Far away in a land carpeted by red dunes and under a sun that knows no mercy, there lived a good folk of Afribians. Every morning the Afribian would ask his neighbor, "How? Great?" and his neighbor would reply, "Thanks be to god." The ambivalence of such an exchange was more than satisfactory. Sure, he didn't tell you if he was doing well or otherwise, but he said something much more important. He told you that he would not waste his time with trivial chatter if he had nothing out of the ordinary to tell. You see, the Afribians were not a nonsensical people, they said and did nothing except what was necessary. On the streets of Afribia, people did not wear seventeen colors on their back just for the sake of it. Indeed, they all wore white, not for their mere love of the color, but because it was the closest color to that of their pure hearts. Such symbolism was not uncommon to this diligent folk since they were only at peace when their actions were in full synchrony with their intentions. However, they were not all beautiful, humble, nor good people. Amongst them lived a wicked clan with long pointy heads the shape of metal tin cups. The men of the clan wore white robes to mask their evil identities, but the Afribians were not ones of trivial intelligence. For with every act of evil, one's head would begin to formulate into the shape of a cup, and that is how nature let the honest be recognized from the dishonest. Despite this, the good folk of Afribia never found it in their hearts to terminate the Cup-Heads' clan. As such, they co-existed until one rainy day in June, the Cup-Heads summoned their powers to topple King Sadiq The-Guided and take over the lands. Interesting as it is, that is another day's tedious tale to be told over a warm cup of Afribian milk-tea and honey biscuits. For now, I have the loveliest story to tell about Fatima The-Beauty.
Fatima had the longest hair of silk that occasionally peeped out from beneath her head-wrap. She held a tall curvy figure that would put Princess Kouka and the infamous Mihera to shame. Typical to the features of an Afribian, her nose was sharp, her eyes the shape of almonds, and her lips plump and resting on a long face the unusual color of Cadbury's dark chocolate. Ever since she was a toddler, Fatima was incomparable. At birth, the midwives had detected a broken melanin gene that left her skin darker than most girls. Sure, she had pretty features and a splendid body kept fit by outrunning ever guy in town, but that was not enough and as she grew her so did her problems.
Around the age of eight she began to develop peculiar tendencies that were uncommon to Afribian girls. She began to spend her days in the company of bound pages that told tales, and occasionally she would craft the tips of fallen feathers into pointed little shapes, dip them into bottles of black pigment and write her life away! Whenever her father, a wealthy salt merchant, invited his foreign clients for tea, she would race to greet them and begin a captivating conversation with "Ahlan! That is how we say hello in Arabic. How do you say hello?" Soon enough her tongue knew its way around England, France, China, and India, but reluctantly settled on the borders of Swahili. No one in town had not heard of the phenomenon about the girl who could read and write to outsmart the most cunning fox. At first, her parents humored her odd nature as a phase she would, surely, grow out of as she did the clothes on her back. But when she continued to spend every hour of her Afribian days locked in her room with inked paper, their worries began to take violent shapes.
At the age of 16 her color was no longer fascinating nor phenomenal, and her lovely features were pityingly shelved away like old family pictures. Once in a while, someone who had not seen her before would shake their heads and sigh "I swear I could have fallen in love with her, if only she was yellower!"With the exception of those moments, no one paid her a penny for her time, while her neighbors and friends began to leave, one girl at a time. Cling cling, the ladies' bridal gold would ring as they waved their henna-painted arms to say Farewell. Then one by one, they would clasp the edges of their elegant red dresses and mount a sturdy Afribian horse to ride off with this prince or that. Months slipped away like sand grains between greedy fingers, and with the turn of each calendar page Oum(Mother of)-Fatima's heart grew restless with envy and sorrow.
"I was such a beauty in my time. Everyone would say, 'My God ya Thoraya, you are going to be wed before your time, and then so will your daughters, and their daughters.' My mother had to hide me away because so many suitors were giving my father a headache. But look at me now, not even a son-in-law to brag about, let alone little grandchildren. You know, it is that evil neighbor of ours, Halema, she has always been jealous because her husband does not love her like your father does me. I bet she put some spell on us." Fatima's mother nagged, till she grew out of anger and into self-pity.
"Actually, it is my fault. Look at me, I am reaping what I sowed all those years ago when I didn't stop your reading nonsense! Are you a girl? Do you consider yourself a girl between all these other ladies building lives in their own homes while you run around in the morning and come by night to knead those feathers? Look at Halema, just the other day a man came to ask after her last daughter. But me, Allah has frowned upon me with a girl that wants to spend her whole life reading and writing in her father's house." Oum-Fatima sobbed before she hysterically began to beat on her head, as if that was how you hurt the bad luck till it ran out of your life.
When her mother got like this, which was often, Fatima would silently put down her quil pen and walk over to the kitchen to start the tea. She figured, the cherished creature that loved her for nine months before she even laid eyes on her might just be acting out of thirst. By the time the tea was ready Fatima would assemble the yummy Afribian honey biscuits (or sugar coated cookies if they were in season,) on a tray along side the tea. After placing the tray on a colorful little hand-woven table made of plaited rope, she would gently sit by her mother and ply Thoraya's hands off her head.
"Oummi (mother), it will be okay. Don't do this. It will be okay! You'll see. Just have some tea." Fatima would say as she gently stroked and kissed the back of her mothers hands. "It will be okay!" She would echo, again and again as if she herself needed more convincing than her mother did.
When her father was in town, her mother was never so grim. That was when Fatima was at her lowest. Her father had changed with old age, and his head was beginning to turn pointy and very much cup-like. A slip here or there could earn Fatima a black eye or worse. As such, she spent the days of her father's presence fetching the water, mending the fence, cleaning the barn, or cooking until her father slipped away for his afternoon siesta. That was when Fatima's journals came out to bathe in sunlight and be stroked with its favorite quill pen.
One summer evening as the sun was beginning to prepare itself for departure from Afribia, Fatima walked out and settled under the cool embrace of a large Baobab tree. As per usual, she furiously began to jot down dangerous words about pointy heads that looked like kitchenware. Speaking to her pages about the wicked forces that stole her benevolent father from her, she began to trespass all the fine lines of Afribia's laws which decreed No one shall speak maliciously of those in power, who are dedicating their time and efforts to justly run these lands. She was in breach of her freedom of speech, or the lack thereof, but she paid no mind to it. The quill pen danced away on the surface of her journal until the pages between her hands gasped from the intensity of the words written onto them. With their gasp came Fatima's tears--hot and feisty, rolling down her delicate cheeks. She quickly signed her thoughts with 'Fatima, The Beauty', then stood up and tore the critical pages off their journal's limbs. She folded them away from the threat of her falling tears, and placed them in a little mahogany box to be buried with the rest of her dangerous words.
When she entered the house, she was welcomed by her father's belly-shaking laughter and that of four other men. He was awake. Great!
"Where have you been you Waleya (helpless girl)? Don't tell me, I don't care. Go bring some tea, can't you see we have guests? GO!" Fatima's father ordered.
Cursing her luck, and wishing she could live with the heroines in her books, she walked to the kitchen to be greeted by her animated mother.
"Where have you been? Anyways, what are you making? Did he ask for Karkadé (Hibiscus juice)?" An overly enthusiastic Oum-Fatima asked.
"What? No, he wants tea." Fatima replied in the most tender voice she could use to mask her annoyance.
"Are you sure ya bit (girl)? Maybe you didn't hear it, who knows how well your ears work when they are being constantly burried deep between those heavy books. All the dust from those old books must have clogged your ears."
To this Fatima rolled her eyes, as she walked over to the sink and filled the kettle to its brim with water.
"Anyways, listen honey I think one of these guys has come for your hand. There are two men with their sons, you see? I don't know which will be your husband. But you see that nice man with a flat hat. I think he's the one here for you. Obviously he is not your father's friend because look at his head. That's not important. Anyways, listen listen put that down don't wast the tea. Actually make it make it, let them think we are generous. We'll give them tea with the red drinks. I'm so nervous, Fatima! Can you tell? I feel my heart is going to jump out of my chest. It's telling me today is your day, honey. What are you doing? Stop staring! Are you slow? I said make the t..."
"Fatima!!" Her father called, interrupting Thuraya's gritty chatter. "Bring the Karkadé ya bit! Kareem here deserves it for agreeing to take you off my hands."
AYOOOOOOOYOOOOOYOOOOY! In a manner typical of the Afribian culture, Thoraya rolled her tongue and screeched at the top of her lungs to express her joy.
Weeks passed, and the day Fatima would take off her white robes to wear an elegant red dress came closer. In the Afribian culture marriage was almost sacred, and the bride was completely so. The lucky girl turning to a new chapter of her life typically wore red, the color that meant new life. One afternoon, after she had finished an exasperating Afribian incense-sauna treatment, Fatima slipped away for a rendezvous with her dearly missed journal. As Fatima crossed her legs on the grass beneath her special Baobab tree, she made note of the odd ways in which the winds were blowing, and how the day in it's entirety was not typical of June. She then placed her journal on her lap and shook away her mental notes about the weather. It's just been a while since you've been out of the house you crazy girl, she told herself between giggles.
The pages that day did not gasp for Fatima's letters were joyous ones. She was grateful that her mother would no longer beat her head, and her father would no longer beat her. Planning for the wedding was fun too, she coyly admitted to her journal. However, she did not know Kareem. He seemed descent, and he never shook his head at her broken melanin gene. She met with him a few times, but she did not know him well enough to love his being as a future husband. What perplexed her most was his head, which was not flat like hers, nor pointedly shaped in a manner similar to her father’s. Her heart did not leap in warning at this, so she dismissed it as a fault of Kareem’s father. Surely Kareem may have indulged in one dishonest act or two to humor his father. No matter! She was in no place to be extremely picky. Once they were married she would speak to him like she spoke to her books, and he would gasp because...
"Salam Alaykom!(Peace be upon you)" A deep voice startled the hairs on Fatima's back into standing.
"Oh! Ahlan! You scared me! Haha, I'm not supposed to be here. You're the man with the hat from the other day. Ahlan, how are you?” Fatima nervously chattered, as she shut her journal closed and edged it away.
"You really aren't supposed to be out are you ya 'aroos? (bride). Yes, I'm the man with the hat, who is doing well now that he has seen you here. My name is Omar." He replied as he stuck his hand out in front of her.
"Ahlan Omar, I'm Fatima." She said as she took his hand and felt her heart tingle and clasp to the cold, firm handshake he offered. "Anyways my family is probably missing me. I didn't tell them I was going out. It's getting late. I should go back. So nice to meet you."
"You come here often don't you? I'm sure you do, which means they probably know. Sit sit, continue don't let me disturb you. Sit." Omar said as he motioned for her to resume her position under the tree, while he held her hand between his. "You're very smart right? I’ve been told no girl is like you when it comes to what's in here,” He commented, taping on the upper left side of his forehead.
“Lucky Karim, he stole you away from me that day. What can I say? The dowry asked for was ridiculously high. I mean when I heard of how intelligent you were, I couldn't believe it. I actually thought your father's price was not bad, considering you have half a brain more than do these other girls. But when you walked in on us that day, I thought your father is crazy, because of your skin disease. Haha, anyways that is of the past ya 'aroos. Why are you still standing?"
Fatima awkwardly sat, and Omar followed. He took her hand and placed it on his lap then suffocated her slim fingers with his two hands. It was an inappropriate position, and her heart was right to have leaped out of its place when she shook his hand. But it seemed that the realization had dawned on her a minute too late.
"So, show me what you were writing?"
"Uhm... it is a little personal and..." She gasped as Omar's hands traced their way up her shoulder, and to the back of her neck. "and actually, here I’d love for you to hear it. Just hold it with both hands, please. The binding is old and I don't want it to fall apart." She said, in an attempt to reclaim her captured hand, and free her neck from his sneaky fingers. Thank God for the times she buried all dangerous pages under the ground of course.
"Hahaha! You don't like this? How does it feel under this skin of yours, I wonder? Mmmm, relax relax it won't hurt. Relax ya bit!"
"Please, I am the daughter of good people as I am sure you are a son, and brother of honorable Afribians. I'm sure you want to save yourself for the next smart girl. Please, it's late. Just please..."
"Shhhh..."
Fatima kicked, shuffled, and screamed trying to wield off her attacker or wake herself up from the nightmare she was unfolding into. Omar responded violently as her attempts to save her grace intensified. He shifted above her and kicked her with all the strength God had given him. Like that, Fatima let one last heart-piercing cry escape her translucent lips. Then it was over, and the tears of realization streamed down her delicate dark-chocolate cheeks. Her future, her grace, her innocence were being stolen from her. She clasped her quill pen and willed it to take away her pain. I just wanted to write. I came here because I missed my journal. Help! I just wanted to write!
The sun lingered above the horizon and took its last peep at the broken girl under the Baobab tree. Omar rolled to his feet and chuckled.
"You really are beautiful, inside-out; and smart! So smart, and your work is very captivating. Do you read a lot of Tayeb Good's work? I feel your style, it takes after his. Anyways, I'll leave you to your journal then. Today sign it "Omar The-Great" will you?" Omar condescendingly said as he took off his hat, revealing the pointiest head the lands had ever seen, before he bowed to the end of his repulsive performance. "Yalla, see you around Fatima The-Beauty." He gave Fatima's disheveled back a mocking pat and walked away.
Fatima gasped with realization, and summoned the last of her strength to crawl to the secret box presumably buried under the earth. Her nails clawed at the earth in search of her Cup-Head writings. Suddenly, her hand slipped into the emptiness of a cold muddied hole, she lost her balance, toppled down and let out a shattered sigh.
An hour later, when some courage found her, Fatima picked herself up, made herself as presentable as a graceless girl could, and walked home chanting: It will be okay. Don't do this. It will be okay, you'll see...
The next day, as the roosters began to crow at the break of dawn, her mother folded her prayer rug and scratched her head. She sluggishly walked to Fatima's room to ask behind the reason that had held Fatima back from today's morning prayers.
Knock knock.
"Ya bit, are you still sleeping? Ya bit!"
Oum-Fatima turned the knob of her daughter's chamber, and fell to her knees as soon as the door swayed open. There stood Fatima's beautiful body bare and swaying, to and fro. Her feet just barely touched the ground and she looked like a floating angel, hanging by a rope fastened to the ceiling. Fatima's father came running into the room to scold the lady who's sobs and screams awoke him from his precious slumber. As he saw the sight that had crippled his wife, he gasped. The Cup-Headed man shifted tragically as his pointy-head did strange things. He absent-mindedly walked to his daughter’s corpse and freed the crumpled paper from between her cold, blue hands. His eyes ran across the paper and allowed the following words to unfold:
The man in the hat whose head was not flat
The beast in the man who casually wears white
He stole my grace, but that was not mine
He stole it from Kareem, so I apologize .
The man in the hat, dear mother and father
You said his head was flat, but it was just the hat
Mama, he took my innocence but that wasn't mine
He took your baby girl, so I apologize.
The man in the hat from the Afribian clan
He stole my words! He stole my voice!
He stole my identity, the one I hid well
So I took myself, and I apologize.
Warm Regards,
Fatima-The Beauty
Fatima had the longest hair of silk that occasionally peeped out from beneath her head-wrap. She held a tall curvy figure that would put Princess Kouka and the infamous Mihera to shame. Typical to the features of an Afribian, her nose was sharp, her eyes the shape of almonds, and her lips plump and resting on a long face the unusual color of Cadbury's dark chocolate. Ever since she was a toddler, Fatima was incomparable. At birth, the midwives had detected a broken melanin gene that left her skin darker than most girls. Sure, she had pretty features and a splendid body kept fit by outrunning ever guy in town, but that was not enough and as she grew her so did her problems.
Around the age of eight she began to develop peculiar tendencies that were uncommon to Afribian girls. She began to spend her days in the company of bound pages that told tales, and occasionally she would craft the tips of fallen feathers into pointed little shapes, dip them into bottles of black pigment and write her life away! Whenever her father, a wealthy salt merchant, invited his foreign clients for tea, she would race to greet them and begin a captivating conversation with "Ahlan! That is how we say hello in Arabic. How do you say hello?" Soon enough her tongue knew its way around England, France, China, and India, but reluctantly settled on the borders of Swahili. No one in town had not heard of the phenomenon about the girl who could read and write to outsmart the most cunning fox. At first, her parents humored her odd nature as a phase she would, surely, grow out of as she did the clothes on her back. But when she continued to spend every hour of her Afribian days locked in her room with inked paper, their worries began to take violent shapes.
At the age of 16 her color was no longer fascinating nor phenomenal, and her lovely features were pityingly shelved away like old family pictures. Once in a while, someone who had not seen her before would shake their heads and sigh "I swear I could have fallen in love with her, if only she was yellower!"With the exception of those moments, no one paid her a penny for her time, while her neighbors and friends began to leave, one girl at a time. Cling cling, the ladies' bridal gold would ring as they waved their henna-painted arms to say Farewell. Then one by one, they would clasp the edges of their elegant red dresses and mount a sturdy Afribian horse to ride off with this prince or that. Months slipped away like sand grains between greedy fingers, and with the turn of each calendar page Oum(Mother of)-Fatima's heart grew restless with envy and sorrow.
"I was such a beauty in my time. Everyone would say, 'My God ya Thoraya, you are going to be wed before your time, and then so will your daughters, and their daughters.' My mother had to hide me away because so many suitors were giving my father a headache. But look at me now, not even a son-in-law to brag about, let alone little grandchildren. You know, it is that evil neighbor of ours, Halema, she has always been jealous because her husband does not love her like your father does me. I bet she put some spell on us." Fatima's mother nagged, till she grew out of anger and into self-pity.
"Actually, it is my fault. Look at me, I am reaping what I sowed all those years ago when I didn't stop your reading nonsense! Are you a girl? Do you consider yourself a girl between all these other ladies building lives in their own homes while you run around in the morning and come by night to knead those feathers? Look at Halema, just the other day a man came to ask after her last daughter. But me, Allah has frowned upon me with a girl that wants to spend her whole life reading and writing in her father's house." Oum-Fatima sobbed before she hysterically began to beat on her head, as if that was how you hurt the bad luck till it ran out of your life.
When her mother got like this, which was often, Fatima would silently put down her quil pen and walk over to the kitchen to start the tea. She figured, the cherished creature that loved her for nine months before she even laid eyes on her might just be acting out of thirst. By the time the tea was ready Fatima would assemble the yummy Afribian honey biscuits (or sugar coated cookies if they were in season,) on a tray along side the tea. After placing the tray on a colorful little hand-woven table made of plaited rope, she would gently sit by her mother and ply Thoraya's hands off her head.
"Oummi (mother), it will be okay. Don't do this. It will be okay! You'll see. Just have some tea." Fatima would say as she gently stroked and kissed the back of her mothers hands. "It will be okay!" She would echo, again and again as if she herself needed more convincing than her mother did.
When her father was in town, her mother was never so grim. That was when Fatima was at her lowest. Her father had changed with old age, and his head was beginning to turn pointy and very much cup-like. A slip here or there could earn Fatima a black eye or worse. As such, she spent the days of her father's presence fetching the water, mending the fence, cleaning the barn, or cooking until her father slipped away for his afternoon siesta. That was when Fatima's journals came out to bathe in sunlight and be stroked with its favorite quill pen.
One summer evening as the sun was beginning to prepare itself for departure from Afribia, Fatima walked out and settled under the cool embrace of a large Baobab tree. As per usual, she furiously began to jot down dangerous words about pointy heads that looked like kitchenware. Speaking to her pages about the wicked forces that stole her benevolent father from her, she began to trespass all the fine lines of Afribia's laws which decreed No one shall speak maliciously of those in power, who are dedicating their time and efforts to justly run these lands. She was in breach of her freedom of speech, or the lack thereof, but she paid no mind to it. The quill pen danced away on the surface of her journal until the pages between her hands gasped from the intensity of the words written onto them. With their gasp came Fatima's tears--hot and feisty, rolling down her delicate cheeks. She quickly signed her thoughts with 'Fatima, The Beauty', then stood up and tore the critical pages off their journal's limbs. She folded them away from the threat of her falling tears, and placed them in a little mahogany box to be buried with the rest of her dangerous words.
When she entered the house, she was welcomed by her father's belly-shaking laughter and that of four other men. He was awake. Great!
"Where have you been you Waleya (helpless girl)? Don't tell me, I don't care. Go bring some tea, can't you see we have guests? GO!" Fatima's father ordered.
Cursing her luck, and wishing she could live with the heroines in her books, she walked to the kitchen to be greeted by her animated mother.
"Where have you been? Anyways, what are you making? Did he ask for Karkadé (Hibiscus juice)?" An overly enthusiastic Oum-Fatima asked.
"What? No, he wants tea." Fatima replied in the most tender voice she could use to mask her annoyance.
"Are you sure ya bit (girl)? Maybe you didn't hear it, who knows how well your ears work when they are being constantly burried deep between those heavy books. All the dust from those old books must have clogged your ears."
To this Fatima rolled her eyes, as she walked over to the sink and filled the kettle to its brim with water.
"Anyways, listen honey I think one of these guys has come for your hand. There are two men with their sons, you see? I don't know which will be your husband. But you see that nice man with a flat hat. I think he's the one here for you. Obviously he is not your father's friend because look at his head. That's not important. Anyways, listen listen put that down don't wast the tea. Actually make it make it, let them think we are generous. We'll give them tea with the red drinks. I'm so nervous, Fatima! Can you tell? I feel my heart is going to jump out of my chest. It's telling me today is your day, honey. What are you doing? Stop staring! Are you slow? I said make the t..."
"Fatima!!" Her father called, interrupting Thuraya's gritty chatter. "Bring the Karkadé ya bit! Kareem here deserves it for agreeing to take you off my hands."
AYOOOOOOOYOOOOOYOOOOY! In a manner typical of the Afribian culture, Thoraya rolled her tongue and screeched at the top of her lungs to express her joy.
Weeks passed, and the day Fatima would take off her white robes to wear an elegant red dress came closer. In the Afribian culture marriage was almost sacred, and the bride was completely so. The lucky girl turning to a new chapter of her life typically wore red, the color that meant new life. One afternoon, after she had finished an exasperating Afribian incense-sauna treatment, Fatima slipped away for a rendezvous with her dearly missed journal. As Fatima crossed her legs on the grass beneath her special Baobab tree, she made note of the odd ways in which the winds were blowing, and how the day in it's entirety was not typical of June. She then placed her journal on her lap and shook away her mental notes about the weather. It's just been a while since you've been out of the house you crazy girl, she told herself between giggles.
The pages that day did not gasp for Fatima's letters were joyous ones. She was grateful that her mother would no longer beat her head, and her father would no longer beat her. Planning for the wedding was fun too, she coyly admitted to her journal. However, she did not know Kareem. He seemed descent, and he never shook his head at her broken melanin gene. She met with him a few times, but she did not know him well enough to love his being as a future husband. What perplexed her most was his head, which was not flat like hers, nor pointedly shaped in a manner similar to her father’s. Her heart did not leap in warning at this, so she dismissed it as a fault of Kareem’s father. Surely Kareem may have indulged in one dishonest act or two to humor his father. No matter! She was in no place to be extremely picky. Once they were married she would speak to him like she spoke to her books, and he would gasp because...
"Salam Alaykom!(Peace be upon you)" A deep voice startled the hairs on Fatima's back into standing.
"Oh! Ahlan! You scared me! Haha, I'm not supposed to be here. You're the man with the hat from the other day. Ahlan, how are you?” Fatima nervously chattered, as she shut her journal closed and edged it away.
"You really aren't supposed to be out are you ya 'aroos? (bride). Yes, I'm the man with the hat, who is doing well now that he has seen you here. My name is Omar." He replied as he stuck his hand out in front of her.
"Ahlan Omar, I'm Fatima." She said as she took his hand and felt her heart tingle and clasp to the cold, firm handshake he offered. "Anyways my family is probably missing me. I didn't tell them I was going out. It's getting late. I should go back. So nice to meet you."
"You come here often don't you? I'm sure you do, which means they probably know. Sit sit, continue don't let me disturb you. Sit." Omar said as he motioned for her to resume her position under the tree, while he held her hand between his. "You're very smart right? I’ve been told no girl is like you when it comes to what's in here,” He commented, taping on the upper left side of his forehead.
“Lucky Karim, he stole you away from me that day. What can I say? The dowry asked for was ridiculously high. I mean when I heard of how intelligent you were, I couldn't believe it. I actually thought your father's price was not bad, considering you have half a brain more than do these other girls. But when you walked in on us that day, I thought your father is crazy, because of your skin disease. Haha, anyways that is of the past ya 'aroos. Why are you still standing?"
Fatima awkwardly sat, and Omar followed. He took her hand and placed it on his lap then suffocated her slim fingers with his two hands. It was an inappropriate position, and her heart was right to have leaped out of its place when she shook his hand. But it seemed that the realization had dawned on her a minute too late.
"So, show me what you were writing?"
"Uhm... it is a little personal and..." She gasped as Omar's hands traced their way up her shoulder, and to the back of her neck. "and actually, here I’d love for you to hear it. Just hold it with both hands, please. The binding is old and I don't want it to fall apart." She said, in an attempt to reclaim her captured hand, and free her neck from his sneaky fingers. Thank God for the times she buried all dangerous pages under the ground of course.
"Hahaha! You don't like this? How does it feel under this skin of yours, I wonder? Mmmm, relax relax it won't hurt. Relax ya bit!"
"Please, I am the daughter of good people as I am sure you are a son, and brother of honorable Afribians. I'm sure you want to save yourself for the next smart girl. Please, it's late. Just please..."
"Shhhh..."
Fatima kicked, shuffled, and screamed trying to wield off her attacker or wake herself up from the nightmare she was unfolding into. Omar responded violently as her attempts to save her grace intensified. He shifted above her and kicked her with all the strength God had given him. Like that, Fatima let one last heart-piercing cry escape her translucent lips. Then it was over, and the tears of realization streamed down her delicate dark-chocolate cheeks. Her future, her grace, her innocence were being stolen from her. She clasped her quill pen and willed it to take away her pain. I just wanted to write. I came here because I missed my journal. Help! I just wanted to write!
The sun lingered above the horizon and took its last peep at the broken girl under the Baobab tree. Omar rolled to his feet and chuckled.
"You really are beautiful, inside-out; and smart! So smart, and your work is very captivating. Do you read a lot of Tayeb Good's work? I feel your style, it takes after his. Anyways, I'll leave you to your journal then. Today sign it "Omar The-Great" will you?" Omar condescendingly said as he took off his hat, revealing the pointiest head the lands had ever seen, before he bowed to the end of his repulsive performance. "Yalla, see you around Fatima The-Beauty." He gave Fatima's disheveled back a mocking pat and walked away.
Fatima gasped with realization, and summoned the last of her strength to crawl to the secret box presumably buried under the earth. Her nails clawed at the earth in search of her Cup-Head writings. Suddenly, her hand slipped into the emptiness of a cold muddied hole, she lost her balance, toppled down and let out a shattered sigh.
An hour later, when some courage found her, Fatima picked herself up, made herself as presentable as a graceless girl could, and walked home chanting: It will be okay. Don't do this. It will be okay, you'll see...
The next day, as the roosters began to crow at the break of dawn, her mother folded her prayer rug and scratched her head. She sluggishly walked to Fatima's room to ask behind the reason that had held Fatima back from today's morning prayers.
Knock knock.
"Ya bit, are you still sleeping? Ya bit!"
Oum-Fatima turned the knob of her daughter's chamber, and fell to her knees as soon as the door swayed open. There stood Fatima's beautiful body bare and swaying, to and fro. Her feet just barely touched the ground and she looked like a floating angel, hanging by a rope fastened to the ceiling. Fatima's father came running into the room to scold the lady who's sobs and screams awoke him from his precious slumber. As he saw the sight that had crippled his wife, he gasped. The Cup-Headed man shifted tragically as his pointy-head did strange things. He absent-mindedly walked to his daughter’s corpse and freed the crumpled paper from between her cold, blue hands. His eyes ran across the paper and allowed the following words to unfold:
The man in the hat whose head was not flat
The beast in the man who casually wears white
He stole my grace, but that was not mine
He stole it from Kareem, so I apologize .
The man in the hat, dear mother and father
You said his head was flat, but it was just the hat
Mama, he took my innocence but that wasn't mine
He took your baby girl, so I apologize.
The man in the hat from the Afribian clan
He stole my words! He stole my voice!
He stole my identity, the one I hid well
So I took myself, and I apologize.
Warm Regards,
Fatima-The Beauty
It is brilliantly written . I love it (period.)!
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