August 1, 2014

Afribian Nights V: Barns and Bricks

I wish we hadn't gone into the barn for the second time that afternoon, but something about the light scent of milk that broke the thick smell of sun-caressed cowhide was irresistible. So instead of watching the action from the sidelines, I slipped my hand in between the bars, pulled the handle on the swing lock till the barn gate squeaked open. My shoes sloshed about the damp mud floor as I walked in and my brother followed closely behind.

“Can I try?” I asked Uncle Hashem, who was kneeling under a brown cow with a concentrated look strewn across his face. He had small round eyes that seemed to get lost between his thick furry eyebrows and his droopy eyelids. His face was creased with wrinkles, especially at the edges of his eyes—which didn’t come as a surprise since he smiled so much I figured time gave up and stopped trying to straighten the skin around that area. On his cheeks were three, dark vertical lines of indented skin that sat deeper than the skin that covered the rest of his face. He once told me that they were a result of a fight he and Aunt Noora had gotten into when they were cats in a passed lifetime. She had gotten furious when he drank all the milk so she unbuckled the claws under her paws and scarred his face. The idea of people being cats in a passed lifetime amused me, especially since my father bore the same marks on his face. I carried the story with me back home at the end of the vacation, and shared it with my father who laughed uncontrollably at his brother-in-law’s creativity. Of course I grew to understand that these were Afribian tribal markings but I never told Uncle Hashem this.

He picked himself up off of the low stool and stood aside,—despite his warm features, he was a towering figure with broad shoulders, and strong arms the result of twenty years of farm work.

“Go on then, city girl.” I could tell he was holding back laughter.

I curled my small hands around the pink flesh of the cow’s udder; its cold, soft skin shuddered under my grip as I pulled. Nothing came out of the cow but a protesting Moo. I pulled again. Nothing.

“I think this one is empty.”

He let out the loud, boisterous laugh that shook his belly with amusement.

“That’s because you’re doing it wrong.” He tapped the back of my hand and I loosened my grip. His thumb and forefinger tightened around the udder while the rest of his fingers were loosely curled around it for support, he then gently squeezed the pink flesh from the top down till the milk sloshed out, splashing a few white drops here and there before it finally settled into the metal bucket.

Just then, a loud cry escaped my brother’s throat. As we turned to look in my brother’s direction, Uncle Hashim and I saw the barn gate tilt wide open. My brother’s arms threw themselves in the air as he ran out of the cows’ way. They had dropped the tedious chore of chewing and re-chewing wilted grass, and rushed out to claim their freedom—all the while mooing with excitement.

“Quick! Call your Aunt!” He yelled in my brother’s direction, then turned to me and said, “City girl, make sure the calves’ door is closed, then come close the barn gate behind me.”

“You, HARRRR!” he swayed his arm, scolding the brown cow as she attempted to follow her sisters’ queue to freedom.

Before long we were running down Al-Mehereba’s spacious suburban roads. Curious heads began to peak out from behind some doors, while others let out tall, lanky figures in white gowns who ran alongside us. I hope Aunt Noora isn’t mad. She ran ahead of us, I really didn’t think older women could run before today. Still, I wasn’t surprised; Aunt Noora was just that type of woman. She was tall and fit, save for the weight around her stomach that was left behind by my five cousins. Wrapped in the traditional Afribian thobe from head to ankles, I wondered if she had loosened it around her thighs so she could run better, or if she had grown so used to wearing it that she could do anything with the layer of modest cloth that fell over her house gown. Wow, cows do run fast, I thought as their hooves pushed against the sand-carpeted ground and filled the air with dusty smoke. Only five of them were in sight, when I knew from counting heads each morning that there were supposed to be eight.

“I saw two go in to the house with a green door!” My brother pointed at the third door on the left that stood the end of the narrow, sand-carpeted road we ran across.

Uncle Hashem and two of the neighbors seemed to have found away to convince the five other cows to run in a straight queue back towards the barn. Another neighbor now stood at the sill of the greenhouse negotiating with the two cows who had invaded his home. Maybe Afribian people will rethink leaving their doors open. Back where we lived, any one who came to visit announced themselves by ringing the doorbell. Here on the outskirts of Afribia, a neighbor just walked right in, clapped his hands to give an uncovered woman a chance to pull her scarf to her head and then joined us in the living room. I suppose it was nice that they all felt like one big family, but I never enjoyed how they often interrupted my uncle when he was in the middle of a good story. Aunt Noora and I were now at the green door, she extended her arm and lightly tugged at the ear of the rebellious cow that took up our neighbor’s spacious cemented front yard. The cow understood that she, unlike our neighbor, meant business and in a few dozen minutes, we were counting eight cows in the barn, and one giggly uncle.

When Aunt Noora asks I’ll say it wasn’t me… No! I’ll let uncle Hashim do all the talking. His calm, and collected manner always does the trick.
                                                                             ~.~.~                                                                            

 Her new house reeks of the city and our voices echo off the walls too soon. The brick walls were perfectly aligned to create a tight maze-like interior, with four rooms arranged right across from each other while a spacious living room took up the center of the house. Passed the living room, I followed her into the last room in the right-hand corner.

“Here, you can put your clothes away and lie down if you’d like. It must have been a long trip.”

“I’m okay.” I smiled, not as long as it should have been. I should have had to travel for a good two hours to get to your house.

“Alright then, come. We’ll have a cup of tea on the roof.”

We climbed up the stairs, to a rooftop that looked over the semi-tightly packed houses of Al-Azhari city. My aunt carried a tray of tea and home-baked sugar cookies, dotted with sesame seeds, and powdered with cinnamon. She also carried blue-black bags under her eyes, and so much time on her shoulders that her back hunched a little.

On the rooftop, there were two steel beds neatly lined up parallel to each other. The thin, old mattresses popped and bulged wherever the bed’s steel crisscrossed underneath it. The sheets felt warm and smelled of sunshine, while the light afternoon breeze swayed the edges of it that fell down the sides of the bed. Ever since the age of seven, when my parents decided we were old enough to travel, we spent our summers in Afribia. After spending some time with my maternal family, we should have been packing snacks and stories to carry with us on a road trip to the suburbia of my paternal family. But this summer was different, so much has changed in the tight frame of a year.

Aunt Noora tipped the porcelain-white teapot and let the milky Chai fill the air with the distinct scent of sweet cinnamon as it poured into my teacup.

“Alright, do the thing.” She chuckled and turned to me with a longing look in her eyes.

I got up and paced the length of the rooftop with a bobble in my step that only Uncle Hashim’s feet could perfect. I then muttered a few ‘Salam Alaykum’s and ‘How are you’s in a deep voice, playfully imitating Aunt Noora’s husband for her. We fell to the floor with laughter.

“That never fails to put a smile on my face. You are a real handful, you know that?”

I nodded. “He said that to me all the time; never let me forget it.” A brief silence settled itself between us as my aunt instinctively toyed with the golden band around her left ring finger, and breathed out a short prayer.

“How do you like it here?” I asked her.

“It’s better than Al-Mehereba without your uncle, may his old soul rest in peace. That big house, and those pesky cows were just too much to handle on my own.”


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