Afribian Nights III: The Price of Love

She was the type of girl that reminded you of the Nile, the Takka Mountains, Meroe, and every other extraordinary thing God had only created one of. At a height just below average and hair of silk that danced about her waist, Mona was the eight wonder of the world that lived right next door. She was the name on every tongue, at every occasion, unless of course Muneer was within hearing distance. That would be too painful, because everyone knew the sound of her name could reel his heart out of his chest. Simply putting it, if Mona were graphite, Muneer's mind would be the walls of Brooklyn's streets that had Mona's name etched into the corner of every alley.

Each morning, you could pull your balcony's curtains open to let in Afribia's dreary winds and know, just as surely as the sun had risen, that somewhere around the corner, on the fourth floor balcony of a shabby ten story building, Muneer was standing as tall as his easel, facing his canvas, with brushes and pencils coiled into his soft, curly little afro. If you listened intently enough, you could almost hear him whistling Wardi's tunes as he painted Muna's big brown eyes to perfection. As the sun threatened to part with Afribia's skies to make way for the evening, Muna's doorbell would ring. Upon opening the door of her grandmother's homey three story villa, Mona knew she would find a mesmerizing portrait of herself neatly resting on their Welcome mat, just as she knew she would hear the artist’s signature—the sound of feet dashing down the street at the speed of light.

When the night’s skin erupted with twinkles from this star and that, the doors of Mr. Moe’s café would squeak open and the strumming of Muneer’s oud would fill the streets. Muneer had the type of voice that dripped honey right into your soul, and it was made sweeter by the passion that shone in his eyes. If you ever believed in cupid, then you believed in Muneer’s ability to make you fall in love with a girl you may have never even seen before; for no one could hear him preform without rubbing the upper left chambers of their chests as if they were trying to tend to a bittersweet wound left behind by some red arrow. Surely, Mona knew the lyrics to his songs like she knew Afribia’s anthem. Each night, after she tucked her grandmother into bed, she would sit in her room staring at a pile of portraits, and singing along to songs written in her name until she fell asleep. That was the love story that first enchanted the little town of Halfa.  soon, the tale wrapped itself up into the red sand grains of time to be picked up by the wind and whispered into every Afribian home that cared to listen.

One particularly hot afternoon, Mona came home from college and found Bash Mohandes (the engineer) Sa’ad, pelted on their Sofa puffing balls of smoke and giddy laughter into the air. She freed her hands of the books they carried and rushed to embrace her father.

“I’m so glad to see you! When did you arrive? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Mona inquired in one breath.

“Ah, I know you like surprises just as much as you like me. So I thought, why not give my daughter a double-wave of joy.” He chuckled as he resumed his seat, with his daughter by his side. Mona smiled, and then extended her arm and yanked the wilted cigarette wickedly positioned between her father’s index and middle finger.

“I thought you quit that garbage!” She pouted as she put the cigarette out and patted his pockets for any remnants of evil.

“I did, Wallai (I swear). That was my last one. Anyways, your old grandmother here has been gazing at me since I got here. She hasn’t brought me any coffee or anything, otherwise I would have found something better to do than play with a cigarette.” Mona rolled her eyes and rose to the kitchen to fix her old man a cup of coffee, while her father and his mother cooked up a quarrel. She laughed to herself and shook her head when she found a warm little cup sitting in the sink, emptied of its caffeinated components. Her father was a real joker at times, but she could tell he was making a genuine effort to redirect his compulsive nicotine addiction. He had not litanother cigarette, or tried to fight with her as she stole the one he was smoking. That in itself was a small victory.

“How are the deserts of Saudi treating you? Where is mother, why didn't she come with you?” Mona asked as she walked into the room with a tray that carried the round coffee pot she had bought from the Ethiopian Market on her last visit to Addis, and three little fanajeen (small porcelain espresso cups).

“It’s fine, you know, the same routine everyday—you work under the merciless sun until you say al-rob! Then you come home and try to pass your time watching the Catalonians make football history, or occasionally chatting up politics with a few friends. As for your mother, she is well. She sends her regards and apologizes that she could not get out of work for the week.” Sa’ad said, sipping on his coffee and tracing the rim of his funjan with his index finger.

“Okay, I’m glad you’re here old man. But why have you decided to visit us out of the blue like this? Did you simply miss the hectic case of Malaria that caught you by the knees the last time you were here?” Mona giggled.

“Ha ha. I am here to see my mother, what is it to you?” Her father teased, as he stood up and went to sit beside her grandmother, giving Mona his back.

Just then the doorbell rang. Mona looked outside the windows of the balcony and took note of the sun beginning to dip down behind the horizon. She anxiously looked at her father who was already immersed in a conversation with his mother about which relatives he would have to visit for this reason or that, and which houses he could afford to skip.

Mona composed herself and stood to answer the door.

"Where is the maid? Let her get the door." Her father said, over his shoulders.

"She's on vacation today. It's okay, I'll get it." Mona replied, locking eyes with her grandmother for a second as they both acknowledged that fact that no one answered this particular doorbell except Mona. But her father did not know this, and she wondered how long she could keep the truth from him.

As expected, there were the footsteps running down the street, and a painting at her feet.

"Who is it? Has the news of my coming spread already? This mother of mine is like Al-Jazeera, if she used her broadcasting powers like I tell her to, Afribia would have gone through seven revolutions by now." Sa'ad bellowed, only to receive a playful strike on his head from his mother.

"It's not for you, ya-'aboi ertah (relax dad.)" Mona replied

As she walked up the stairs to her room, she contemplated the fact that she was well on her way to becoming a pharmacist while Muneer only dreamed of spreading joy to the world through his music. Her mind raced to the lovely lyrics he had written in blue ink on the weathered letters that were attached to the back of each painting she had received. She wondered how her father would react if Muneer finally knocked on her door and didn't run away. If he walked into their house with his uncle and asked her father for her hand in marriage. Time and time again, the image had haunted her dreams. As soon as she tilted away from consciousness and into slumber, she would see herself wearing her best dress, and coyly carrying the tray of sweet hibiscus juice, that she would present to her fiancé as the neighbors yelped with joy. She sighed, plopped herself onto her bed and unrolled the letter behind today’s painting.

Whenever the tender breeze passes through your hair, 
Habibti I hear it sighing with passion. 
And your timid perfume that dissolved on your skin, 
Whenever it touches you, it sighs with passion.
Why, when you tell me you adore me 
Don't you want me to scream and fill the whole universe with my passionate sighs?
Oh, you’re a star, and whenever your light touches a stone,
It rises up high and turns into a moon.
I write your name, with dewdrops, on every tree’s leaves
Who can ever describe you the way I do?
Who can ever love you as much as I do?
Oh, you’re a dream, I wish for all hearts to experience.
You are the greatest feeling that has ever mesmerized me,
 Melted me down, and made me feel like I am human.
Why, when you tell me you adore me,
Don't you want me to scream and fill the whole universe with my passionate sighs?

M. Muneer

Just then there was a brief knock on the door, and her father, who did not really understand the concept of knocking, barged in and sat by his daughter.

“What’s this? Are you falling in love behind my back?” He teased, as he slyly took the letter out of Mona’s hands.

Mona did not try to take the letter back, nor was she ever in the habit of fighting against fate. He was bound to find out someday, she said to herself. So she sat on the edge of her bed. 

Her heart thumped loudly, gave out, and dropped to her feet as her father’s face turned cold and stern.

“Muneer, eh? How long has this Romeo been writing to you?” Sa’ad asked in a firm, low voice.

“A little over two years now.”

“Hmm… Because there are no men in this house, right?! Two years and I am like the deaf guy at a wedding. And you like it of course, otherwise you would not have let it go on for so long.”

“But ya-‘aboi…” Mona stuttered

“But nothing! Tell him to come tomorrow and knock on my door like a righteous man, as he should have done if he respected our custoums and traditions. Or do you want people to say Sa’ad has not brought up a good daughter?”

“People, people, people! Malna w mal kalam alnass? Why should people’s meaningless chatter bother us? If you go right they will talk, if you go left they will also talk. So is it not better to do what makes us happy?” Mona said in a small, angry voice, careful not to yell so as not to further ignite her father’s anger.

“Nonsense. This is Afribia, you do not live by yourself." Her father waved her words away "Tomorrow! This has gone on for too long.” Sa’ad said as he rose to leave the room. “Gal Malna w mal kalam alnass. Ha! Why should people’s meaningless chatter bother us? Why? Like she cares nothing for her father's name!” he murmured as he closed the door behind him.

Mona quickly put pen to paper and wrote to Muneer. She folded her letter and called the doorman who placed it in its usual place—under the rock that rested right outside their villa. For the remainder of the night Mona tossed and turned in her bed, trying to shake insomnia off of her pillow. But, it simply would not budge. She replayed the conversation that had went on between her and her father, over and over again. Each time tying a new meaning to the way her father had sat, the emphasis he had given to some of his words, or the way he had looked at her. It was quite ironic that she had said the things she did. Her speech about Afribia’s chatty society came from a place deep within her, but floated out with empty hypocrisy. Didn't she care about what people said when she asked Muneer never to wait at her door? Didn't she care about what people said when she refused his countless invitations to tea? Did she not care what people thought of her when she sent the doorman with a letter to hide under a rock? She did, because she subconsciously knew that they were worlds apart. Love did not know the steward from the chief, but her mind was well aware of it. Yet here she was, hoping with all her might that her father would approve of the poor boy next door. But did she, truly approve of him? She did not know. Nor did she know what to expect tomorrow, except that Muneer would definitely show up. 

~~~

"Welcome, welcome. Please, come in! Make yourselves comfortable." Sa'ad gleefully bellowed at his guests.

"It is such a pleasure to finally meet you ya bash-mohandes Sa'ad." Muneer said, taking Sa'ad's hand into both of his, and shaking it sternly. 

As they were guided to the living room, Muneer and his uncle looked about the grand house with amazement. The maid soon came and presented them with sweets and something cool to drink. The men chatted idly and exchanged greetings till Mona's grandmother came and sat by her son.

"As you know, Mr. Sa'ad" Muneer's uncle began, "Kids these days are not at all mindful of the traditions. They have not grown up in a time like ours, but it is our duty, so long as we are alive and well, to guide them and teach them of the righteous Afribian ways."

"Indeed!" Sa'ad nodded.

"There is no excuse for al'eib. What is wrong is wrong, and all we hope to do is prohibit it from reoccurring, and extending apologies sincere enough to keep relations between people jolly and well."

"Of course of course. You speak the truth. Indeed, what type of host would I be if I quarreled with my guest? I accept your apologies in good faith, as you seem to be a wise man surely brought up in a good family."

"Thank you. We are of humble origins, actually. I have been beating around the bush for due time now. So, if you may allow me to dive into the matter, we have come here today to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage to our son Muneer. He is a hardworking, talented young man, and he is prepared to complete the other half of his deen. (religion)"

"Mmmm, yes yes. Tell me son, what do you do for a living?" Sa'ad asked. 

It was then that the conversation took an expected turn for the worse. By the end of the evening Sa'ad had sternly told his guests that he had no daughters up for marriage. That was the end of it. There were no more letters, and no more paintings. The music that had once made the people of Halfa fall in love, now entered each person's heart and stroked out every painful memory it held. Each night Muneer would hear Sa'ad in his head telling him he would not go very far with a mere guitar in his hand. 

"You will not be able to afford her mahar (dowry), dear son. You would have to put together several months' pay. You may be able to bring her a nice ring tomorrow, but what of the days after that? Look at how she lives. Will you be able to sustain all her needs?" He had said to Muneer. Deep in his heart, Muneer knew he could but he had remained silent. He knew it was pointless to argue. He could have spoken of his priceless love, he could have said that he would put Mona in his eyes and show her joy no money could know. Moneer could have asked the esteemed engineer to have faith in him and his ambition. He could have reminded Sa'ad of where he came from before he was a n engineer. But he had remained silent. 

Instead every day, for a year, at quarter past ten, he would stand under the shade of a large baobab tree across the street from Mona's house, and wait for Mona to open her balcony windows. He would watch her as she tip-toed onto the patio to check the weather. Muneer would inhale her image and lock it into the fragmented chambers of his chest, before he turned around and went on his way to answer life's tedious calls. Then one day, he was deprived of that too.

"Miss Mona and her grandmother went to belad barra (abroad)." The doorman had said. Muneer nodded and walked away. He filled through the images he had stored away for this rainy day, singing:

I'm missing a look of affection

Or was it written for me to love and melt?

My eyes are looking at you

And I sent the messengers to tell you

But who can reach you?

You are the most high.

Who can reach you,

When you are the most high?