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As  he sat  on the  terraces  of  the  stadium,  Bashir  thought  about  the  problem  at  hand. This  was  a  problem  that  was  eating  at  his  head for sometime  now. He  had  grown  broke  as  a  result  of  his  many  escapades  the  previous  week  in  what  he  now  termed  an  unknown  destination. He  had  come  to  the  place  with  very  high  hopes, hopes  of  prosperity  and  a  better  life.  Nothing  prepared  him  for  the  kind  of  life  he  now  lived. Bashir  had  left  his  home  country  of Sudan  in  the  thick  of  the  politically  instigated  violence  in  Darfur  region. He  would  just  have  moved  to  another  part  of  the  Horn  of  Africa country had  it  not  been  for  his  boss  who  encouraged  him  to  emigrate  to  Somali, a country  alleged  to  have  viable  opportunities.

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Mr. Abdenoor, Bashir's boss, was   a very persuasive person.  It  was his  convincing  mouth  and  sweet  tongue  that  wooed  Bashir  to  this  now  terrible   place.

"Considering  your  hardworking  personality  and  resilience  at  work,  I  feel  that  you  ought  to  get  the  opportunity  to  manage  our  company's  stake  in  that  part  of  the  region. I know  you  are  fit  to  the  task ," Mr. Abdenoor's  words  continued  sounding  in  Bashir's  head  as  tears  welled   up  in  his  eyes, even  as  he  began  chewing  at  his  very  dry pancake.

Bashir   stopped  his  reverie  and  looked  up  to  see  small  children  running  after  one  another  as  they  left  the  stadium.  He  felt  a  deep ache  within  him  as  he  remembered  his  two  lovely  children and  their  mother back  in  Sudan. He  felt  an  emptiness   that  made  him  long  to  embrace  his  family  once  again.  He  had   been  made  to  believe  that  his  wife  and  children  would  be  brought   to  join  him  in  Somali  in  a  matter  of  days. This   was  not  to  happen  as  the  truth  of  what  was  happening  started  to  dawn  on  him. It  was  something  that  had  been  preplanned  and  executed  without  him  getting  wind  of  it. He  had  been  sent  away  as  a  prisoner  of  war  to  a  militia  group. This  he  did  not  know  until  after  a  week  in the  new  country.  He  eavesdropped  a  conversation  between  the  people   that  were  hosting  him.

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"The  Master  says  the  dude  only  has  two  days  to  fatten  up  before  he  is  sworn  in  as  a  life  member  of  Al Qairat....." one  of  the  voices  seemed to  say

"Ayee," the  other  one  asserted, "the  nigga  has  lots  of  brains  to  assist  the  gang!"

The  same  day  Bashir took  whatever  he  could  and  took  off,  not  knowing  where  to go. He  took  all  the  money  he  had  and  then   journeyed  to  a  different  town, a  town  totally  unknown  to  him. He  went  and  put  up  in  a  lodging  for  a while  hoping  that  a  miracle  would  happen  and  that  he  would  somehow  get  back  to   Sudan.  However,  this  was  not  to  happen. Everything  else  came  to  a  standstill  after  he  discovered  he  had  no  money  left.

That was when his nightmares began. Bashir  had  to  leave  the motel  he  had  been  staying  in, and  since he  had  nowhere  else  to  turn  to, he  got  himself  in  the  shanties  of  the  town ,a  shanty  by  the  name  Shaqq. He  tried  to  interact  with  the  local  people  but  then  there  was  a  language  barrier  problem, he  became  a  loner  in  a  very  strange  place.

Every  other  person  looked   at  him  with  lots  of  suspicion, he  could  not  blend   with  them. He  became  a  beggar  in  a  foreign  country, a  country  full  of  instability  and   without  a  government. He  would  move  from  home  to  home,  and  hotel  to  hotel  begging  for  food  and   then   to  the  darkest  corners  of  the  town  to  rest  his  head.

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That  became  his  order  of  the  day  for  nearly  a  whole  week. He  would  remember  the  days  when  he  lived  the  life   suiting  a  king .  He hated the place with a passion like no other.  There  was  no  way  he  would  allow  himself  to  get  swallowed  up  by this  void  that  was  now  peering  at  him  just  like  the  gates  of  hell.  He had to do something about his situation.

That was how he got himself seated at the   stadium. He  had  to  act  fast, if  at  all  he  was to  get   back  to  his  home  unscathed.

"Allah,  it  is  my  humble  prayer  that  you  be  with  me  from   this  moment  on. Whatever  am  planning  to  do I  ask  for  your  guidance  . I Praise you, Allah Akbar!"

No  sooner  had  he  finished  his  prayer  than  he  felt  a  hand  on  his   back. He  heard  a  mumble  from  behind  him, but  he  couldn't  understand  whatever  was  being  communicated.

It was a man standing behind him. He  later  knew  that  this  was   the  one  charged  with  managing  the  stadium. Bashir  could  not  make  head  or  tail  of   what  the  man  was  saying, he  therefore tried speaking to him in English. Luckily for him, the man seemed to understand him and answered him back in English.