“Gratitude to Allah the great for today an army of Mujahideens successfully struck the kafirs at the heart of their infidel system. Today the minions of the crusaders paid in blood for their sins against Allah and Islam. Their blood flows on the steps of their parliament in atonement for the brutality they’ve continuously inflicted on our innocent wives and children. For the sons they take from us today they’ve felt that pain. They betrayed our neighbourly love to please Obama and today we paid them back in blood of their leaders. Today silk handkerchiefs will wipe tears of anguish from privileged faces and not their unholy make-up will be able to conceal the burden of well deserved grief. Blessed are the souls of the shaheeds that today dine with Muhammad in Janah.Allah-ukabar!!! Today is a great day for Islam. And it is only the first of the start of the great Al-zurai Caliphate. “
The man behind the old mahogany table hit a key on the computer in front him and the blaring voice died down. He paused for a long moment, his right hand involuntarily scratching his right brow. His countenance was somber, his gaze bare and hollow. The audio clip had had a heavy effect on his psyche, probably heavy enough to add an extra ridge of wrinkle on his fifty- something face.
“How many people have had access to the tape?” He asked, his left hand twirling the red,black and white-colured bracelet on his right wrist. The two men infront of him exchanged a nervous glance. The younger one spoke first. He was youthful, mid-twenties perhaps. He had a maintained goatee and wore glasses. His facial features were soft, too soft some would say. Had he been born in the Infidel nation that the enemy so despised he might have been a model,or maybe a ‘teen-sensation’ trying to morph into a ‘sex-symbol’ that graces the covers of fashion magazines and commercials on that god-awful ‘E’ channel.” Mr. President, apart from the commandant and us, just you. ”
“We had to momentarily pull him out sir. When we got news that the attack had been moved up the schedule we had to brief you sir. The execution team is in place waiting for the operative with detonators to arrive. This is the closest to destroying us they have ever come” The slightly plump and totally bald guy with a notebook added.
The president said nothing. He stared into space in a robotic stance. His left leg was rigid, his balm was literally burning up. “This job is not good for my blood pressure.” Barely a year into his term and he had questioned his resolve to remain head of state uncountably. Every two weeks his doctor gave him scolding lectures while he peered at him through his thick glasses. I’m fine, I’ll be fine. He always answered. If the fairly fat dossier on his desk with the inscriptions “N.I.S Situation Report 331/13 ” wasn’t acted upon expeditiously and expertly, he knew the doctor wouldn’t have anything to yell about, his heart would have given out way before he met him for the scheduled check up that was 5 days away. The report’s apocalyptic prophecy had 2 days to maturity.
” Your cover is not compromised?” He put it to the young man, his allure of leadership and strength swiftly replacing the uncertainty that had plagued him just a moment ago. His health was bad but if he dwelled on that the liberty that his forefathers earned with their blood would not be well either. The National Assembly, a monument that was representative of the nation’s marvelous democracy, and the talent of every Kenyan to be loud and unreasonable at times, would lay in ruins, awash with the blood of Kenya’s ruling class. The caliphate had set in motion a grand plan to attack the August house when members would be discussing the Constituency Development Fund Bill, a piece of legislation that was dear to all the honourable members. They would rather be stung in the eyeballs by a wasp rather than miss that session. God forbid they lose that all-important fund that was the palm to reward supporters and cronies and the sword to dispense political assassination to rivals. If the caliphate’s plans worked out, the harm would be extensive and the nation would surely break. He shuddered at the thought of the streets running a mock with panic. Machettes and rungus will be wailing for the blood of Muslims and any real or imagined allies of Muslims. Foreign missions would close-up shop indefinitely and their staff would be halfway home before the anchors could get to the third paragraph of the coverage of the siege/sieke.
” I can not be 100% sure sir, but there’s a strong chance it is still secure. Either way hatuna option. Itabidi tuendelee ni kama hawajanitambua. Waliambush Hassan akitoka mskiti akija kuniona mkahawani. Since they shot him before he could meet me we must work on the premise that they still think I am Farouk Fattah. Lazima tu lakini nirudi, at least until we figure out the location of the cache of arms and explosives and more importantly the day the Syrian specialist will touch down.”
To an onlooker, the expression on ‘Farouk Fattah’s’ face was that of a young man concern with the results of a mid-term paper, or the handing in of a research project. His face did not give away the fears of a soul burdened with risking his neck, quite literally, at the offset of saving a nation’s independence and justice. He did not much care if he ended up being beheaded by a hooded mercenary on YouTube, if he did not go back in the nation would fall. This was his duty, to protect the nation and its citizens, the poor and helpless, the privileged and gluttonous ones too. Hassan Muchiri had been his handler ever since he shed the blue uniform and took up a position in the elite and obscure Anti-Terrorism Police Unit, or ATPU as it was referred in enforcement parlance. He had been slain less than twenty hours ago. His cover had been blown when an old friend from the police academy recognized him after the evening prayers. Eyebrows, the wrong ones especially, were raised. Two weeks later he was dead. His eyeballs and brains splattered on the dash board of the fairly new NZE saloon. The bullet had gone into his head through the soft spot behind his right ear. It was a pretty and artistic entry wound. The same could not be said about the exit. His cheek bone had been shattered into a thousand fragments, his left eye fell off like a piece on a domino arrangement. It laid on his lap and the crime-scene cop couldn’t have helped but to giggle when he saw the body.” Huyu jamaa alijiangalia akidedi!” He’d said. On the evening news it said that a businessman had been killed by thugs. A lot of such pieces did their rounds. This is war, the word collateral did not have any relation to insurance. Widows and orphans were made every few days. News was cooked, lies told and careers altered. On Hassan’s day, he’d been on his way to meet the young man with the soft features. They met every fortnight. The young operative would bring him to speed on homeland threats, and in turn he’d tell him how his family was doing. He always brought photos. They were found inside a page of his Quran. That was a good sign, at least the enemy wasn’t aware of the special relationship between ‘Fattah’ and Hassan. They’d slain him for being a cop. The 7.62 mm entry wound narrowed down the list of weapons that could have been used. The exit wound was a confirmation that the G-3 rifle taken from an Administration Police officer a month back was in the hands of the caliphate. It made a lot of sense. The officer had been feted for giving his life to thwart an ATM robbery, for the ATPU, they knew now that the robbery was never really the grand plan.
The screen on the president’s cane to life and the chubby face of the police spokesman came to life. ” Mwaniki, ni kuuro. Ishi durere ni shi kutu uraga. Oka tuaria.” The president said. Right away sir, the fat face on the monitor answered.
End-of-scene-one.
K.D.F military intelligence, ATPU and N.I.S thwarted a plot to bomb the Kenyan parliament. Uniforms say a lot. But more than that many citizens abandon their lives,uniforms and go deep undercover to gather intelligence in order to make sure Al-harakat Al-Mujahideen Al-Shabab don’t kill us. This piece is not only a tribute to the El-Adde casualties, it is a thank you note to our gallant spies whose names we will never know, whose obituaries will probably say they died of typhoid yet they heads are severed. Those men whose pay slips read Kenya Power and Lighting Co. and other unglamorous names while the backs that lay on the coffin floor are strewn with Somali sand, red and brown from being dragged on the ground by rusty Al-shabab trucks after the enemy found out they were law enforcement.
#fuckalshabab
#63isnotjustanumber
probablyatruestory 