Kenyans said they’d come for al-Shabaab, but they didn’t care that groups like his didn’t support Shabaab. Because Somalia had no central government, villages banded together to defend themselves. Some paid taxes to Shabaab. Others formed self-defense groups to keep raiders at bay. Villages too weak or too poor to protect themselves were overrun.
Shabaab flourished in the chaos, becoming the strongest and largest of the militias. But Shabaab didn’t truly govern Somalia any more than anyone else. Outside its base towns, it had only provisional control. It lacked the firepower to stamp out groups like the White Men. And Little Wizard wanted nothing to do with Shabaab. He was Muslim, but not like them. As far as he was concerned, a man’s prayers were his own business. The Shabaab fighters were fanatics who would have stoned Wizard to death as a heretic for his name alone.
But the Kenyans seemed to think that any armed group in Somalia was an ally of Shaabab. And they had tanks and planes, weapons the Somali irregulars couldn’t match. Little Wizard didn’t try to face the Kenyans. He ordered his men to pick up and melt south into the swamps, letting the soldiers roll past, into Shabaab’s heartland. As far as he was concerned, every Shabaab fighter the Kenyans killed was one fewer for him to worry about.
The Kenyans had pulled out of Somalia a couple months before, after killing hundreds of Shabaab fighters. Shabaab still had plenty of men in other regions, but it basically no longer existed in Lower Juba. Wizard relaxed, figuring he’d escaped his biggest threat.
He knew now he’d made a mistake. Three weeks before, Awaale, the leader of a militia called the Dita Boys, asked him to meet. Little Wizard didn’t want to go. He had nothing to say to Awaale. As far as he was concerned, the Dita Boys were undisciplined at best, vicious killers at worst.
On the surface, the Ditas and the White Men had a lot in common. Both would trash wells of villages that refused to pay protection. And, yes, the White Men killed villagers who fought them. But Little Wizard had strict rules for his men. A year before, he’d caught a new recruit raping a six-year-old girl. Wizard and Waaberi tied the rapist to a tree and beat him until his face looked like a melon that a truck had run over. Then Wizard ordered his men to come round.
“This is what we do to men who fuck children.” Wizard pulled the knife strapped to his calf, a weapon made for murder with a black plastic handle and serrated blade. He sliced off the rapist’s clothes and took the man’s limp, blood-spattered penis in his left hand as he raised the knife with his right.
“Please,” the rapist said, the words barely audible through his split lips. “Anything else.”
“Your choice.” Wizard plunged the knife into the man’s stomach. The man’s shoulders lifted in shock. For a moment, before the pain took over, his eyes widened and he raised his ruined face. Then he grunted, tried to scream. Wizard pulled the 9-millimeter pistol he carried in place of an AK, put it to the man’s head, pulled the trigger. The man’s brains moistened the tree behind him.
Wizard turned, faced his men.
“I have told you before. This one didn’t understand. We don’t rape. We don’t steal. We take what we need, what I say we need, and no more. We are soldiers. We are an army. You want to be a beast, fight for someone else. Not for Wizard.”
He pulled the knife from the rapist’s belly, sliced open the rope, left the corpse on the ground with its guts hanging out. There were no more rapes.
—
The Dita Boys were different. Little Wizard knew what they did to refugees they caught crossing their territory. Especially women. He wished he could turn down the meeting. But he had to know what Awaale wanted. They agreed to meet in neutral territory, a watering hole on the edge of a village called Buscbusc, the strongest town left in all of Lower Juba. It had a sixty-man self-defense force. The militias left it alone.
Little Wizard arrived two hours early with fifteen of his best men. They convoyed in two pickup trucks with .50-caliber machine guns mounted in their beds and two armored Range Rovers. The armed pickups, called “technicals,” were the most common fighting vehicle in Somalia. The Rovers were more unusual, stolen from a UN lot in Mogadishu. They were Wizard’s only indulgence. He’d spent $180,000 on them, half his profits of the last two years. They had run-flat tires, bulletproof windows, thick steel plates in the doors. They’d stop anything up to a machine gun round, maybe even a rocket-propelled grenade if it didn’t hit a window. Wizard was unduly proud of them. When they needed repair, he brought in parts from Kenya. Being chosen to ride in a Rover was a mark of pride among the White Men.
The watering hole at Buscbusc consisted of four deep wells surrounded by a rock wall to keep animals or children from wandering in. Little Wizard put the pickups against the east wall, where their machine guns would have a clear field of fire. He put one Rover at the break in the wall that served as the watering hole’s vehicle entrance. He stayed in the other Rover, next to the second well. He expected Awaale to bring more than fifteen men and he wanted to be ready.
The meeting was supposed to happen at eleven a.m. The Dita Boys arrived at noon, their pickup trucks blasting rap. When he heard them coming, Wizard stepped out of the Rover and stuffed a wad of miraa leaves—the stimulant that many Somali men chewed—in his mouth. His bodyguard, Ali, followed.
The faintly sour taste of the miraa filled Wizard’s mouth. He felt the leaves lift him, sharpen his focus. His men hid their faces behind their white kerchiefs and tucked in their white T-shirts. Every boy who joined him got three kerchiefs and three T-shirts and had to be sure at least one was always perfectly clean. Wizard was the only fighter not in white. He wore a black shirt and black pants and no kerchief. The White Men might not be the biggest militia in Somalia, but they were the coolest. They didn’t need Pit Bull or T-Pain to prove it.
The Dita pickups rolled up. Wizard counted eight, five with .50-calibers. Forty men, maybe more. Ali put a hand on his shoulder. Wizard brushed it off. He didn’t fear these men. He walked to the Rover that blocked the gap in the wall, jumped on its hood. The diesel engine vibrated underneath his shoes. Three of his men tried to stand beside him. He waved them back, and they got low behind the hood, covering him with their AKs. Good.
His enemy had the numbers but not the tactical advantage. The Ditas were stupid, and they had stupidly lined their pickup trucks along the wall rather than clustering around the Rover. They were piling out of the trucks, but only the ones nearby had a clear shot. Wizard was less exposed than he seemed. But only a little, and not for long. He would have to control the moment.
“Awaale!”
Awaale stepped out of the nearest pickup. He was tall and broad and wore camouflage fatigues with the sleeves rolled up to show his big arms. The Dita Boys liked camo, but only a few had full uniforms. The rest made do with pants or T-shirts in mismatched patterns. Wizard had given his militia simple white shirts precisely to avoid this problem. Awaale’s uniform had four silver stars on the shoulders. With his thick gold necklace and mirrored sunglasses, he could have passed for an old-school African dictator.
“You scared of me, Awaale.” Wizard rested his hand on his 9-millimeter. Awaale raised his palms to the sky:
“You not scared, why you bring so many men?”
“Because I have so many. Don’t know even what to do with them. And all them want to see you. The famous Little Chicken. Cluck cluck.”
Wizard edged his pistol halfway from his holster. “Say it again.”
He found himself looking at a forest of AKs. Awaale tapped his chest, his big arms glistening. “I say what I like.”
“You called this parley. I came. You not scared—” Wizard pointed at the Rover. “We take a drive and talk, you and me only. Otherwise, let’s get to it. Three seconds to choose.”
“No need to count.” Awaale raised his hands, gave Wizard two big thumbs-up. “Show me your fine Rover.”
—
Wizard jumped off the Rover as Awaale stepped away from his men. They slid inside the SUV, Wizard driving.
“Nice,” Awaale said. “Still smells new-like.” He took a wad of miraa from his pocket. Wizard touched his arm. “Not inside. Leather seats and all that.”
“Serious.”
“Serious.”
“I like this vehicle, Wizard. You know I do. But it just a car.”
Wizard ignored this heresy. He drove west, toward the border, on a dirt path that even the most optimistic
