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?"

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