-Sura 34, Saba

He walked beneath the Slave Master Monument, the evil wigged man who had freed the Slave Masters from their insane king. Monument Street made a cobblestone circle of itself around the vile edifice. To left and right were side-walked mini-parks with old sculptures of bronze made to look ancient, and vested with the meanings of power and righteousness. Beneath this evil tower, erected by those who worshipped the rapists of his African ancestors, on the ground taken from his native ancestors, and surrounded by the destitute on all sides, as he headed to his sanctuary, he was struck as if by a lightning bolt by a thought that seemed to rise up from the hollow place once occupied by his heart:

“No. No! Abandon me ghosts!”

He looked to his right, down into the jaundiced eyes of a dying wino. The man looked up at him in disbelief, his mouth slack and drooling, and managed to mouth mumbled words, “Den Misser, please take yo haunted ass up da way! I’s tryin’ to sleep fo da sun make it unpossable.”

For answer a chill crawled slowly up his spine, and he walked the faster for it, breaking into a run as soon as he was out of eyeshot of his pathetic audience. He ran, white man suit and all, until he reached the brownstone Mosque of Usef Ali. He gained entrance courtesy of Brother Ibn, made his way upstairs to the gym, passed upward still to the warrior temple, and sought the cleansing shower. Usef would be out checking on his rents. The rest of this day, until gym duty called, would be spent in cleansing, via shower, sweat and toil, a warrior’s toil.

The streets beyond sweltered, no doubt. But still, he was a warrior. He had scarred himself in the most intense two hours of sword dancing he had ever experienced. In the back of his mind, the coach within him knew he should be more hydrated before an eighteen-mile run. He had not the time. He must return for the children, for his young man fighter/scholars, by six in the evening. He dressed in gray sweats and black boots, with a nozzle bottle of honeyed water in each hand.

It was 3:00 p.m. when he left, jogging off into the blistering heat to Brother Ibn’s amazement. He ran up and out of this devil’s den of a city, out Greenmount Avenue, until it turned into York Road, then further, all the way through Towson, beyond to Lutherville, and beyond that to the Timonium race course. He left his bottles at the race track fence, scaled it, ran a lap in honor of his ancestors—who had been bought and sold and whipped like the modern animals who ran this course—and then returned to his nectar bottles.

His bottles empty, he placed them atop a roofed municipal trashcan for the use of some poor soul. He regarded the downhill run back into the Devil’s Den where he had carved his own dark perch, and considered his route.

Akbar Qama ran the downhill course of his return with a lighter heart than he had expected; his body’s elation over a downhill run after nine miles uphill, taking over his being from his tormented soul.

In a mere half hour he was circling the place were broken minds were drugged into insensibility. This felt like a long trudging pilgrimage, so he decided to look for a scenic detour as soon as he finished the circuit. As he jogged easily through Towson, seat of evil for this County of Baltimore, he noticed a few people out and about, rejoicing, as it were, beneath the many trees of this upscale suburban hub, that shielded them from the harsh sun. He resolved to stay one block west of the urbanized route out of town he had taken, until he returned to the city.

On he ran, sweating in the shade. He soon spotted a fit female devil jogging along as if it was her duty, flagging somewhat. He shadowed her from a block back on the west side of this shaded side-street, from where he could still hear the roar of the traffic on the main street to his left. The woman was not at all bad looking, attractive in a Caucasian kind of way that he could not quite figure. Women were something he had forsaken years ago, and white women had never been to his taste, besides. But there was something decent and hardworking about this woman, about this runner, in this heat, which bespoke a certain character.

The endorphins had long saturated his system, and he had permitted himself to be overcome by something of a reverie state as he lazily admired the woman’s stride, not seeing what she was running into.

Two young black boys—no older than 15—literally ran the woman over from a parallel line; darting around a parked car, one grabbing her music device carried in her right hand, and the other ruthlessly clothes-lining her with his forearm, dropping her to the pavement in a deflated heap.

Without a thought he was off, sprinting down the center of the street to flank them as they sped off quickly in their sneakers. He had no thought for the woman, no thought for the law, or for consequences, just for his honor.

They were quick, but not fit, breathing audibly already with the excitement, as if ambushing a woman, even of a reviled and oppressive race, was a thing worthy of a warrior. The fools did not even seem to think he was chasing them, until the shorter one, who had snagged the musical device, with its cords dangling, darted out in front of Akbar.

He heard the snapping of the boy’s ankle before he felt him under foot. Jump boots were good for a running stomp kick, particularly on small lightly-boned creatures like this. The boy skidded and groaned dropping the device, and grabbing for his ankle. Akbar seized his other foot and did a standing knee-bar, throwing his own considerable weight flat on his back, onto the asphalt, to insure complete separation of the knee. The loud crack and the plaintive groan of the vermin indicated a possible clean break of the shinbone.

The taller boy could be heard sprinting straight away down the sidewalk. Akbar was up and after him, sprinting down the street, causing a car to veer off and stop. He weaved between two parked cars and pulled up behind the boy, who was already faltering in his stride. He felt a pang of disgust in his belly.

Akbar Qama turned up the pace, running like he had in his youth, his knees pumping to his chest. When the sound of his furious stride came to the ears of the rabbit of a boy, the youth turned to look at him with pained eyes, and just collapsed into a groveling heap, whimpering for mercy.

He could hear the echo of some large thundering beast, with a voice like a broken church bell, indicting the whimpering creature at his feet: accusing him of insult to a Warrior of Islam, of a promised death, a promised berth in hell, and an eventual visit from a vengeful soul that abides no dishonor. His ears finally rang with an insane roar, “I am Arbese el Qama and I will eat your soul!”

The earsplitting declaration echoed across the street and off the fine stone buildings, from which various suited men and dress-wearing woman—devil and devil-raped—had been stepping with a look of fearful inquiry on their faces. The boy beneath him had urinated himself and lay in a puddle on the concrete walk. He turned to see the stunned woman being raised to her feet by an elderly man, while a younger woman in a dress returned something to her.

Akbar Qama, usually known to folks such as these as a mysterious man named 'Poet,' regarded the shivering heap at his feet, which looked upward at him through tear-filled eyes. He glared into the eyes, behind which hid the quivering half-formed soul, and snarled, “Notice is served.”

Off he jogged, light of heart, turning left at the first opportunity, to lose himself in the bustle of the late summer afternoon along York Road, and beyond, down into the dark, dank wasteland of a den known as Baltimore, a hell that he was beginning to feel was peculiarly his.