‘Overboard,’ chuckles Yusuf’s grandfather. ‘They’re saying he’s gone overboard.’
I stare at the TV, puzzled. I’ve been watching the match, but I haven’t really been thinking about it. I’ve been trying to think of a plan so we don’t have to leave our home.
On the screen, a Liverpool player is being sent off by the referee for kicking the Chelsea goalkeeper in the head. The referee is angrily showing him a red card. The crowd is booing. The commentators are talking excitedly.
It looked like an accident to me. The Liverpool striker was attempting a spectacular scissor kick and the poor Chelsea goalie’s head got in the way.
‘Overboard,’ chortles Yusuf’s grandfather, his long beard jiggling with amusement.
I wish he’d laugh a bit more quietly. Bibi’s asleep. If she wakes up and finds Mum and Dad aren’t here she could get panicked, even though they’ve just gone to warn the parents of the other kids from school. Yusuf’s grandfather’s cellar is a pretty scary place for a little kid. Specially the souvenir Simpsons tea towels from London stuck all over the walls. In Afghanistan, if a person’s skin goes yellow it means they’re probably going to die.
I glance over at Bibi. Luckily she’s still asleep. And Yusuf has dozed off on the mattress next to her.
‘Why are they saying the Liverpool player went overboard?’ I ask Yusuf’s grandfather. ‘There’s no boat there. It’s a soccer pitch.’
‘Ah,’ chuckles Yusuf’s grandfather. ‘You ask hard questions.’
That’s the problem with watching soccer on Yusuf’s grandfather’s illegal satellite TV. I don’t speak English so I can’t understand what the commentators are saying. Luckily Yusuf’s grandfather does because he lived there once.
‘In English,’ says Yusuf’s grandfather, ‘the word overboard also means to do something that is bold, wild, dangerous and daring.’
I’m not sure exactly what he means.
‘For example,’ he says, seeing my frown. ‘If a desert mouse urinates on the electrical wiring of an anti-aircraft gun, hoping to make it fire and shoot down a plane so he can see if there’s any cheese in the pilot’s lunchbox, that’s going overboard.’
Now I understand. My heart is beating faster. I stare at the screen.
‘Do you want me to take Yusuf up to his own bed?’ asks Yusuf’s grandfather. ‘So you can have the mattress?’
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m not tired. I’ll watch some more soccer if that’s OK.’
I’ve got too much to think about to go to sleep. You don’t feel like sleep when you’ve just decided to go overboard.
‘That’s fine,’ says Yusuf’s grandfather. ‘I’ll watch with you. Until your parents get back.’
The next match is Charlton Athletic fighting for survival. If they lose this game against Manchester United, they’ll be relegated out of the English Premier League and their lives will be full of shame, misery and grief.
While they play their hearts out, I carry on trying to think of a plan.
I wish I could go to the city and get the government out of bed and tell them what they’re doing to our family. How they’ve made my mum cry. How they’ve stopped me getting lino. But I can’t. I don’t even know where the government lives.
Manchester United are playing magnificently as usual, and Charlton are struggling bravely. Very bravely. They score the first goal. Their fans roar. And that’s just in the stadium. I know that all around the world other Charlton fans are watching TV and cheering and weeping and hugging each other. At this moment they’d do anything for their brave Charlton warriors.
Suddenly it hits me.
A plan.
Just as suddenly the TV picture goes fuzzy. The government has banned TV, so Yusuf’s grandfather has installed his illegal satellite dish on a wrecked military communications tower at the edge of the village where it won’t be noticed. Trouble is, the picture goes fuzzy every time there’s a sandstorm or a plane flies over or a jackal scratches itself in the desert.
Tonight I don’t care because my brain is already going overboard.
‘If I get very good at soccer,’ I say to Yusuf’s grandfather, ‘do you think the government will forgive Mum and Dad?’
Yusuf’s grandfather looks at me. I can see he’s not sure what I’m on about.
‘If a person gets really good at soccer,’ I say, ‘so good that he inspires the government to start a national team, so good that he helps them do really well in the World Cup, do you think the government would stop being cross with that person’s parents even if that person’s parents had been running an illegal school?’
Yusuf’s grandfather stares at me for a long time.
‘It wouldn’t matter if they stayed a bit cross,’ I say after a while, ‘as long as they let that family live in their own village without bullying them.’
Yusuf’s grandfather reaches across and grips my shoulder. He’s never done that before.
‘Jamal,’ he says, his voice sort of thick. ‘You are a good boy. But things are very difficult for us. Our people are not liked by many of the other people in this country. This has been going on for hundreds of years.’
I nod. Mum taught us this in school. Yusuf’s grandfather knows a lot for a person whose TV only picks up the sports channel.
‘Our problems are many,’ says Yusuf’s grandfather. ‘They started long before this government.’
A tear is rolling down his cheek into his beard.
I stare at him and suddenly I realise just how important my plan is. If I can become the star of the Afghanistan national soccer team, perhaps that’ll make all of us more popular, not just me and Mum and Dad and Bibi. Perhaps none of us will ever be threatened or bullied or killed again, not by the government or anybody.
It’s a good plan.
A really good plan.
But to make it work I need practice.