Saifullah came home late that day from an evening class. Slumbering on the sofa in his living room, he breathed the heavy aroma of approaching rainfall. The sporadic gunshots—a clear reminder of the conflict that had split their nation apart—reverberated around the metropolis outside. Over the past year, the frequency and duration of explosions and weapon fire had increased, indicating the forcefulness of the Mujahideen onslaught gathering momentum with each passing month.

Warda was at the minister’s house. Around two in the morning, a loud banging on the door prompted Banou to bolt from the bedroom and Saifullah to jump out of his seat in surprise as the door flew open. A group of plainclothes KhAD operatives charged in, their faces hidden behind dark masks.

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“Saifullah Suleimanzai! You are under arrest for the murder of a police official.”

Saifullah flinched back in dismay, his thoughts scrambling to make sense of such an insane charge. Rough hands grabbed him before he could object and shackled his wrists with cold irons.

“Stop! Please. You are mistaken. He is a decent, honourable professor of literature at the university. Killing someone?... That is unimaginable. You can speak with anyone about his reputation.

The men dragged him violently towards the door. Banou, sobbing uncontrollably, got down on her knees and touched the feet of the one giving orders, “For the sake of God, let him go! He is innocent.”

“Banou. It’s okay. Stand up. I will be fine.” Saifullah suddenly became impassive due to the humiliation and guilt of witnessing his wife beg the strangers.

One of the intruders put a black cloth over Saifullah’s head before pushing him into the back of a car.