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inspired by the exemplary events here.”
    “For whom do you write?”
    “I am a freelance journalist.”
    Malik recalls reading about journalists and writers visiting theSoviet Union in its day of communist glory. Those who gave cagey answers met with official reprimand and would not be issued permits. He takes the plunge. “I hope to write about the peace that has dawned in the land, thanks to the Union of Islamic Courts, which has wrested it out of the hands of the warlords and their associates.”
    BigBeard speaks as though desert sand he swallowed a lifetime ago is interfering with his speech pattern, altering its rhythm, impeding its natural flow, like a drain blocked with an avalanche of sludge. He says, “Give the computer here.”
    Malik’s eyes cloud with doubt as he realizes that the door he has meant to charge will not budge. But he remains silent, his expression stiffening. He furrows his forehead, more in confusion than anger, wondering why none of the others intervenes on his behalf.
    “Why?” Malik asks, choking on his anger.
    BigBeard has the astute look of a man who makes up his own rules as he goes along. Malik sees that there is no way he can force him to reverse the decision to dispossess him of his computer. He has met men like BigBeard before—brutes bullying journalists.
    “Because I say so,” BigBeard replies. His hands are busy in his beard, twining it; his tongue is plucking at his mustache. How Malik wishes he could strike the smirk off that face. Silence reigns. What can anyone do to forestall a crisis?
    Then Gumaad asks, “What if we refuse?”
    BigBeard almost achieves the impossible task of working his grin into a grimace. To Gumaad he says, “We—who is
we
? You and who else?”
    Nervous, they fidget. A subtle nod from Gumaad encourages Dajaal to say, “I’ve always believed that the difference between your lot and the warlords from whom you took control was your sense of respect. Don’t you think that our guests deserve respect?”
    BigBeard is a master at taking his time. Up close, Jeebleh sees thewhiskers on his cheeks twitching like those of an angry cat. He says to BigBeard, “Can we see some identification, please? That is what the young people are saying.” He speaks with the politeness of someone needing not to lose both the battle to keep the computer and the war to recover it, if it is confiscated. There is no defeat in his eyes, only mild defiance.
    With the desert sand no longer audible in his voice, BigBeard says to Jeebleh, “I represent the authority of the Courts. To date, the Courts have not supplied us with identity cards. We work as volunteers. Therefore, you have to trust me on this. I advise you to cooperate for the good of all.”
    Jeebleh says, “What if he refuses?”
    BigBeard puts his hands in his pockets and knits his eyebrows together in the gesture of someone entertaining an unpleasant memory. At BigBeard’s command, four armed youths emerge out of a cubicle to the right of where the group is standing. The youths fan out, each in a dramatic way, as if they are mimicking a movie they have seen or some jihadi documentary they have been shown. They raise their gas-operated AK-47s and, standing with their feet apart, push the selector switches to automatic: they are ready to shoot, if provoked or ordered by BigBeard to do so. But just at this least likely moment, BigBeard volunteers his name. “I am Abu Cumar bin Cafaan,” he says, and he repeats that he is charged with ensuring that no objectionable computer software or pornographic material is imported into the country, in breach of the Islamic code of conduct.
    Malik grudgingly hands over his computer.
    Gumaad says to Malik, “Go in with him and type in your passwords so he can have access.”
    “There is no need,” BigBeard says.
    “No need?”
    BigBeard says, “I should disabuse you of the view that just becausewe bear Muslim names from the days of the Prophet, may Allah bless him, and