Story #2: The Gun

Story #2: The Gun
By Arman Hoque

I heard the door bell and ran to the front of our house.

Ma was working volunteering at the charity for the United Nations woman’s association.  Abba was at work at the UN too as usual, as senior staff.

The only people at home in the summer would be our maid, Lakach and of course Alam,  our guard, who must have opened the gate to let whomever in.

Being summer vacation, I ran to open the door.  My friends Mukul and Farai were there… cockier than usual.
“Hey Arman…. Want to do something cool?” Mukul asked.


Farai was more rambunctious … “Arman…. You think you’re so cool… you’re not going to believe this.

Farai was the son of the Zimbabwean ambassador to Ethiopia.   As said,  my parents worked for or with the United Nstions.

Mukul was the son of the Indian Ambassador or high Consul.  I saw Mukul had brought his blue Mitsubishi,  licence plated with his father’s diplomatic colours.  We oft enjoyed driving around the streets of Addis, confident that no matter what we do, nobody could stop us.

That day,  the stakes were about to get a little bit higher.

I stepped out into the sunshine and felt the chill of the altitude living in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia afforded us.
I knew I’d probably need a light jacket,  but for the moment, jeans and my t-shirt were comfortable.


Our driveway had a t shape in front of the house and along the side towards the garage.  To my left,  I passed my mother’s rose garden and to my right was the lawn.

I stepped down the marble steps and onto the pavement.   Mukul had parked his car in front of the basketball hooop I had have installed.    Farai reached back to the trunk of the car and popped the boot.

My eyes couldn’t believe what I saw lying in the trunk.  An AK-47 gun that looked almost too big to fit in the trunk.


“What the hell?”  I exclaimed. “Where did you get that?” I asked when they started laughing at my bemusement.

“I stole it from our guards at the Zimbabwe  embassy”. Farai responded so casually as though he’d stopped and bought it from a 7-11,  which did not exist in Ethiopia at the time.

Coming from Canada, I knew the comforts of western culture, civilization and wealth.   However,  I also recognized how important what the UN was doing as well as the benefit the links to other countries like India and Zimbabwe had on Ethiopia.


At some time in the past,  Ethiopia had been called the bread basket of Africa.   By 1993, the civil war had been over for just a few years after decades of poverty caused by mismanagement, miscalculation and misappropriation.

We didn’t live in a war zone anymore.   My family had lived through the turn of the tide in the war,   But by then,  we had been living in peace for years, so I never expected a semi automatic weapon to be able to be absconded with so easily.

“What are you doing with it?   Why did you bring it here?”  I asked rather flustered.   Farai laughed as he stroked the weapon in the boot I couldn’t take my eyes off of.  “Let’s take it out of the city and shoot something “. Farai suggested.

I said “are you out of your mind?!!!…

That is so cool, let’s go do this.”…

And so we did it.

The drive through the streets was uneventful.  Mukul was driving and I was in the front seat despite Farai being the one with the gun;  safely stored in the trunk.

Mukul enjoyed the camaraderie and I loved being in the centre of something happening.  Our hearts were racing… on our way to do something illicit.


Addis Ababa is a city built on the top of a mountain.  The whole city is built on top of a mountain. The emperor who built the city, built it so that his soldiers could monitor invaders, climbing up the hills.  Consequently, when you live in Addis Ababa, every single direction you look, there are hills and mountains lining  the sky.

When you enter, or leave the city, you have to pass checkpoints, where soldiers verify that you are permitted to enter or leave.  This is where having a diss, diplomatic license plate was quite helpful to going around.  Mukul drove us outside of the city until we came to a vast empty plane. There was nothing around for as far as the eye can see.  We pulled the car over and Mukul popped the boot.  I reached in and touched the gun.  As I pulled it out of the car and lined it up with my sight, I noted how heavy it was.  There was a cartridge clip that carried three inch bullets.  I lined up the sight and aimed into the sky.  Ensuring there was nothing around that could be damaged, I fired.  

The first thing I noted was how loud the “blam!!!” Exploded, breaking the otherwise silent afternoon.  

 The second thing I realized was the recoil of the gun had hit me on my chest.   I didn’t realize that not understanding how to handle a gun could cause that kind of small consequences.   A bruised shoulder was the least thing I was concerned about as my adrenaline was pumping.

That’s when we realized a soldier was running to us shouting give me your gun.   He had appeared out of nowhere and started shouting demands.    By that time,  the gun was safely back in the trunk and Mukul was back in the drivers seat.   I was in the front and Farai was in the back.   I closed the window and told Mukul to jet us out of there.

Mukul said “what about the soldier?”,  who was knocking on our window.   I said “shut up and drive!”  

And he did… screeching us out of there as the soldier ran behind us waving.   I told Mukul… “you’ve got diplomatic plates!  They can’t stop or search us!   Get us the hell out of here.   Get us home fast!


The ride Home was considerably faster than the ride out of the city had been.

The three of us were fueled on nothing but teen spirit and adrenaline.  We laughed and chatted,  wondering if the news that night would report “Gun shot heard!”?

But it wasn’t.   Farai took the gun back to the Zimbabwean embassy and we heard nothing about it and hardly spoke about it again.

Mukul, who was my best friend at the time, invited me to his house for decompression, snuck out a bottle of his father’s Johnny walker blue label and we shared a few sips before we started wondering if this would be a story we would tell someday when we got older.

A lot could have gone worse… for three foolish testosterone loaded teens and a gun.  I’m grateful I can look back and answer myself then..
“It turned out that way.”





Arman E. Hoque B.A., M.P.A., J.D.