April 14, 2013

Afribian Nights II: Samara [Chapter 2]


"Before the Duhur [noon] prayers, she always managed to sneak out and place those purple flowers... what do they call them? They randomly sprout at various times of the year..."

"Hibiscus?" echoed Nahed.

"Yes, hibiscus. She plucked them from our garden and from the sides of the street, or wherever she found them growing along her path. Then she would untie the ribbon that held her hair together and she would clumsily wrap them together and place them on my brother’s grave. My mother always came home with larger, unwound hair under her scarf. We all knew what she was up to, of course. But no one ever said anything, because we all mourned in our own ways. My father loved her, and he did not like these visits she made to the cemetery so you could say she mourned in secret. She was never the same after he..."

The bars that held them within their cell clanked loudly at the command of a tall man with an outflowing belly above a protesting belt.

"You, Scumbag in the corner! The investigator wants you. Quick, get off your ass ya bit al haram [bastard child]”

Without another second to gather her thoughts, Samara stood and hopped her way through the gaps between lazily strewn bodies, half asleep. She took a deep breath at the altar of the cell, as if she was gathering every ounce of courage floating about in the air with the thick aroma of cigarettes and body wastes.

“I am not bit haram! You on the other hand must not have had parents to teach you how to treat a lady.” Samara said, in a calm, even voice.

Just as she spat the words out of her mouth, a large hand heavily dropped itself on her face, creating a loud clap that echoed through the bare walls of the cell. Nahed gasped and chanted a prayer under her breath, wishing Samara would take her advice and control her witty tongue.

“Know your place traitor! Or, by God, I will teach you it and the skin on your bones will be begging to fall off! Yalla! In front of me, WALK!” The officer bellowed with furious authority.

She did as she was told. Samara had been through worse during the war, and she had learned that nothing was more valuable than her dignity. He tugged her arm, and she tugged back. She knew she shouldn’t have, just like she knew she could walk without the forceful, hovering guidance he offered. They came to a stop in front of a white door, swaying off rusty hinges, with a nonexistent knob. There was a small glass frame, crisscrossed with transparent grey lines. Samara peeked through it for a nanosecond and caught a glance of the investigator, before she was shoved through the door.

She landed on her knees. Without looking up, she quickly bounced up to her feet and shot the officer who shoved her with a benevolent smile. This was how she had been taught to kill, with intimidation. Never look up at your oppressors when you’re on your knees, that is a satisfaction you should never give your enemies. Always smile at those who use force because they are angry they cannot retaliate your sharp words with smarter ones. They will use more force, but that is because they know you are at an advantage. These were the words she lived by, the words of Sargent Garan Joe who taught her all she knew about The Struggle.

“Samara Salah. Ahln Ahln [hello]! Come in, have a seat. Tea? Coffee? Afribian cookies? Tell me, how can I make you more comfortable?” The investigator smirked.

“You can put some rat poison in all three, and serve yourself some of it, Sir.” Samara was not one to take smirks lightly.

Another blow to her head attacked her from the back and her forehead met the tin table in front of her with a hard bang!

“Mohamed, ya zift [you dirt bag]! Contain yourself, let the lady speak.” The investigator ordered his inferior.

The investigator was not tall, nor short. His hairline was two inches away from the folds of fat that constructed the back of his neck. He had a smooth voice, full of authority. Surprisingly, his belt met his belly button as it circled his small beer belly with ease. He wore frameless glasses that rested on the button-like nose towering the bushiest mustache known to man. He looked odd and out of place, too respectable for this jailhouse setting. Samara could tell he probably looked handsome in his prime, well groomed and all. If only his head were a little flatter, a little more Afribian than Cup-like she would have been a little bit more at ease with him. Here he came, limping off his seat and around the table that separated him from Samara. He sat on the edge of the table and held out his hand,

“Lieutenant Ali, at your service.”

Samara scoffed. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny, or if he believed he was of service to anyone within the borders of Afribia. She stared at his hand, ashy and scarred, and then glanced at the edge of the tin table where his bum threatened to leave an indent. She hated people who sat on the sides of things. They made her uncomfortable, and she couldn’t accurately analyze their body language because one would assume siting like that interrupted your natural flow, and gave mixed messages. She took his hand, and shook it firmly, acknowledging the bewilderment in his eyes that came with unanticipated strength from a tiny Afribian lady such as herself.

“I suppose you know my name, should we move on to discussing the weather now or was I brought here for more serious matters?” Samara said, gazing at the man till he dropped his hand.

“No nonsense!” He laughed, a little too merrily. “I like this one ya Mohamed. They don’t make them this smart anymore. No darling, you are here under serious charges, I was just trying to make you feel more comfortable so that we can have a nice honest little chat. But I see you are not responding too well to my chivalry. Shame.” As he walked back to his position across the table, he drew a loop in the air with his index finger. Mohamed understood the signal and brought out a thick baobab rope with which he began to tie Samara to her chair.

“So tell me Samara, being a traitor, killing my brothers like a traitor, and then breathing my nice, fresh Afribian air; what is one reason I should stop Mohamed from tightening that pretty rope around your neck, hmm?”

“Then I would die a martyr for my country, an honorable death and you would be the reason I go straight to heaven. Which is not a reason he should stop, I would love to go to heaven. Tighter ya Mohamed, I want your two heads to be the last Cup-Heads I see.” She was testing Ali’s patience, and something in her gut told her he had an abundance of it because he enjoyed her reply more than she expected.

“Did you hear that ya Mohamed? She said she was going to heaven,” Ali said between chuckles. “Please, show this misinformed soul where it is really going.”

In one swift movement, Mohamed tipped the chair Samara was seated upon, before he kicked its legs and had the chair spill on the floor dragging Samara down with it. Before Samara could comprehend the metal chair’s blow to her spine, she felt the weight of something warm pouring over her body. She opened her eyes and stared as Mohamed poured what looked like soil, but smelled like manure, out of a bucket and onto her restrained body.

“Now you are closer to the place beneath the earth where you are really going. Speaking of heaven and hell, before the coming of our dear prophet, peace be upon him, they used to bury girls like you alive. Of course, a lot of them didn’t deserve to die. But their fathers feared the shame of having their daughters grow up to become prostitutes, breathing only to drag a good man’s name through the dirt. Anyhow, here you are because of the mercy of the prophet, who put an end to such barbaric traditions, dragging your old man Salah’s name through the dirt. Aren’t you ashamed, whore?” Ali spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

Now he was trying to get under Samara’s skin. She spat. “The only person who would be ashamed is the prophet himself, peace be upon him, as you stand there claiming to know of his ways by daylight, and then resorting to the barbaric ways he condemned as soon as night falls.”

The words fell out of her mouth softly, compared to the following wails that escaped her larynx next. Mohamed had found the beast within him, and he had let it take control. Whipping Samara mercilessly, as the dirt spilled over her body and poured down to her sides.

“We are patient ya bit, but we can only take so much disrespect. Enough with the chatter.” Ali put his hand up and signaled for Mohamed to stop. “Tell me, where is your camp? And which traitor do you answer to?!”

“I come from an Afribian camp that answers to God, just like you will for your horrendous actions.”

The beast lashed out again.

The night dragged on and the prison rang with Samara’s piercing cries. The ladies in her cell could no longer pretend to sleep. There was a monotonous chant of prayers that eluded the air, and Nahed’s were especially persistent. Nahed prayed that Samara would live, she had a warrior’s spirit, she had to live! Nahed had warmed up to the young girl as soon as she began talking, and now each of Samara’s yelps struck Nahed with unfaltering sympathy. She prayed to God that Samara would come back and complete the rest of her story. Samara had to tell her story, she had to be remembered in case the rain poured harder tomorrow, and swept with it Samara’s resilient soul.

April 7, 2013

Afribian Nights II: Samara [Chapter 1]


The butcher, the butcher
The kissrah and the stew
The butcher, the butcher
Where lies the house of your groom?

As she sang, she traced her fingers up her daughter's bony little arm. Her fingers stopped where they found the funny bone between her armpits, and tickled the life out of it. Samara laughed hysterically and stumbled out of her mother's grasp. She ran till she was a safe distance away from her mother and came to a halt, giggling with pleasure at the diabolic plan that took form in her mind. Her hands found her hips and mockingly grasped them the way her mother did when she was calling Samara to dinner. Just then her tongue peeked out of her lips in the most teasing manner she could surmount. Instantly, she bolted out of the mud-built room laughing her heart out. Nuha gapped at her diligent daughter with disbelief, and then chuckled to herself. Samara was their five year-old blessing, the single girl amongst four sons and the only one who could get away with such a taunting stunt. 

Nuha was the wife of Salah, a respectable high school teacher who taught English lessons at Afribia High. Like most Afribians, they lived in a humble home of clay that centered a big, mud-cemented, yard. At the edges of the yard were a number of metal skeletons that turned into beds by night. Around the yard were seven neatly aligned small rooms, one for each child, a room for their parents, and a pretty oud (Arabian inscensce)-scented guest room. Behind the seventh wall of their circular living compound was an acre of farmland where they grew delicious Afribian Sorghum, or Mangoes if they were in season. Each morning, Nuha would rise to the sounds of a rooster crowing or a donkey braying. She would fill a kettle to its brim with water and sprinkle it with tealeaves, mint herbs and a pinch of cinnamon. When the water boiled, the whole household would rise in attention to the annoying whistle of the kettle, and the delicious smell of morning tea. Nuha would leave the kettle on the fire till the last of them resigned their slumber and approached the grass-pleated prayer mat.

Allahu Akbar, Salah would start, as his sons and his wife stood behind him alert, and ready to start their day with their morning prayers. At this point, young Samara would turn to her side and lazily open her eyes to watch them as they chanted and whispered words in a ceremonial act she was too young to understand. On mornings when she was a little more enthusiastic, she would tie a clumsy scarf on her head and stand by her mother, mimicking their prostrations and preforming a few empty gestures just so she did not feel left out.

Soon the sun would peak over the horizon and the boys would ride their bikes to school. Salah would drink his coffee while his car ruffed and huffed and gathered enough heat to move. Soon he too would go out to make a living and teach uninterested minds about syllables and Jane Austin. Samara would be left alone with her mother, singing through the day’s chores. When the urgent chores were completed, and the sun was at its highest, Samara and her mother would sit on the glass-pleated mat along the center of the yard and share a warm plate of Fateer bel laban (thin sorghum bread with sweetened heavy cream or milk).

Samara remembers these days of her childhood like they were yesterday, mainly because she holds onto them for dear life. They are her only sanctuary from the difficult times she presently lives in. She remembers the sweets her kind father brought home with him every other day. She remembers the meals they shared with the neighbors, and how no one ever ate alone. They were blissful days, especially the ones when Karam, their next-door neighbor, would come knocking with a jump rope handy. They would skip and sing until their tiny feet protested. That was when Samara would pull out yesterday’s bag of sweets and share them with her best friend. The days passed and the two did not seem to be growing apart. Although the schools in Afribia were secular and did not allow the children to mix and mingle, Karam and Samara rode their bikes to school together. By the end of the day Karam would rush out of class, ignoring the boys pleading with him to join them on the soccer field, to ascend his bike. He would ride across the block to where Samara was standing, impatiently huffing at the sunbeams that touched her smooth caramel skin, and formed dabs of perspiration along her forehead. He would apologize because he knew she had the patience of Hades, and could have easily ascended her bike and ridden off without him. His apologies were more like offers of gratitude, since he was infatuated with her and always seemed to have difficulty believing his luck when she chose to spend her afternoons with him. Of course he was three years older and the feelings Samara ignited in his skinny chest were unrequited by his ten year-old counterpart. But everyone else saw it in his eyes, and felt it in the chemistry that eroded them every time the pair skipped down the street. They were betrothed to each other by unspoken words of destiny, fate or what have you.

Samara chuckled to her self as she sat on the hard concrete floor of the national jailhouse. Next week was when her wedding was supposed to be. But destiny and fate are two different beings that sometimes worked against each other, leaving two parts of a soul divided in land, body and mind. So many events had rushed themselves through a short period of time, and her mind had grown well beyond its years in age. The wrinkles on her wet clothes were not as fringed as those on her twenty-two year old skin, and her hazel irises were darkened with sorrow. She shuffled restlessly as the moon's glow illuminated the cell, interrupted by rusty bars. Nights seemed to be longer here, and people were either grumpy or bitter, or both simultaneously. She looked around the cell, and wondered whose stomach had growled in hunger? Maybe it was hers. She locked eyes with a lady well into her thirties, or maybe her forties. Samara couldn’t tell anymore, everyone seemed older and more sullen. She always wondered if these women were once prettier.

“Want a cigarette sweetheart?” Asked the lady with disheveled hair and muddied knees, bulging from the holes in her skirt.

“No thank you khala (auntie) I don’t smoke.” Samara politely said, as she examined the scars on the palms held out in front of her with a packet of Marlboro.

All of a sudden, the lady’s laughter boomed through the concrete walls of the cell and there were grumpy murmurs of protest from the sleeping bodies surrounding them.

“Oh be quiet you lazy bums, don’t pretend like you were actually able to sleep in this shithole. And you,” she pointed her chin towards Samara, as she brought a cigarette to her mouth. “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, you look like you’re in your early forties?” Samara timidly said, hoping she did not anger the lady sharing this gloomy cell with her. She had enough enemies outside the walls  of the jailhouse; she could not afford to make a few more in here too.

“Wow! I look that old ha? Darling, I just turned thirty last month.”

“I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t offended you. People tell me I look older too. The war does that to us. Young children will be forced to take the streets as homes, and the asphalt roads have a way of loving you with a firm hand that draws wrinkles on your face.” Samara said, sighing with sorrow. “I’m Samara by the way, I do apologize.”

“Poetic words Samara. I’m Nahed. You seem smart Samara, and pretty too. This prison doesn’t suit you, what brings you here?” Nahed asked, lowering her voice as one of the guards walked passed their cell.  She looked at Samara with curiosity, but oddly her eyes did not give off any indication of malice. That was a rare trait in Afribian eyes these days.

Samara shuffled uneasily, and her violet blouse crumpled against the wall behind her back, suffocating her chest. She tried to give herself some elbow space, but feared the fat old woman rolled up beside her in an awkward fetus position, snoring, would wake up enraged. Samara unhooked the first button under her collarbone and sighed.

“Where do I start? Why is anyone here? I’m here because I refused to give the Cup-Heads my allegiance. I’m here because I wanted to think for myself.”

“I understand, but lower your voice. We don’t want to get lynched tonight. Whom do you work for?” Nahed asked, shoving one of the other girls' misplaced hands out of the way as she scooted closer to Samara.

“I shouldn’t tell you, but it seems like I’m never getting out of here anyways. I wish they would whip me or kill me or do whatever it is they mean to do, quickly. It is so agonizing to be sitting here with an indefinite fate.”

“You run a diligent tongue, and it will get you in trouble. You’ve only been here for a few days you don’t know what agony is yet! Sweetheart you must be careful. I’m sure you don’t mean what you are saying, neither would the people who love you behind these walls wish to hear that you have died. Think of them!”

“This is the only way I know how to speak. You see, I work for God, and The Commoners’ Liberation Militia. I was recruited as a solider at the age of twelve. Since then, I have only known grief, blood, and wishful thinking of the better afterlife that, hopefully, awaits me. I have no one waiting for me beyond these walls, Nahed. My loved ones have all passed either in body or in spirit. Is it so bad to wish to be reunited with them?"