Returned Empty

I lived in a small village in central Afghanistan. At the far end of the valley where the land smoothed stood two rows of mud-built shops, and some scattered around them. The land belonged to us, and my father had sold the plots to people during his time.

There was a time when, as a teenager, I sold plots of land. No one in my family knew.

My grandfather’s cousin, Haidari, had a hold on me. He was a tall man with a long nose and lived in our village. He said he knew where small patches hadn’t been sold, and he knew interested buyers. We’d ride to the bazaar on my motorcycle. He would point to an empty space and say, “This one hasn’t been sold yet.”

A man would be waiting, someone Haidari had spoken to. I drew up a contract, signed it, and took the money. Haidari never asked for a cut. Maybe he got his share from the buyer. With cash in my pocket, I’d go to the capital city of Kabul. I spent it all, sometimes on myself and sometimes on others, and returned empty.

One time it caught up with me. A man to whom I had sold a plot of land came to the bazaar and cornered me. He said I had fooled him. The spot I sold him was already sold. His name was Juma. He was no stranger to these kinds of deals. I didn’t even know how to stand up for myself yet. But somehow, he thought I had gotten ahead of him.

He cursed me. He said he wanted the spot, or another. His face was rigid and dark. My mouth was dry. I stayed away from the market for some days, fearing he’d shame me in front of others.

Then one day, Juma came to our house. My grandmother and brother took him to the bazaar. They gave him a different patch, further out but three times bigger. He accepted it. My family was furious and said that I was becoming another Kabir, a relative who had sold all his properties and bought cars with the money, threw parties, and enjoyed city trips.

My relatives didn’t hide their disappointment. Some gave me cold, silent stares. Others smiled in front of me and gossiped behind my back. “He’ll end up down the drain,” they said.

I realized I was heading the same way as Kabir. After that, I never sold another thing. I hardly went to Haidari home, except Eid days or New Year, to pay respect. As one should.

If you enjoyed this piece, you may also be interested in my memoir, Hands at Work: Stitches of Childhood from Afghanistan. Its available here.