I wake up.
My neck is stiff and my eyes hurt in the sunlight and I’ve got breadcrumbs stuck to my face.
I’m still on the floor of the taxi. Bibi is asleep on the back seat. Her head is on her arm and she’s dribbling. I gently wipe the dribble off her chin with my sleeve. It’s what Mum would do.
I kneel up and peer out the window.
Dad is steering the taxi off the road. We bump over some potholes and stop under a row of trees.
‘Are we there yet?’ says Bibi sleepily.
I hope not.
In the distance, past the trees, I can see the roofs of city buildings. I don’t know much about city buildings because I’ve only been to the city twice in my life, but I do know one thing. City buildings often have the government in them.
‘Good morning, you two,’ says Dad.
‘Is Mum here?’ I ask anxiously.
Dad takes a moment to answer.
‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘She’ll be along a bit later.’
‘How much later?’ says Bibi.
Just for a second I think Dad is going to lose his temper. The tops of his ears go pink, which is always a dangerous sign for certain members of this family. But he just swallows and looks determined.
‘I’m not sure exactly what time she’ll be here,’ he says. ‘But she will. I promise.’
That’s all I need to hear. In our family we always keep promises. Mum’s probably getting a lift from one of the other school families. Mussa’s parents have got a motorbike.
We all get out and stretch our legs.
I glance up at the trees. Their fronds are rustling in the breeze. I think how lucky city people are. Living in the country we don’t have trees.
Except, I see now, these aren’t real trees. They’re actually light poles with huge straggling bunches of tangled cassette tape hanging off them. In among the flapping brown strands I can see empty music cassettes. I know what they are because Yusuf’s grandfather has some. He loves Dolly Parton.
Dad sees me looking.
‘Tape trees,’ he says. ‘The government hates music, so they confiscate tapes from motorists and chuck them up there as a warning.’
Dad stares up at the ruined tapes. For a moment I think he’s going to climb up and rescue them, but he doesn’t.
‘That’s why I taught you to whistle,’ he says. ‘So you can annoy the government whenever you want.’
I give Dad a grin. He tries to grin back but his eyes won’t go along with it. Poor thing. He’s been awake all night.
Early morning traffic zooms past us towards the city. Suddenly I have a scary thought. What if a passing government employee from the illegal schools department recognises Dad?
I try to stand between him and the road.
‘Come on,’ says Dad. ‘Let’s get you two settled down.’
I’m not sure what he means. He grabs the bags from the taxi and leads us through the tape trees to an abandoned shop. I can tell it’s a shop from the big faded Coke and Fanta signs on the front. Dad has told me about the days before fizzy drinks were banned.
The shop door is hanging off and inside it’s a bit messy. On the floor are old campfires that have gone out. And tattered pieces of cardboard. The type that people without houses sometimes sleep on.
‘Sorry it’s not cleaner,’ says Dad. ‘But you’ll be safe here till I get back.’
I stare at Dad. ‘Are you leaving us here?’ I say.
‘You’re not,’ says Bibi, outraged. ‘You’re not leaving us here.’
Dad hugs us both. It almost feels like he’s more scared than we are.
‘I’ve got to go and pick Mum up,’ he says. ‘It’s better if you two wait here.’
‘Why?’ demands Bibi.
That’s what I want to ask too.
Why can’t Mussa’s parents drop Mum here?
But I don’t. Because from Dad’s face I can see there’s something we don’t know. Something scary and dangerous. Something that makes Dad want to keep me and Bibi safely hidden away here. And I’m scared to ask.
Dad kisses me and Bibi on the head. ‘There’s breakfast in that bag,’ he says, trying to sound cheery. But his voice is trembling. ‘I won’t be going far. The soccer stadium’s just over there.’
The soccer stadium?
Dad is pointing out of the shop, past the tape trees. In the distance I can see the top of a curved mudbrick wall.
That must be it.
The soccer stadium.
The one place in the city I’ve always wanted to visit.
Dad suddenly drops his arm as if he hadn’t meant to mention the soccer stadium.
‘Bibi,’ he says. ‘Can you get the breakfast things out?’
Then he steers me out of the shop.
He hands me a folded piece of paper and a wad of money.
‘This is in case I’m not back here by late this afternoon,’ he says softly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Bibi can’t hear. ‘Find a taxi, give the note and the money to the driver and he’ll take you both back to the village. But I will be here, I promise.’
I’ve never held so much money. I’m still staring at it when I realise Dad’s in the taxi and driving off.
I wave, but I don’t think he sees me. Then I stuff the money and note into my pocket and go back into the shop.
‘Let’s have breakfast,’ I say to Bibi. I don’t say anything about the money. I don’t want her to be worried. One of us is enough.
‘If Dad doesn’t come back,’ says Bibi, ‘we’re going to use that money to buy a tank and blow up whoever’s hurt him and Mum.’
Little sisters, they see everything.
I can see she’s struggling not to cry. While we eat I try and cheer her up with stories of some of the best goals I’ve seen. She’s not very interested, not even in the one where a West Ham striker slipped over and grabbed wildly at something to stop him falling and accidentally pulled down the Arsenal goalie’s shorts.
I’m not very interested either. All the while I’m talking, I’m not really thinking about golden goals. My mind’s somewhere else.
The soccer stadium.
Why is Dad picking Mum up there?
‘Jamal,’ complains Bibi. ‘Your yoghurt’s dripping on my leg.’
Suddenly it hits me. I know why Mum and Dad are going to the soccer stadium. They’ve got the same plan as me. They’re going to talk to a government soccer official about me and Bibi. They’re going to explain how our soccer skills will help Afghanistan have a national team one day. So the government won’t want to kill us anymore.
That happens in families, people having the same idea. Bibi and I both gave Mum blackboard dusters for her birthday last year.
‘This is fantastic,’ I say out loud.
‘It’s only yoghurt,’ says Bibi.
I explain to her what Mum and Dad are doing. I can hardly get the words out, I’m so excited. Bibi is doubtful at first, until she realises she’s in the running for the national team too.
‘Fantastic,’ she says, eyes wide.
Another thought hits me. One that makes me jump up and spill the rest of the yoghurt.
If Mum and Dad are really going to convince that government soccer official, they need us there too.