This is the perfect way to get extra soccer practice.
Wait till everyone in the house is asleep, then sneak outside and dribble down the middle of the street like I’m doing now.
The neighbours are all asleep too so you don’t get arrested and imprisoned. Unless you make too much noise. You know, cheer your own ball tricks or describe your own footwork in a loud commentator’s voice.
I’m not doing that.
Silent skill, that’s me.
Off the foot, onto the knee, onto the head, back onto the foot.
It’s also a really good way for a person who can’t sleep to take his mind off things he’s a bit worried about. Like why Mum and Dad aren’t back yet. Out here he might be able to see if they’re in any danger. This moonlight’s almost as bright as Manchester United’s stadium with the electricity switched on.
Foot, knee, head, foot.
Hello Sir Alex Ferguson, manager of Manchester United, I didn’t see you there. A place in the Manchester United youth team? I’d be delighted. Thank you very much. You’re right, Sir Alex, that would make the government a bit embarrassed they’d tried to persecute our family.
‘Jamal, what are you doing?’
A voice, hissing at me out of the shadows.
I freeze, my legs trembling, my guts knotted. I peer into the gloom.
‘You’re playing soccer in the street,’ hisses the voice.
Relief gushes through me. ‘Mum?’ I whisper. ‘Dad?’
But it isn’t either of them. It’s Bibi. She comes towards me, eyes as big as stadium floodlights.
‘Keep your voice down,’ I whisper.
She doesn’t. ‘I saw you creeping out of the cellar,’ she says accusingly.
I sigh. That’s exactly what I hoped wouldn’t happen. That’s why I didn’t risk opening my rucksack and making a noise getting my ball. That’s why I borrowed Yusuf’s.
‘That’s Yusuf’s ball,’ says Bibi, even more accusingly.
‘I know,’ I say, wondering how I can get her back into the cellar without waking up the neighbours.
‘Where are Mum and Dad?’ she demands. Her eyes have a dangerous glint that means either tears or violence.
I explain about Mum and Dad going to warn the parents of the other kids from school.
‘They’ll be safe,’ I say. ‘They’re in disguise. They borrowed robes from Yusuf’s grandfather.’
It’s not true, but I can see it makes Bibi feel better, and in a weird way it makes me feel better too.
‘I want to play,’ says Bibi.
Before I can stop her, she flicks the ball away from my feet. I lunge at it, but she sidesteps my tackle and steers the ball down the street. She turns and dribbles towards me.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Get it from me.’
I go in with my fastest tackle, but she flips the ball over my ankle, runs round the other side of me and traps the ball under her foot.
I stare at her, half angry, half grinning. This is amazing. My sister is a soccer natural.
A wonderful thought hits me. We can do it together. We can improve our skills and impress the government and start a national team and win the hearts of all Afghans together. When the government sees how talented Bibi is, they’ll change their minds about girls playing soccer. They’ll have to.
‘Penalty shot,’ says Bibi, eyes gleaming. She steps back, hitches up her skirt, runs at the ball and boots it.
Hard.
The ball flies up the street. For a sickening second I think it’s going to smash through Mr Nasser’s one unbroken window. But it curves away from his house and sails all the way up the street.
And thumps into the door of our house.
It’s the most incredible kick I’ve seen in my life.
‘Wow,’ I whisper.
Then our house explodes.
A white flash lights up the whole village and half the desert. A roar of wind smashes into us and flings us both to the ground. I roll onto Bibi and try to cover as much of her body with mine as I can while the air rips at us and stones rain down on us. People are screaming and running out of houses.
‘Get off,’ yells Bibi. ‘You’re squashing my head.’
I roll over and peer down the street through the dust.
Our house is gone. Where it was is just a dark gap between the other houses. Rubble is lying where Dad used to park the taxi.
I stare, speechless, ears ringing, trying to take it all in.
My mouth is open and full of grit.
It was a hard kick, but it wasn’t that hard.
Then I hear engines revving. Two trucks are speeding away down the side street.
Someone is pulling me and Bibi to our feet. It’s Dad. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing hard and staring at the trucks as well.
‘Pigs,’ he hisses.
Dad hardly ever uses bad language like that. Unlike most taxi drivers he never swears at other drivers. There’s really only one thing he ever swears about. That’s how I realise what’s happened.
The government has blown up our house.