Jabari and the Jihad

There is no reasonable explanation for this picture. None at all. It's a mystery.

First, I have to say that the man's fighting technique is not as awful as it seems at first blush. He's getting off the X to the nine o'clock position, so the use of one hand on a stockless Uzi is warranted. I think he could have extended the gun a bit further and locked his elbow out, though.

Second, The American flag on the right. According to the oh, so reliable US media, America is on the world's sh*t list, so such pro-American support is baffling to me, especially from a place that appears very much third world, although I suppose it could be Detroit or New Orleans.

Third, what happened to the guy's pants, and why are they pink?

Fourth, and the pièce de résistance, behold the feather duster in the guy's left hand. The feather duster. Feather. Duster. In a gunfight.

So, given all of the variables, here is the most viable explanation I could come up with:

Our hero, Jabari, Patriot Wayfarer of Republic of Dekari, was minding his own business in his backyard, grilling up some marinated impala and listening to Uncle Kembray laughing with delight while Jabari bickered with his baby-momma as he carefully brushed the dust off of his collection of framed and autographed portraits of George W. Bush, Glenn Beck, Col. Rex Applegate, and Col. Ollie North, when the first stirrings of trouble began.

“Stop scratching at those mosquito bites, Jabari! They will get infected.”

“They vex me, woman! I need relief,” Jabari said.

“Roll down your pant leg. That’s how you got the bites in the first place.”

"No. And I cannot believe you washed my favorite pants with your red load, woman! How many times have I said it? Tanzanian dyes always bleed through. Now I look like a yuppy girly-boy from California."

"You've never been to California."

"Yes, but I've heard the stories. And don't change the subject. Look at my pants! They clash terribly with my sandals now."

"Nobody will notice them with that awful shirt you're wearing."

"I love this shirt." Jabari was incensed. How could she complain about his shirt? It was hot outside. It was hot inside, too. It was hot everywhere. How could the woman insult his most comfortable clothing in this weather?

"That shirt makes you look like a gangster ruffian from New Orleans."

"What would you know about New Orleans, Tambika?"

"I watched Steven Seagal: Lawman on the satellite last week while you were trimming the tree. He is so wise…"

"You’ve done it again! You always change the subject on me when I am winning.”

“Ahh, Jabari, you poor boy,” Uncle Kembray chuckled as he shook his head. “Why are you arguing with her? That is no way for a man to have peace in his home.”

“Well, then, Uncle, tell me how you would deal with this unrelenting harpy!”

“Jabari!” Tambika stood in front of her man, arms akimbo and frowning. “How could you call me such terrible things?” She stuck her bottom lip out in a girlish pout.

“You should turn her over your knee, Boy, as we did when she was a girl,” Kembray said. “That will teach her to behave.”

“How dare he!”

“We aren’t allowed to hit women anymore, Kembray,” Jabari said. “Even when they deserve it.”

“Who says?” Kembray sat further back on the table and adjusted his plastic false leg.

“Hollywood. And the National Organization of Women.”

“Who are they to tell us what to do?” Kemray scowled and looked annoyed while he fiddled with the straps on the prosthetic limb.

“I don’t know. They are the loudest of the harpies. Also, the hairiest.” Tambika punched him in the arm, and Jabari stuck his tongue out at her. “Sometimes this one does need a good thrashing, though.”

“Men!”

“Like now, for example.” Jabari grinned at his girl, who was working herself up to a fit of righteous indignation. He menaced her with the feather duster, and she dodged out of his reach with a squeal.

“But the Muslims still beat their women,” Kembray observed.

“Yes, well, they’re still allowed to,” Jabari said.

“Why? What makes them so special?”

“They cut the heads off people who object.”

“Oh, yes.”

“As I was saying, Tambika, about my pants, I--," he cocked his head to one side and listened, his eyes lifted skyward. There was something…

"You what?"

"Shhhh...do you hear that?"

Down the street, a buzz of irritating noise reached his ears: the sounds of raised voices, singing, or maybe chanting, bearing down on his little slice of Africa. Whoever these people were, they were loud. They screamed, they whooped, they shouted anti-American slogans from The Huffington Post and Al Jazeera, and as they came closer, Jabari’s blood chilled as he began to pick up on the words they were saying.

"ALLAHU AKBAR! AL JIHAD, NAZRANI PIG-DOG! JABARI KIUME, YOU DASTARDLY CAPITALIST! MAY YOU DIE A THOUSAND DEATHS, YOU SON OF A SYPHILITIC CAMEL! DEATH TO AMERICA! WE HATE FREEDOM! WE HATE TOILET PAPER, FOR IT IS THE TOOL OF THE GREAT SATAN!"

Oh, this didn't bode well for Jabari at all. He loved America—he was known for it. He was for freedom in all of its many shapes. He was an outspoken supporter of toilet paper. Yes, these interlopers weren’t going to get along with him one bit.

No, this mob was the tool of Al-Wazrili, the warrior sect from the Sudan—radical Islamists known for conscripting children and selling their forces as fighters across Africa. Jabari knew from watching Fox News that many of the Wazzies had been found fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as Indonesia. They were not to be trifled with. These were people who expanded their numbers through intimidation and pain and chopping heads.

One of their clerics had been in town for the last week, stirring up trouble among the Muslim population and speaking out against Christians. When he had first shown up, Jabari knew--he just knew--that the Wazzies would bring trouble.

And now their missionaries were coming to his door.

For a brief moment he gazed at Old Glory hanging on his fence and realized that the flash mob was coming for him and his family and that there was little he could do about it. He thanked God that the children were off with their grandfather this day. A gasp from beside him reminded him of the woman at his side, barely more than a girl, and he turned to reassure her.

Tambika stared at him, her eyes round, showing stark white against her midnight skin. He recognized that look, for he had seen it once before. She was scared; her lips pressed together, a line of worry deepening between her brows. She breathed in and out of her nose, her hands fisted at her sides.

He smiled at her and her eyes narrowed. The corners of her mouth curled upwards just a bit.

Scared, yes, but also defiant and calm. And angry. Good.

“Go inside, my girl. I will deal with these Jihad Jafars."

"I should get your Uzi, Jabari?"

"Yes, my sweet, and the rifle. And don’t hesitate to unchain the dogs as well."

“Be careful,” Tambika said, as she hurried off to get his guns.

The mob had arrived. Eleven harsh, humorless men and six shrieking women trooped towards his fence, the men wielding clubs, axes, pangas, and spears. The women walked ahead of the men, dressed in colorful muumuus and swirling head scarves—they looked like murderous circus tents with their knives and knobkerries flashing in silvery arcs as they trilled war-cries and Islamo-Fascist Prayers of Destruction.

These were the Al-Wazrili—dervishing women and stone-faced, heavily-armed men; in training to be killers, all. Only a few dozen meters away now.

One of them, the leader, he knew by sight. The scar-faced man in the green military fatigues and tan do-rag was a viscous Kenyan cleric called Aswad, who gripped a rusty AK-47 that hung from a sling around his neck. The rifle made Jabari nervous, and he flexed his knees, ready to bolt behind the heavy block wall of his house should the Wazzie spiritual leader open fire.

“Careful, Boy,” Uncle Kembray said, “These creatures are the tools of the Black Imams. I will guard your back.” Kembray unscrewed the end of his walking stick and pulled a foot-long javelin head out of the hidden compartment in the haft. He reversed the head and screwed the base of the blade down over the steel threads, turning his five-foot long walking stick into a six-foot long spear. The old man lay the weapon across his knees and smiled grimly.

Uncle Kembray was a cripple, but he was still a dangerous man. If only his uncle-by-marriage still had his old tommy gun from the wars. The Al-Wazrili wouldn’t stand a chance against him, crippled or not.

Jabari stood and waited for the riotous mob, his only weapon the feather duster in his hand. He knew that in his pink stretchy-pants and wifebeater tank top he looked like an easy target, but he thought that maybe he could convince them to simply go away and let him enjoy his afternoon in peace.

Then he saw who was with Aswad. In the small crowd were men he knew, and women as well: Pili, the artist from down the road. He looked angry, but also nervous, uncertain. Yetunde Fira, the wife of Dogo Fira, who was the son of his old schoolteacher. Dogo was nowhere to be seen, but his wife was here, with long, curving knives.

And in the back of the crowd, next to Aswad, stood Paki Pangwa.

Jabari's blood chilled when he saw the man.

Paki held twin pangas, and he was smiling evilly. Paki, who had always desired Tambika, had lost her to Jabari as youngsters. He’d never gotten over it and had hated Jabari ever since. Now Jabari’s old rival stood in front of him, his blades swishing back and forth. Paki looked smug, like he was about to enjoy using those blades, and Jabari didn’t think he would like to know on what those blades were going to be used.

But worst of all, the member of the mob that broke his heart to see, was Isimo Rejalla. Tall, ugly Isimo, his childhood friend. Never would he have thought that Issy would turn on him like this. They had gone to a mission school together, been baptized together. How could Issy convert to this Islamist martial cult and then come after his oldest friends?

The old saying was true—the world really was going to hell.

Jabari’s dogs were growling and barking. They were excellent guard dogs, and they had good appetites for evil men, and each could sense that there were evil men at the door now, just outside the wall, and they wanted a taste. They slavered and whined to be let loose.

The group stopped only twenty feet from his gate and fanned out in a rough semi-circle. Aswad, the Whirlwind of Knives, stepped forth, his hand twitching on the grip of the Kalashnikov as if he were already feeling the recoil of the heavy gun. A corrupt sneer of evil twisted his ugly features and he raised his voice to be heard over the shrill cackling of the women’s chorus.

“Jabari Kiume! You are an American-loving devil, and you will see reason, or you will die today! You will join us in our Hate for the Great Satan! You will denounce your godless love of freedom and toilet paper and start using your hand like the rest of us--SHUT IT YOU GIBBERING SLUTS!”

The women went silent as Aswad turned back to Jabari and thrust an angry finger at him.

“You will burn that American flag and stomp it into the ground before the day is done or we will stone your woman and your filthy dogs while I make you watch! You will spit on the Christian Gods and embrace the loving clutches of mighty Allah, or you will go to the devil right now!”

So much for reasoning with them, Jabari fumed. Where is that woman with my Uzi?

The cacophony from the dog house had grown even more intense. The growls and barks and turned to snarls and yowls. Chains rattled and shook as the dogs strained to get loose. The canines knew there were monsters at the door, and they desperately wanted to sink their teeth into them.

They would get their chance.

Jabari scanned the crowd, and his eyes met those of his former friend, Isimo. In that moment, he saw Issy mouthing silent words to him. Run. Go. Run.

Issy jerked his head in the direction of Paki and motioned with his panga.

Jabari was suddenly relieved, just a little bit. He didn’t know what Issy was getting at, but the meaning was clear--his old friend hadn’t betrayed him. Isimo was still on his side.

Jabari glared at Aswad and found his own voice, raising it over the noise of the dogs.

“Asswad, you Jihad Jerk, I would sooner die than renounce toilet paper! And as for the rest, I’d rather drink gasoline and vodka in a vat of old sh*t than join you! You want my flag?! You can have it—from my cold dead hands! Come and take it, you baconless bastard!”

Aswad roared in anger. He fired a deafening burst of rounds into the air. He suddenly looked down at his rifle, a confused look on his face, and shook the gun back and forth. Something had gone wrong with the weapon, and Jabari could see the glint of corroded brass sticking out of the firing port.

Snarling, he pointed at Jabari and howled, “Kill the infidel! Tear him to pieces!”

The mob roared and raised their weapons. They surged towards him, wild eyed and bellowing in hatred.

“Oh, Sh*t!"




To be continued...