Don't Tell Me You're Afraid by Giuseppe Catozzella

has a face just like a nigger,” they said.
    Alì, as always, didn’t breathe a word; he looked them straight in the eye one by one.
    â€œSo this Darod doesn’t talk. He must be so hungry he even ate his tongue.” And the three morons burst out laughing.
    Alì knew he wouldn’t get very far with three against one. Besides, he was in an Abgal district, so he didn’t have much hope. Remaining calm, he let the one who seemed like the leader get close enough, then suddenly, as swiftly as he had bitten the militiaman’s hand that long-ago night, he kicked him on the shin. The guy doubled over in pain and Alì ran away fast. The other two ran after him for a while; then, being slower than him, they blew the whistle that thugs wear around their necks for times like these.
Tweeeeeee!
So loud it could be heard through half the city. Turning the corner, Alì found himself face to face with a man who stopped him, demanding to know why he was running and whether he had by chance stolen something, which was contrary to the law of the Koran. Right then the two guys showed up and told the man that Alì was a thief, that he’d stolen their money.
    They beat him and took everything he had, which was only that strapless wristwatch. From then on we did without a watch.
    Now, with Said’s stopwatch, everything changed.
    Who knew what Alì would have said. He’d have found it hard to believe that he could use a real timer. Being able to measure my times seemed impossible to me too.
    Until that day all I had known was that I’d come in first.
    I must have inherited the seed of madness from Aabe, in any case.
    I was right to say that to Hooyo when she asked me. It was with my father’s permission, in fact, that I went to the CONS stadium at night on the last three days before the Hargeysa race.
    I had been asking him for years. Alì had told me many times about how he and his friends Amir and Nurud would sneak inand play soccer there when they were little. It had stuck in my mind. A time when I could use the stadium in peace.
    Aabe had never given me permission to do it. Until those three days before the race, when I went to plead with him, and he relented.
    â€œThank you, Aabe. I’ll be forever grateful to you,” I told him, making sheep’s eyes at him.
    â€œI hope you’ll be grateful when these three days are over, because it will mean that nothing happened to you,” he replied worriedly.
    The truth was that, even though it was pitch dark, this was the only time when there was no danger, because there was no one around and the evening curfew had already quieted things down.
    I left the house around eleven o’clock, all covered up in my burka, and in half an hour, running through the most out-of-the-way streets, I was at the stadium.
    I slipped through one of the holes in the fence, crossed the ticket-window area, climbed over a low gate that led to the central tunnel, and from there got in.
    It was fantastic.
    The scent of grass was overwhelming; my senses were completely engulfed by that sweet, subtle, pungent fragrance.
    Having the empty stadium all to myself, illuminated only by the light of the moon, was as breathtaking as touching the star-studded sky.
    I stopped at the edge of the tartan track on which I had won my first race and took off the onerous black burka. I folded it and left it on the ground. Then, as I took slow, deep breaths, just the idea of being in there at night produced a rush of adrenaline thatenergized me. I warmed up, taking long, unhurried strides that brought me to the center of the soccer field. From there, for a few seconds that lasted an eternity, I savored the sight of the deserted stadium.
    Not a soul.
    Only me, my breath, and the moon. And the scent of the grass, heady, all around me.
    I pretended that there was peace outside, that this was a minor infraction and that I wasn’t risking anything.
    It was there, on those