indeed accommodate a Boeing and an Airbus, with room to spare. The shelves were filled with wholesale groceries for the chain stores, spazas and street vendors of Soweto. Below him, if he looked almost straight down, he could see the never-ending queues of shoppers with laden trolleys at the row of paypoints – fourteen cashiers, all transactions in cash.
Majid reread the message his PA had put on his desk. It was from his uncle, who could have phoned him directly, but showed his respect by leaving a message with his PA: Mullah Burki says if you can spare the time he would appreciate a visit tonight, after Isha’a.
If he could spare the time. Mullah Burki was the patriarch of the family; if he left a message requesting a visit, you made time. But of course only after Isha’a, the fifth and final prayer of the day.
Majid was thoroughly aware of the responsibility on his young shoulders. He was the anointed, the crown prince of Johannesburg’s wealthy Burki family; at thirty, MD of the EasySave Cash & Carry empire, eleven wholesale outlets countrywide.
Majid, with his MBA from Wits, would have liked to study at Harvard. In fact, he had already been accepted when – without providing a reason – the American consulate in Johannesburg had turned down his application for a study visa. No reasons were given but he and his aggrieved family believed it had everything to do with race, faith and lineage. Majid was born in Lenasia, Johannesburg, but his parents had originally lived in Pageview. His father had owned a fabric store in Fietas’ 14th Street and prayed five times a day at the green-and-white mosque in 22nd Street, near the Braamfontein cemetery, where there was a section for Muslim graves, and a maza¯r, housing the remains of a Muslim saint.
One of the questions on his visa application had concerned his father’s place of birth. Majid’s father was born in Pakistan, not South Africa – in Kanigoram, South Waziristan. He had also been required to state the date of his father’s death. After the old government’s apartheid policy had robbed his father of his store in Fietas, he had decided to return to Pakistan in 1982 because he had felt it his duty to join in the struggle against the Soviets, who were laying claim to the ancient native land of the Pashtuns in Afghanistan. His father had died there, and now the Big Satan had tried it again.
Majid had resigned himself to the situation and enrolled at Wits. Having achieved his MBA degree, he had taken over the highly profitable cash and carry business that Mullah Burki had started after the bazaar in 14th Street had closed its doors.
* * *
“Majid,” said Mullah Burki that evening in his Lenasian house, the size of a boutique hotel, with enough bedrooms for three generations, “tell me where we stand.”
They spoke Pashto here, and Majid knew his uncle wasn’t referring to their retail empire. The business was doing well, beyond all expectations. The profit made by the EasySave group was like printing your own money, because people had to eat, even in the middle of international recessions. His uncle was chairman of the EasySave board, but when he asked where they stood, he was referring to another matter. And Majid was quick on the uptake.
“I’ve got everything securely locked in my safe,” he said. “All the documents are ready and in order. We’re just waiting for Sajida and her mother.”
“When are they arriving? My memory is failing me.” Mullah Burki’s forefinger scratched his long grey beard, the light of the floor lamp glinting on his spectacles.
“In a week’s time, next Wednesday. I’ll meet them at the airport personally.”
“And the money, has it been transferred?”
“It has, just like every month.”
“How much is there at the moment?”
“The trust owns a hundred and sixty bakeries across the whole of Pakistan, from Karachi in the south to Mingora in the north, from Quetta in the west to Lahore in the east. In Islamabad and Peshawar our new corn mills are in production. Three hundred new Singer sewing machines have been bought for our clothing factories in Jacobabad and Faisalabad and Gujranwala. In Darra Adam Khel the new madrasa has opened its doors, in Makin the damage to the mosque has been repaired, in –”
“Yes, yes,” said Mullah Burki, unhooking the wire earpieces of his spectacles from behind his ears and rubbing his eyes.
Majid noted the impatience in the soft voice. He knew where the conversation was heading, but he took his time. His uncle did not want to be burdened with detail, had no interest in the micromanagement of their South African grocery empire. He wanted the bigger picture, the panoramic view. Specifically, what the mullah was interested in was their humanitarian aid in Pakistan, especially in Kanigoram, place of the Burkis. Mullah Burki wanted to know about their tribe and their family, the brothers and uncles who had stayed behind, and their wives and children, Majid’s cousins, and everyone who had died when Hakimullah’s Taliban and Yuldashev’s Uzbeks had taken shelter there, attracting bombs and death to that beautiful, fertile valley. The Pakistani armed forces, prompted by the Americans, had come looking for them and when the Pakistani soldiers were reluctant to act, the CIA had sent in their unmanned robot planes.
“Is the money there? For Reema, my brother Hassan’s widow?”
“The money is there. I was notified by the trust,” said Majid.
“And for the other widows and children whose husbands and fathers died at the cemetery?”
“They’re being compensated,” said Majid.
Mullah Burki had established the trust in Pakistan and registered it as a welfare organisation providing humanitarian aid to Muslim fugitives, also to wounded mujahideen, to the widows and orphans of Muslim martyrs, to the next of kin of Muslim prisoners held illegally in Western prisons, and for rebuilding schools, hospitals and mosques destroyed by the Western occupiers in their worldwide efforts to force Muslims into submission.
“Have you heard any further details of the attack?” asked Mullah Burki. “The reasons?”
Majid nodded. “We got reports that they were looking for Nasir Raza.”
“Help yourself to tea.” His uncle waved his hand in the direction of the tray. Majid took a cup. He sipped and peered at his uncle over the rim.
“Is Nasir back then?” asked the mullah. “I thought he left with the Uzbeks.”
“That’s what they say: no one has seen him. The Americans thought they were back, Nasir and the Uzbeks, and sent the drone.”
Mullah Burki took a sip of his tea. “Nasir is an example to others; we mustn’t forget him. His name and exploits are becoming known. He’s an example to other young men and women.”
“They’ve been looking for him since the Camp Chapman incident.”
“At Khost, was it?” asked the mullah.
Majid knew that the mullah was familiar with that incident. The courageous fedayeen Humam al-Balawi had sent seven CIA killers to hell with explosives tied around his waist when he was allowed into their base without being searched. The Americans were so gullible, they’d believed Humam was their agent.
“It’s from Chapman that the CIA directs their drone strikes to our tribal areas,” said Majid.
The arrogant Americans had never had an inkling that Humam was a double agent, but his martyrdom had shown where his deepest loyalty lay. Nasir Raza had been part of the planning and of the martyrdom video recording, the wasiyyah, during which Humam had declared to the world why he was sacrificing his life to avenge the blood of their people.
Mullah Burki had arranged for Sajida and her mother to recuperate with their relatives in Johannesburg after the shock and trauma they had suffered. But when her mother returned to her family in Kanigoram, Sajida would stay behind; here in the mullah’s house her room had already been prepared. And her documents – a South African ID and passport – were ready in Majid’s safe. They had big plans