by Eric Meyer
* * *
Sardar Khan was in trouble. He'd lost all his money the night before in a poker game and spent what little remained on booze and opium. He was an addict, which was not unusual. Half the men in Afghanistan were addicted to the drug, which grew like weeds in the countryside. However, half the men in Afghanistan weren't closely related to a powerful man. Sheikh Habib Daud was such a powerful man, and Sardar Khan was his closest male relative, so he indulged him. Women, opium, whatever he needed, except alcohol, of course; alcohol would be contrary to the teachings of Allah. He had to come to Jalalabad to imbibe alcohol.
He had a serious problem. His powerful cousin was forty kilometers away in Mehtar Lam, and he was broke. He was also out of opium. In front of him he saw a solution. He knew the reason why Ghulam Durani was in Jalalabad. Mehtar Lam was a small town, and everyone knew their neighbor’s business. The man was here to pay for the new part for his stupid, decrepit old tractor. It meant he would be carrying money. This was his chance to extract revenge for the insult done to him when the farmer refused to permit him to marry his daughter. He would take Durani's money and buy the drugs his body craved. He touched his assault rifle, which was hidden under his robe, and waited for the farmer to reach him.
"Ghulam," he greeted him. His voice was cold.
"Mr. Khan." Durani was formal.
"You insulted me, Ghulam. Even worse, you insulted my honor." Durani said nothing, "Kaawa should be my wife."
"She is too young to marry. I already told you."
"The Prophet Mohammed married Aisha when she was six. They consummated the marriage when she was nine. Would you insult the Prophet by saying she was too young?"
"I would not insult the Prophet. But Aisha was not my daughter. Kaawa is my daughter."
"Ha! I don't believe you. Perhaps you are a secret convert to one of these foreign religions. Are you a Christian, Ghulam Durani? A Jew, even?"
"I am a Muslim."
"Perhaps, perhaps not. But I require payment for the dishonor you did me. Hand over your money."
Durani had seen the man dart a hand under his coat. The shape of the hidden assault rifle was obvious.
What should I do? I cannot kill this man; he is the cousin of the powerful Imam, Sheikh Habib Daud.
Yet his drug-addled eyes telegraphed his intent to use violence. The reason was obvious; he needed money for drugs. Addicts always needed money for drugs. He had to defuse the situation, and quickly.
"Listen, Sardar, if you need money, perhaps I could lend you some. I have a couple of American dollars I could spare to help you."
The other man snorted. "A couple of dollars! Give me all of it, now! Or perhaps I'll go to your farm and extract from your daughter what is rightfully mine."
The threat to rape Kaawa angered him, and he stepped forward to end it before it got out of hand. "There's no need for violence, Sardar. We can talk this over like men. I know you don't mean what you say. Perhaps I can give you ten dollars."
The offer enraged Khan's drug-fueled brain even more. "You think to treat me like a beggar? Stupid peasant, I'll show you how much I mean it. Give me the money now!"
Durani lunged forward in a desperate attempt to overpower him before he could bring his rifle into play. But the sun had turned the overnight ice to slush, and he tripped on a patch of mud. In disbelief, he watched as Khan swung out his AK, pointed the barrel at him, and pulled the trigger. As the bullets punched into him, his last thought was of his children, of his son.
Ahmed, you must settle the account with Mr. Stoner. It would not be right to owe him the money. And the tractor, take care of...
Khan stepped back and watched the man die, shocked at what he'd done. The street had cleared as people rushed for cover, terrified of the gunshots. Someone shouted the Taliban had returned. He could still get away in the confusion and fear. He rifled through Durani's pockets and took all his money, but there was nothing else of any value. He wondered why had he'd bothered to kill this worthless peasant for a few dollars, but that thought was short lived. People were starting to come back out onto the street. It was time to leave; the police would come looking for him. He straightened up and ran.