‘I want to play,’ says Bibi.
Before I can stop her, she flicks the ball away from my feet. I lunge at it, but she sidesteps my tackle and steers the ball down the street. She turns and dribbles towards me.
‘Come on,’ she says, ‘Get it from me.’
I go in with my fastest tackle, but she flips the ball over my ankle, runs round the other side of me and traps the ball under her foot.
I stare at her, half angry, half grinning. This is amazing. My sister is a football natural.
A wonderful thought hits me. We can do it together. We can improve our skills and impress the government and start a national team and win the hearts of all Afghans together. When the government sees how talented Bibi is, they’ll change their minds about girls playing football. They’ll have to.
‘Penalty shot,’ says Bibi, eyes gleaming. She steps back, hitches up her skirt, runs at the ball and boots it.
Hard.
The ball flies up the street. For a sickening second I think it’s going to smash through Mr Nasser’s one unbroken window. But it curves away from his house and sails all the way up the street.
And thumps into the door of our house.
It’s the most incredible kick I’ve seen in my life.
‘Wow,’ I whisper.
Then our house explodes.
A white flash lights up the whole village and half the desert. A roar of wind smashes into us and flings us both to the ground. I roll onto Bibi and try to cover as much of her body with mine as I can while the air rips at us and stones rain down on us. People are screaming and running out of houses.
‘Get off,’ yells Bibi, ‘You’re squashing my head.’
I roll over and peer down the street through the dust.
Our house is gone. Where it was is just a dark gap between the other houses. Rubble is lying where Dad used to park the taxi.
I stare, speechless, ears ringing, trying to take it all in.
My mouth is open and full of grit.
It was a hard kick, but it wasn’t that hard.
Then I hear engines revving. Two trucks are speeding away down the side street.
Someone is pulling me and Bibi to our feet. It’s Dad. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing hard and staring at the trucks as well.
‘Pigs,’ he hisses.
Dad hardly ever uses bad language like that. Unlike most taxi drivers he never swears at other drivers. There’s only really one thing he ever swears about. That’s how I realise what’s happened.
The government has blown up our house.