Hamid Karzai

President of Afghanistan

USAID

As a special treat, I’d like to share with you an excerpt from the Hamid Karzai fan fiction I’ve been writing. It’s still a work-in-progress, so go easy on me!

Tall, Dark, and Hamid

It is a hot and muggy evening. (Author’s note: By “muggy,” I mean both that it is humid and also that it is filled with muggers.) You are walking home from work after being roped into working late… again. As the only person in your office who lives alone, most days you don’t mind staying late to cover for colleagues who have families to get home to, but today you just weren’t in the mood. As you pass the doorway of your favorite watering hole, you feel a blast of air-conditioning. (Author’s note: “watering hole” is a slang term for “bar.” I’m going through sort of a cowboy phase in my writing.) On a whim, you turn around and mosey inside.

The bar is packed for a Thursday evening. You spot a vacant barstool and sidle up to the counter. The bartender, Ted, is busy—but when he sees you, he gives you a nod and brings over your usual drink. As you take a sip, you cast your eyes around the dark, crowded room, and with a jolt you realize that someone across the room is staring at you intently. As your eyes meet his, you quickly take him in. His large eyes are brown, almost black, and framed by thick, black eyebrows. He has a straight nose and a smooth, bald head. The rest of his face is hidden by a neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard.

You feel a rush of heat as your cheeks turn bright red, and you quickly look away. You turn to your drink, taking a long, slow sip as you gather your thoughts. Just as you are debating whether or not it’s safe to glance over at him again, suddenly you sense someone standing right next to you. You don’t have to look up to know who it is.

“Hello,” says a quiet, gently accented voice. “May I buy you a drink?”

You look up, and as your eyes meet his for the second time, you find that you can’t speak. You nod dumbly, even though your drink is still full. He casually motions to the bartender.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hamid Karzai, the president of Afghanistan.”

“I know,” you say, finally finding your voice. “It’s printed on your sash.”

Hamid Karzai laughs softly and glances down.

“Of course—I forgot I was wearing my official presidential sash.”

Now that he’s standing so close to you, you can’t help but notice how his fitted shirt and tight sash hint at a strong, muscled chest underneath.

“I know we just met,” Hamid Karzai says, leaning in close, “But I have to tell you—you are different from all of the other girls. I have never met another girl like you.”

“You mean because I’m drinking beer out of a margarita glass?”

“Well, yes. That’s part of it,” he admits. “But also, I feel like I can be myself around you. You get me in a way that no one else does.”

“Really?” you ask, blushing again. “I have to admit, I don’t know very much about Afghanistan…”

“You have beautiful eyes,” he interrupts.

“Isn’t there a war going on there or something? Or is that over?”

“Look—do you want to get out of here?” he asks suddenly. “Go someplace quieter, perhaps?”

“What, like a library?”

“No…not like a library.”

“Because the library is probably closed.”

“I know. I said NOT a library.’”

“Oh. OK.”

TO BE CONTINUED