One week later, the trial date arrived. Jabr had thought — had hoped, really — that the affair would be quiet and unobserved, a matter settled in a near-empty courtroom with only the necessary officials present. But when he stepped inside, the air was thick with murmurs, and the benches were crowded with faces he recognized and many more he didn’t. The courtroom was bustling, filled. He felt a cold sweat form on his forehead. *How did so many know? Why did they care? How had his debt become so infamous?
He understood then that his name carried weight in Kuwait, whether he liked it or not. Too many events had characterized his past — some small scandals, a few minor victories, his family’s history intertwined with the city’s own fabric. And now, here he was, the latest spectacle.
Al-Bader and Al-Faraj were there, sitting in the front row with a group of men of similar age and stature. The two of them, he suspected, had spread word of his predicament, inviting their friends to watch the debacle. They whispered among themselves, pointing toward him, smirking. Jabr’s hands clenched involuntarily. It was all worse than he had anticipated.
Judge Hamadi, a gaunt man with a silver beard and a dispassionate gaze, rapped his gavel and called the trial to order. His Egyptian accent was off-putting.
“Silence in the court!” he boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings, clearly enjoying his role. “The defendant is Jabr Oslander. The accusers are Messrs. Al-Bader and Al-Faraj.”
Hamadi’s eyes swept over the room like a falcon. “Will the accusers step forward and present their complaint?”
Al-Bader, a stout man with a permanent scowl, rose first, followed by Al-Faraj, whose lean frame was draped in an immaculate thobe with gold brocade. Al-Bader spoke, his voice dripping with a feigned courtesy that made Jabr’s skin crawl.
“Your Honor, the defendant has borrowed one and a half million rupees from us. We have not charged interest, though it is well within our rights to do so. Yet he claims he cannot pay us back.”
There was a murmur in the crowd. Someone let out a low whistle. Jabr felt his stomach twist.
Judge Hamadi turned to Jabr. “Mr. Oslander, please state your response.”
Jabr stood, his legs feeling like lead. He cleared his throat, the words sticking, heavy in his mouth. “Judge, sir, I… I cannot pay the amount at present,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. Hamadi’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. “Then, what are we to do?” He leaned forward, his fingers tapping slowly on the bench. “Mr. Oslander, you have two weeks, August 18, 1946, to make this payment, otherwise, I will pass this complaint along to the criminal court. Do you understand?”
Jabr swallowed hard. “I… Yes, Your Honor. I understand.”
Hamadi nodded, satisfied. “This court is dismissed for today.”
The gavel came down again, but the noise in the courtroom only grew louder. People began to stand, to talk over one another, some laughing, others shouting questions. Al-Bader and Al-Faraj remained seated, their faces painted with smug satisfaction.
Jabr stood there for a moment, frozen. So that was it. Two weeks. A deadline that felt like a death sentence. He had expected no mercy, no leniency, but still… Two weeks.
As he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of Hamadi whispering to a man in a dark suit. And then it clicked — Hamadi. Of course. Jabr could place him now: Hamadi was one of the intermediaries in the Egyptian end of the Mary’s spurious fund transfers, a man with his own reputation for shifting money like sand through fingers. The man was active in the judicial system of two countries, a product of the complicated judicial codes of Egypt and Kuwait. Jabr’s heart sank further. He couldn’t trust him. This was already rigged.
Outside the courthouse, the crowd spilled into the street, the buzz of conversation following him like a swarm of bees. Jabr felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Fadel, a concerned look in his eyes.
“You alright, Jabr?” Fadel asked.
Jabr shook his head, his voice low. “No, Fadel. I’m not. And I don’t think I will be… not for a long time.”
Fadel nodded, his brow furrowing. “I heard what Hamadi said. Two weeks… that’s not enough time.”
“It’s all the time I have,” Jabr replied. “And I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Maybe Dandy can help,” Fadel suggested. “He’s got connections. We can figure something out.”
Jabr sighed. “I don’t want to drag anyone else into this. And especially not Dandy after the news about his friend in the US. But… thank you, Fadel. I might not have a choice.”
They stood there for a moment, the noise of the crowd around them fading into the background. Jabr looked up at the sky, feeling the weight of the clouds above. Two weeks. Somehow, he would have to make them count.
Jabr didn’t have any clear idea where to proceed next. For years, he had relied on his cleverness to scrape together solutions, even when the odds were stacked against him. Desperation had always been his best stimulus, a dark fuel that propelled him forward. Whenever a door closed, he found a way to pry a window open. To achieve his goals, he’d traversed the Middle East, forging deals in Aden backrooms, navigating the souks of Cairo, and sending others like Dandy to handle the dirty work. No risk was too great, no gamble too high stakes. But this time felt different — he sensed a wall he couldn’t see past.
“The scallywags Al-Bader and Al-Faraj,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and simmering, “they’re just opponents in this joust. Surely, I can impale them with their own little spears.” He clenched his fist, the veins on his forearm tightening like the strings of an oud. They’re not worth my worry. He reassured himself, but the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. His pulse quickened, his mind racing. He had to do something. His sense of control — his own ego — surged to the forefront, demanding action, demanding a plan.
Jabr couldn’t contain it any longer. He burst into the small apartment he shared with Jomana, finding her seated by the window, a soft afternoon light spilling in, illuminating her with a gentle glow. Her hands rested on her belly, a small but unmistakable sign of new life. She looked up, startled by his entrance.
“I’ve got a plan,” he announced, his voice brimming with manic energy. “I’ll confront those two crooks in a neutral spot. Somewhere they won’t expect it. I’ll go in with guns blazing — not literally, of course, but you know what I mean.” His eyes flashed with intensity as he spoke. “I’ll catch them at that restaurant they frequent down by the beach. I’ll wait until they’re sipping their damn coffee, and then I’ll swoop in. I’ll make it clear how dangerous their plan is. I won’t give specifics, but I’ll hint at consequences — for them, for their families. They’ll think twice, believe me.”
Jomana’s face tightened with worry. “Jabr, what are you talking about?” she asked, her voice a mixture of fear and frustration. “You do owe them money. This isn’t some game. If you threaten them, you’ll only make things worse. You’re not thinking straight.” She instinctively placed her hands over her belly, as if to shield their unborn child from the reckless madness of Jabr’s words.
He paused for a moment, her reaction puncturing his bravado, but the urgency within him drowned out her voice of reason. “I must do this, Jomana. I must make them see who they’re dealing with.”
Before she could respond, he turned on his heel and rushed out, his feet pounding the sand as he headed toward the restaurant by the beach. His mind was racing, his heart beating like a war drum. When he arrived, he scanned the tables frantically, but the two were nowhere to be seen. His anger boiled, spilling over into frustration. He paced up and down the shoreline, muttering under his breath, formulating, refining his plan, refusing to let the night swallow his resolve.
The next morning, he rose with no loss of courage or intention. His eyes were red with sleeplessness, his body tense with the anticipation of confrontation. This time, when he reached the restaurant, he saw them: Al-Bader and Al-Faraj, laughing over their coffee, probably at him, oblivious to his approach.
Jabr stormed up to their table, grabbing a chair from a nearby table, and slammed it down before them. His arrival shattered the easy air around them, and their laughter died away. “Listen, you two hooligans,” he barked, his voice raw with anger, “I’m done with your games. You’re trying to ruin my family, and I won’t stand for it. Delay your actions, or I can’t promise what might happen to you.” He pounded his fist on the metal table, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Al-Bader barely flinched. He raised his hand lazily and signaled to two men nearby. “Please escort Mr. Oslander back to the street,” he said, his tone dripping with mock politeness.
Before Jabr could protest, the two men seized him by the arms and hauled him out of the restaurant. As he stumbled into the sunlight, the door clicked shut behind him, leaving him standing alone on the cobblestone street. He could hear the faint laughter of the patrons, some chuckling into their coffee cups, others whispering behind their hands. His face burned with humiliation.
Jabr stood there, his hands hanging limply at his sides. He couldn’t believe what he had done. He felt the sting of his own foolishness, the weight of his miscalculation pressing down on him. “What was wrong with me?” he muttered to himself. “All I wanted was to solve this, to prove I could fix things… but I’ve only made them worse.” He kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering down the street.
He began to walk slowly back, each step heavy with the gravity of his failure. If he kept relying on these rash, desperate gambits, he wondered, would he ever break free from this cycle? He sought his own satisfaction, his own salvation, but all he had found was another dead end. What was I thinking, was I crazy?
The news of Jabr’s indiscretion spread through the town like wildfire. Whispers and furtive glances followed him everywhere he went, and he quickly learned to avoid the souk altogether. The market, once a place of comfort and familiarity, now felt like a den of judgment. Jomana, determined to stand by him but wary of recognition, began wearing an abaya whenever she ventured out. The loose, dark fabric allowed her to move unnoticed, her face partially veiled, her steps brisk and deliberate.
Meanwhile, Dandy had heard of the scandal and couldn’t ignore the gnawing worry at the back of his mind. Over coffee, Bassema, his wife, entered their dining room, her brow furrowed with concern.
“Is there anything you can do for the man?” she asked, setting down her cup with a slight clatter. “You know he really has no way out of this mess. And despite all the trouble, he is your friend.”
Dandy exhaled, a slight edge to his voice. “There’s nothing to do. This is just Jabr. He gets himself into a mess, and then he tries to work some magic on his own. He’s never satisfied to just let things play out. I guess that’s the problem… he’s never satisfied, period.”
Bassema shook her head, undeterred. “But you can’t let him flounder, Dandy. Even a delay might help him, give him some room to breathe.”
Dandy didn’t reply immediately, but his jaw tightened. For the rest of the day, he stayed silent, lost in thought. By nightfall, Bassema noticed the furrow in his brow had deepened, his gaze distant. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, as the first light of dawn crept through their window, Dandy swung his legs over the side of the bed, urgency propelling him up.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself, as much as to her, “I’ll do something.”
Dandy rounded up his crew — a rough, burly bunch of five Texans who had come with him to Kuwait on his current venture. They were men accustomed to handling situations with their fists, if necessary, each one wearing a hardened look that suggested a history of bar fights and brawls back in the Texas oil fields. Dandy knew they were unlike anything men like Al-Faraj and Al-Bader had dealt with before — men whose problems were usually solved with either smooth talk or well-placed bribes.
The group moved through the narrow, winding streets like a pack of wolves, closing in on their target. They found Al-Faraj and Al-Bader just as they were leaving the bank, dressed now in crisp suits, their polished leather shoes clicking on the stone passage. The Texans fanned out, surrounding the two Kuwaiti businessmen, their presence alone blocking any easy exit.
Dandy stepped forward, his tone polite but with a steely undercurrent. “Gentlemen,” he began, tipping his hat slightly. “We understand you’re planning to take our friend Jabr Oslander to court. Are you certain that’s the direction you want to go?”
The Texans edged closer, tightening the circle. The look on their faces was a warning, a silent dare. Al-Bader and Al-Faraj exchanged nervous glances. Al-Bader, always the more calculating of the two, was the first to speak, his voice steady but with an edge of uncertainty. “We are simply pursuing our legal rights. This isn’t personal.”
Dandy’s smile was thin, almost patronizing. “Of course, of course. But maybe… just maybe… you could reconsider your timeline. Give the man a bit more room, a little breathing space. Two more weeks, perhaps?”
The businessmen felt the weight of the situation shift. Usually, they were the ones who did the intimidating, or at least paid others to do it for them. Now, they were being cornered by a group of men who clearly weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Al-Faraj’s eyes darted around, searching for a way out, but the alley offered no escape.
Al-Bader swallowed hard, his voice breaking slightly. “Alright… two weeks, September 1. We’ll give him two more weeks.”
The Texans took a small step back, widening the circle just enough to ease the tension but not enough to offer a clear way out.
“And you’ll notify Judge Hamadi,” Dandy added, his tone firm, almost commanding.
Al-Faraj nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, we’ll take care of it.”
Dandy nodded in satisfaction. “Good. We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”
With that, the Texans stepped aside, allowing the two businessmen to leave. Al-Bader and Al-Faraj hurried away, their confident strides reduced to quick, nervous steps. Dandy watched them go, a smirk on his face.
For now, Jabr had a temporary reprieve, but Dandy knew that they had only bought time, not a solution. As he turned to his crew, he muttered under his breath, “Now, let’s see if Jabr can make good use of it.”
The Texans grinned, and they all walked back toward the bustling heart of the town, ready for whatever might come next.
Jabr, who had witnessed the confrontation, watched the Texans depart, their faces taut with frustration, their shoulders slumped, perhaps in guilt over their threats. A flicker of satisfaction warmed his chest; he felt, for the first time in months, a sense of relief, like he’d just stepped out of a dark tunnel and could finally breathe. He glanced at Dandy, who had quietly dismissed his friends with a wave and began making his way toward him. Dandy’s face was serious, almost grave, a stark contrast to the way he’d looked just moments before, laughing and swaggering with his compatriots.
“I guess that showed ‘em,” Jabr said, his voice edged with a mix of disbelief and forced bravado. For a moment, he dared to hope they had somehow won, but deep down, he knew better. This wasn’t a victory, just a temporary break in the storm. The truth settled in his gut like a heavy stone; it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Dandy’s expression softened, his eyes searching Jabr’s face. Jabr continued trying to keep his voice steady, “Thanks for intervening. I guess I’ve got a little more time to solve this. I know there’s some way I can fix it. It’s just up to me to find a way, by myself this time.”
Dandy shook his head slowly, a hint of sadness in his gaze. “Jabr, there’s more to this than you pulling off some miracle on your own. You can’t fix this alone. We’ve had our troubles, but – .“ His words hung heavy in the air between them, and he held Jabr’s gaze for a long, silent moment, as if trying to push the truth through his eyes and into Jabr’s heart.
Jabr’s breath caught in his throat. “What choice do I have?” he murmured, more to himself than to Dandy, his voice barely a whisper.
“Maybe it’s not your choice at all,” Dandy replied, his tone almost gentle but firm. “Sure, we stepped in, but what we did… it was risky, probably illegal. We threatened Kuwaiti citizens, Jabr. That doesn’t just disappear. The authorities could still come down on us. Al-Faraj and Al-Bader might be scared now, but fear fades. We won’t know for a while if we’re safe.” He shook his head, a slight, frustrated gesture.
Jabr’s heart quickened. “What do you think is next?” He kept his steps in sync with Dandy’s, hoping for more, for some kind of direction, but Dandy seemed to be pulling away, distancing himself from whatever hope Jabr clung to.
Dandy stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “I’ll tell you what I think, Jabr. I think you’re looking in the wrong place. You keep searching inside yourself for some untapped strength, some answer that isn’t there. You’re drained, man. There’s nothing left in the well. You’ve got to look outside yourself.”
Jabr blinked, feeling a mix of anger and confusion. “Then where should I look?” he demanded, frustration sharpening his voice.
Dandy sighed, his eyes softening with a mix of pity and concern. “Look to the people who care about you, who’ve been standing by you even when you didn’t ask for it. Maybe… it’s time you let them help you. Truly help you, without this pride, this need to do it all on your own. Because if you keep going like this, Jabr… I’m afraid you’re gonna lose more than just your way.”
Jabr felt the sting of Dandy’s words, like a slap to his face. But as the sharpness faded, he felt something else—something softer, something like… understanding.
