“‘Good God, who are you?’
“‘I am Munkir,’ said the first. ‘And he is Nakir.’
“Then he added, with authority:
“‘You must have heard of us. At your age, you certainly should have. We are the two angels who visit a dead person during the first night he spends in the grave in order to draw up the balance sheet of everything he has done on earth.’
“‘So why have you come? Can't you see I am not dead? Or do you want to tangle with me? I am a boxer, and in all of Alep and beyond, and even in Palmyra people know the force of my fists.’
“‘Do not be angry, brave boxer,’ said Munkir in a sincerely sorry voice. ‘There must be some mistake. Accept our apology.’
“And Nakir apologized sincerely to him, too. Then they both walked towards the door.
“‘Where are you going?’ cried the man, blocking their way.
“‘Much work still awaits us,’ answered Munkir.
“‘What about my eggs? Who's going to reimburse me for them?’
“‘Well, you see…’ stammered Nakir.
“‘It is quite simple. Pay me,’ suggested the hungry man.
“Munkir held up his arms:
“‘Search our pockets; we possess nothing. Nothing earthly, at least.’
“The man refused to let them go. He did not want to remain without food because of a mistake other people had committed, even if they were well-intentioned.
“‘Be reasonable, we have no money,’ begged Nakir.
“‘We could help you out a bit on Judgment Day,’ added Munkir.
“‘By overlooking some of your bad deeds,’ said Nakir.
“The man thought for half a minute and then reluctantly accepted. He pointed a firm forefinger at the angels:
“‘You give me your word as men?’
“The angels fluttered their wings in sign of protest.
“The man hastened to correct himself:
“‘I meant, your word as angels!’
“And the angels nodded and slipped away.”
1. Koranic school. — Translators’ note
15. BASHIR BINLADEN
CIVILIANS, they not happy with us cause of the patriotic contribution. The goverment, it put 27 percent of pay direct into its pocket to support the war. So goverment employees, they look at us mean. Me, I don't agree. It's not cause of draftees you got war they call civil. It's war that called up draftees. So let's get serious and not put the cart before the cow, right? And then, all the money they get don't go to draftees; first it go into the big guys’ pockets. Proof is, they all build big villa-chateaus like the president. Even goverment employee who's insignificant (that, estremely good word even), he wants a little villa-chateau same as big chief of the Republic. Me I don't give a shit about tears of lazybone employees, if they not happy they can go knock their head against the wall. Or else revolt, but that, I don't think so, cause of khat. Khat make you talk-talk, dream-dream, and then zero in the brainbox. Khat, it put body energy to sleep. Even men's thing there, it floppy like old chewed-chewed gum. So revolt not around the corner I'm telling you.
Aïdid, he don't agree with me. He say, revolution, it can come tomorrow. In Somalia, they kicked out Siyad Barre and they graze khat too but hey, less than Djibouti. Djibouti, great grazing champs after Yemenites. Yemenites, they close their eyes. They graze, graze, an graze. Sleep flee the eyes of Yemenites. Sleep forgot there are Yemenites on our nice little planet. After Yemenites, me I say second Djibouti, third Somalia, fourth Ethiopians. But Habashis don't graze, see, they drink buna* in the daytime and taji* at night. Aïdid no dope. He got a point. We can revolt like Somalians too, but wait, you gotta know how to stop a war. In Mogadishu, the asshole generals like Aïdid (not my buddy, the real chief who screwed the Americans and filmed American corpse pulled by kids and dragged all over town with women whooping — shame, for braggy Americans an Clinton!) and consorts, they been fighting for years. Not a good idea to do that too-too much here at home. Nice little revolt to correct things, OK. Anyways, it's all over for the asshole general of police, the one sleeping presently in the sinister Gabode prison. Next time it'll work, inshallah. And me, I'll have something to do with that business-there. But that still confidential top military secret.
16. AWALEH
LET'S NOT FORGET that we never accepted the domination of the colonizers. Even when faced with a fait accompli and the law of the strongest, we resisted silently, secretly.
Luckily, we had enough space to fall back on, unlike countries with greater population density like Burundi or Rwanda, where the Catholic church recorded its highest evangelization scores in the world. We could retreat into the brush, unseen and unheard. And above all, no official papers. Thus, what seemed to be the most generous acts of the administration, like the vaccination campaigns, were ignored if not massively rejected. Villages, schools, or cities — we rejected them. We preferred our rustic life.
But as time went on, those of us who had settled in little towns along the Djibouti-Addis Ababa railroad line got caught up in the game and first sent a little boy, some little orphan, to their school just out of curiosity. Then the youngest boy of the family, then the middle son, and finally the eldest, the keeper of the flock. But what could the children be doing all day? ventured the most skeptical. Faithful as the evening stars, they went to the same place every day, remaining seated, filling out little spiral notebooks with the district chief's stamp on them, and came back a few years later with a salary, without breaking their backs. Their fathers immediately opened up a store. From then on, they would rent out the donkey they used to lend. Little by little, they cut themselves off from their clan, spoke about their ancestors for no good reason, and were reluctant to give out alms. They shut themselves off from the others and saw only people like themselves, or passing foreigners like the nurse or the stationmaster, French from France or Greeks. And finally the truck driver replaced the camel driver, already threatened by the train.
17. ABDO-JULIEN
IF WE ARE TO BELIEVE Grandfather, the Moon is even rounder in the neighbor's sky, the grass always cooler in the field next door. Be that as it may, you mustn't run the risk of getting your throat cut by the sabers of the madmen who belch out their sayings and skim the city. They have forgotten the injunction the Angel gave the Prophet in a cave on Mount Hira. It said: “Iqrah! Recite!” From this verb comes the word Koran, recitation. At that time, reading, or recitation, was something very different from the present droning of the Word weakened by narrow minds, often bearded. Iqrah, recite and think by yourself, expand your knowledge; seek, in the bottom of your heart, the path that leads to The Unique. According to Muslim tradition, the revelation of the Koran by the archangel Djibril was a long ordeal — they seem to have forgotten that these days — constant, but painful and fragmented, scaled up over more than twenty-three stations with new additions, adjustments, and successive corrections. That long quest, the goal of a whole life, bears its beginnings and endings within it. “Here, Adam remembers the dust of his clay,” says the poet Mahmoud Darwish. Who, better than the poet, can rise to the divine? Certainly not the shouters who claim that monopoly for themselves. “As for poets, they are followed only by those who have lost their way. Seest thou not that they stray distracted in every valley? And that they say what they do not do?” (the Koran).