Afribian Nights VI: The Unfortunate of our Kind (#UofK)

Haj Ali carefully supported his weight on the handle of his cane and willed his feet to move forward. He sat on the bench, and looked out at the solemn faces of the crowd that had come to watch him pour his heart out with false hope for a final win...

"'Abooy! Abooy!' he called out, as he ran home from school.

I scooped him up effortlessly. Despite my now greying hair and crested face, I once had a young soul, and a lot of strength to show for it.

‘My champion is home! What do you have for me today?' I asked, knowing that he bore delightful news, as always.

‘Abooy! I came at the top of my class! Look,’ he cried with enthusiasm as he pulled out some papers that seemed ruffled around the edges from being held onto too tightly,

‘Soon I'll be the biggest engineer in the world. I'll even build the cows a grand barn. I will turn this whole town into a city, just like the countries of the khawajat in the west!’

Young Monty leaped out of my embrace and picked up a thin, sword-like twig. He used his make-believe pen to carve lines into the sand beneath his feet. In a matter of minutes, he had turned the floor into a blueprint marked by towers of ambition and hope. He was clever like that. His mother and I were proud, and had never felt the need to praise him, for his actions continually did so. Although he was only seven on that particular day, his intellect had surely skipped a few years into the future to encompass some highly unattainable number of IQ points for someone so young."

Haj Ali sighed, as his mind took him out of that room, and into a vast space of time where he watched his son skipping about drawing lines and swirls onto the modest canvas floor of his patio. Haj Ali willed time to stop. There and then, it almost did and for a few minutes the bills, the hunger, the sacrifices, the pain, the history—all of it seemed distant. There was no one there but him and Monty. However, soon enough, his will power caved and life whisked him away from his blissful reveries to preform a vigorous, devilish dance with him. He wanted its music to stop! For all its notes strummed from broken instruments of pain. Time, and time again he questioned who decided his son would not smile because his teeth would be yellowed by filth and blood? Why did it have to be his burden, and how is it that he failed to protect him? All too soon, he was facing the merciless streaks of reality again. Indeed his days of youth and strength have evaded him and he pitied what he had succumbed to. Surely, it was not so much the old age that had bothered him, but the imagination that he might not live to see his son with a degree in his right hand and a ring on his left.

"Ya Haj," She repeated.

He looked around, remembering that he was still in a courtroom. He turned to look at her slim figure, and her stern smile. She must have been in her early twenties. He wondered what she knew of the world besides the word of law that she held over his head time and time again, since he had met her.

“Haj, are you okay? You zoned out for a second there." The lawyer repeated his name with a genuine tone of worry in her voice.

He remained silent, gathering himself.

"Sir, I need you to focus with me. We don’t want this trial to drag on for longer than it has to. Please Haj, stick to the relevant details only." The judge now said in a kind voice, as he held his gaze over Hash Ali's withered face.

"Isn't it in that book? I told the officer everything and it is before you now. Must I revisit these memories over and over again for the sake of your pragmatism?" His voice rose and fell like the tunes of a dusty record. "Ms. lawyer, please..." He bowed his head and threatened to break.

He could almost smell the indifference bouncing off the pale walls that held within it rows of shiny brown Maplewood benches stacked behind each other like the lower deck of a slave ship. The room was full with people he had never seen before, some of them had cameras dangling down their necks, and tiny little notepads. Why couldn’t they just use tape recorders or larger notebooks? Perhaps they couldn’t afford it just as he probably couldn’t afford the services of this diligent young woman, but she stood in front of him nonetheless. He didn’t know why, but right then and there he wished to meet her parents and thank them. Look at this mess, all because of those ill-mannered young men who have nothing but spite and envy in their hearts. He had told Monty to stay away from them, but his son wouldn’t listen.

The Judge impatiently shifted in his seat, and Haj Ali sighed.

"We were sitting out in our humble veranda, waiting for destiny's call. Monty had just taken his junior year’s college exams and spent the weeks preceding that day praying he had managed to score the highest grades amongst his class. On the day of the results the university was shut down so he had to settle for finding out about his grades from "a friend on the inside". He knew I was struggling to carry our weight, which increased his yearning to graduate on time with flying numbers and a well-paying job, that was if the university stayed open of course. My son was set on becoming an engineer." Haj Ali paused and chuckled to himself, "I mean an architect. He insisted that we call him that and would storm out of the room when we argued that there was no difference. That was Monty for you, he was very particular when it came to his future. He didn't settle for second best. If fate had played on his side, he would have done great things… Anyways, we sat there, waiting for the men on TV to exhaust their welcome speeches and begin the usual sing-song charades; when there was a loud thump on the door. I looked to my right, waiting for this boy to open it. But as you can imagine, his eyes were glued to the phone, and it was as if he could hear nothing but the voice of the lazy-eyed man on TV. I walked to the door and opened it. It managed to grunt and squeak loudly, and if I recall correctly, Monty snapped his head and eyed it with irritation, probably thinking it was another thing that needed fixing. There, at my doorstep stood a tall man in a desert brown and slate green uniform.

‘Salam, is this the house of Ali Sayed Ahmed?’ He asked in a cold, firm voice.

Just then, I heard Monty yelling at the top of his lungs. His younger twin brothers and their sister rushed out of the house, stunned and confused.

‘Did you hear that?’ Monty bellowed. ‘Me! Monty Ali Sayed Ahmed! I have the second highest average across the duf'a! I’ll be a senior and graduate as soon as the university decides to open indefinitely!’

The man in uniform then shoved me aside and barged into our house. He tackled my Monty and pulled out a pair of rusty silver cuffs.

‘You thought you could get away with it didn’t you?’ I remember him yelling with Monty under him, kicking up sand with a bewildered look on his face. “Where were you the night the university riots happened, huh? You scumbag. You have nothing to say do you! We’ll see about that!’

Three other men barged into the house, slamming down anything that stood in their way until they were in front of Monty's study. In minutes papers were cutting through the air and landing on the floor in shatters. They kept yelling, asking him where he kept the flyers devised to threaten national security...

But I promise your honor, my son would never do such a thing. He is all I have in this world and he dedicates all his efforts to helping me and his poor old mother.”

Author's note: This is a special dedication to the young men and women who have been denied their basic right to a sustained education just because they decided to voice their opinions; this is to the cadets of the majestic University of Khartoum. We know that sometimes, in a broken country such as ours, consequences are created out of thin air and brought down on people who do not really deserve them. But we often forget that consequences have a tidal effect which extends its pain to those who care for us, and depend on us. So this is also to the loved ones who are just as worried about the future as those who hold it in their palms.

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.”

Afribian Nights IV: Memoirs of a Concrete Pavement (Chapter 2)

Her wails pierced my ears, and echoed through each of my bones with grief. I looked around to see where she was, I didn’t know how she had seen me since I was still standing at the doorstep of our house. Perhaps it was what they called “a mother’s sixth sense”. Perhaps she had felt the weight of her dead son’s soul fill the air. Perhaps she heard the sorrow that played basketball with my heart in my chest. I edged through the doors of our little house and found her on her knees; her hands covering her mouth as her eyes turned pink with tears and her chest danced to the rhythm of her sobs.

I looked for the words to console her, to explain to her why the little boy who had ran through these same doors with a bright smile on his face, had come back wrapped in a kafan (white cloth). I wanted to tell her why I had not come home for three days, and who was responsible for the unbearable pain in her heart. I knew I could have said a dozen things at that moment, instead I settled the corpse of my brother on the nearest ‘angareib and I walked into the kitchen to bring her a cup of water. I extended the water with one hand while I used the other to cup her elbow and help her off her knees. I sat her on the bed across where my baby brother lay, cold and still. She buried her face into my neck and whimpered, inna li Allah wa inna elayh raji’oon (We belong to God, and to Him we shall return). We sat there for a while, my arm around her, soothingly rubbing her shoulders while she shook with grief. I wanted to tell her that he was probably in a better place now, but I knew she would let another piercing wail escape her throat before she yelled then let me join him Ya Allah! And I feared that, perhaps the Merciful would decide to heed to her wishes and take her away too.


“Goom,” she managed between sniffs and sobs “Get up and find Nazim and Essam. We should prepare for the burial.”

                                                                          ~~~

The sun sat, unsolicited, atop the clear sky and watched as we walked to the narrow grave that had been dug for Osama's small body. I held him over me, with my fingers fixed around his waist while Essam supported the weight of Osama's upper body between his neck and his right shoulder. Nazim walked behind me, barely touching the tips of Osama's toes which seemed unnecessary since the corpse felt as light as a feather. We walked for a while in a herd of white jellabeyas and men who didn't know how to grieve so they fixed their eyes on their toes, watching each step, careful not to miss their ques. La illah illa Allah Mohamad Rasool Allah (there is no God but Allah and Mohamed is his prophet) I heard someone say, before the rest followed suit and I found myself glaring down at a part along the earth, wide and dark, waiting to swallow my brother whole. My knees shivered despite the early May heat that filled the air. La hawla wla quwata illa billah (there is no might nor power except in Allah) I heard the chants come as quick as the arms that wrapped themselves around my arms and elbows, fumbling to support my weight and catch Osama's corpse before it could fall with me. I kneeled in front of the grave, the rocks under my knees felt hot and urgent like the realization that settled itself in the middle of my mind. This is his new home. While Nazim and Essam gently lowered the corpse into the ground, the men around me lifted their hands to the air to ask God for something in a prayer I was unfamiliar with. Their whispered voices blended into each other as I felt a warm tear rush down my face. Osama hate's the dark. I remember whispering to no one in particular, before the last pile of sand fell off the shovel and settled over Osama's grave.

                                                                        ~~~

Soon, the same men and I were gathered in my front yard, and the neighbors filed through our doors, wailing and crying at the top of their lungs. I knew hajja Nafeesa, the chatty neighbor with caramel skin and the aftermath of five kids on her waist, would grieve half-heartedly and scream louder than everyone else to make up for the other half. Khala Mariam, the aunt known for her never-aging dark hair and complimentary brooding mood, would offer my mother two minutes of grievances for Osama before she remembered her own late son and began to mourn his loss like a healed wound had just been ripped open in her chest. Still they were the closest people to my mom, and I was glad they could keep her company while I stood outside, held back by a long line of tradition that decreed mourning the dead as an act done best in segregation.


The men would hold back their tears and pity every time they lifted their hands to their faces, rapidly murmured the seven verses of the fatiha, and patted me on the shoulder. These were the same men who indifferently walked past Osama each day, as he stood at the doorsill of our house. The same faces that crumpled with confusion when he hyperventilated because there were too many people in one room, or when he furiously shook his head right and left to avoid looking people in the eyes.

The Imam's voice filled the house with serene verses of what sounded like condolences, or prayers I suppose. I looked around at the faces that had filled the confines of my concrete yard as the scent of hurried funeral coffee tickled my nose.

--------------------------------------[~]--------------------------------------


"You t-think I could ever glow like that?" Osama asked as he glared up at the night sky.

"How do you know you're not glowing now?" I retorted, thinking he does a better job at lighting my days than the stars do the night sky.

"Hmmm... because when I l-look at the sky I feel something in-inside. L-like I'm not al-alone. L-like when I look at M-mama, and I feel nice. M-mama glows.. B-but I know thats not h-how Saleh from school feels. He always says to me, t-t-talk properly! So I know I'm not a s-star yet, I'm not glowing yet b-because I don't make everyone feel nice in-inside."

Except he was a star, for no other seven-year old could be that bright. Despite the darkness, I knew that he was crying because he held his breath. Just as I was about to extend my arm to comfort him, I woke up. The doors of the cell banged to one side as another group of disheveled men were tossed into the stuffy little prison cell.

"Bastards!" One of them muttered. Something about the revolts had made people a little bit more daring than usual.

He was a tall lanky fellow whose broken glasses drooped over the edge of his nose. I looked down as he scanned the room, hoping he wouldn't sit by me and decide to bother me with useless chatter. Of course it didn't work since I was the only person around his age in the cell. He slowly dropped himself a few inches from me, sighing like they had just lifted the world off his shoulders.

"Are you here because of the protests too? Which political group are you with?" he asked.

I lifted my head and looked his way before turning around to attend to my daydreams.

"You're right, I wouldn't answer either. With a country full to its brim with lying, cunning, disgusting amanjeya (secret police service) you have to be careful what you say to people."

I really didn't care what or who he was, but I hoped his assumption that I was scared of him would win me a few more minutes to wrap myself within my mind.

"My name is Ahmed El-Tahir, student from the University of Khartoum, faculty of economics." he paused waiting for a name I would not give him. "You know, I was peacefully sitting at home studying for some exam when someone called me and told me my best friend had been shot with a rubber bullet. He bled to death. All I wanted to do was dignify my best friend with a respectable funeral. But of course these bastards wouldn't have that. So they arrested me and now I'm here. I wish I were here for actually protesting against these dogs, but yeah. That's my story."

"Montaser Mahmoud Alsir?"

My name bellowed off the concrete walls of the cell, and cut right through Ahmed El-Tahir's rant. I walked up towards the bars that creaked open to reveal a stubby man's frame. He had a kinder face than most of the pigs in blue and black around here. I could tell that he had a long day by the way his eyebrows fell apathetically atop his reddish eyes. His shoulders slouched forward a little, to compliment the skin that lazily slouched into wrinkles under his eyes and over his ashy knuckles.

"Sign here," he said as he edged a paper and board closer to me.

I had half a mind to read it, but I knew that was uncalled for. As with everything else in this country, you did as you were told. You let society and it's authorities think for you if you wanted to live a simple, easy-flowing life. So I signed the paper and followed the old officer to the doors that led you out into the bigger prison. I had only been held for a few hours, but the streets that opened up to embrace me were much older. I was not familiar with the tire ashes that covered the sidewalks and sandy streets. I did not recognize these Afribians with stern faces, and heavy bags of courage on their shoulders. At least Osama had not died for nothing, he couldn't h...

"OUT! GET OUT!" Someone yelled, reeling me out of my reveries and into the front yard that seemed crammed with faces I was not familiar with. Did all these people know my brother?

"GET OUT YOU SHAMELESS PIECE OF ZIFT!" The rest of the mourners echoed.

Afribian Nights IV: Memoirs of a Concrete Pavement (Chapter 1)

I twisted the stub of my cigarette into the ground and watched the ashes turn from orange to grey in a split second. It was the third one I had absentmindedly consumed in that shadow of an hour, and minutes later I knew I would light my fourth. It had become a habit that was too difficult to break, just like everything else around which my mundane life seemed to be centered. Here I was, back strewn across a cracked wall with nothing but a few joints and the chirps of a cricket to keep me company. My childhood friends, Essam and Nazim, were around; corpses strewn across my backyard's floor, fast asleep under the influence of a sedative that had become too common for young men like ourselves. But it numbed the despair, and that compensated for its haram-ness. I tried not to think about it too much, or to lump my friends as sinners because I was not better myself. Had it not been for the fact that I promised my widowed mother I'd be more of a "righteous man"(whatever the hell that meant), I probably would have sipped myself drowsy to sleep, too.

Earlier that day, I was with Mona, the old college sweetheart I was indebted to for my last twenty boxes of Bringi cigarettes. We had quarreled about her own drinking habits, which seemed futile now. I don't know if I was mad at her ability to numb down her pitiful problems, or if I actually cared for her. Most things became hard to distinguish as life grew fuzzier these days. It had also been a while since I last heard coherent words echo off the walls of a lecture hall. A year ago this would have caused me heartaches induced by the back of a mind that could no longer grow. But now it was manageable. Anyways, nothing deserved my undivided attention and affection anymore; except maybe my mother and Osama, my autistic baby brother. For those two, the air my own lungs needed would become cheap at the cost of giving them a few more whiffs of life. I could not explain this idolatry relationship I shared with my fragmented family. I was not really emotional and I had spent half of my life in isolation. The other half went to waste on the street, selling things that no one really cared for. I did this ever since my father had passed away during Afribia's gold rush. That is the last I remember of my childhood days.

Your father was a good man. My mother had always told me. But as I grew older I found it harder, and harder to believe. Had it not been for my father's greed I would have become a doctor by now, was the only thought that ran parallel to the memory of my father. I could have been working on therapeutic methods to help autistic children—something I had wanted to do ever since the brother I waited so long to play with, threw a tantrum at the sight of a bouncing red ball. Anyways, I didn't have many thoughts to spare for the dead man. The streets grew to father me. Their code was my law, and to maintain a roof over my family's heads, I had to abide by the law.

"Montaser!" Osama called in a whimpering voice.

I shook my head of the bitterness that had filled it. I picked myself up and walked into the house, towards my brother's room.

"What's wrong ya batal (champ)?" I whispered, soothingly trying to pat him back to sleep.

"Osama s-saw bad things w-when he was asleep so he called you and y-you didn't come to save him. Why didn't you c-come?" Osama stuttered, looking down at his fingers while they nervously twisted and untwisted around the loose strings that hung off his blanket.

"I didn't come?! Are you sure? Laa! No, maybe I was just about to come when you woke up. See if you had been patient maybe you could have seen me come in and make the bad things go away." I replied, walking my index and middle fingers up Osama's bony little arm. He anticipated an attack on his ticklish armpit so he retreated as quick as he could, but giggled anyways.

"Oh! Sorry then. I-I just thought you didn't hear me. I'll try again, just come q-quickly okay. I won't call you twice this time."

I held back a chuckle, untied my brother's fingers from the blanket strings they held, and tucked him in. "Okay ya batal. Scoot over, I won't even leave your side."

Laying beside my younger brother, I allowed the subtle rise and fall of Osama's chest to knock me out of consciousness. I don't recall the things I dreamed of. But I do suppose it involved lab coats and better alternatives. Maybe short blissful intervals to the life I longed for, the life Afribia had deprived me of.

The next morning I woke up to the alarm of bullets, and my mother shaking me by the shoulders.

"What?! What's wrong, now?"

"Nayem leha shno?!(Why are you still asleep?!) Where is your brother? Waladi wein?! (Where's my son)" She cried, pounding on her chest with a miserable look on her face.

"What do you mean where is Osama?" I replied, quickly glancing at the empty space beside me, before I jumped out of bed and slipped into my ragged old shoes.

"The country is in flames! Be careful ya waladi!" My mother called, her trembling voice betraying the tears she was trying to hold back.

I rushed to the door and walked out to be greeted by a mass of faces, some I knew, and others I was seeing for the first time. I pushed through the crowd that chanted "Freedom! Peace! Justice!" and watched as tires rolled down the streets in flames. It was terrifying to imagine that my poor little brother, who was afraid of loud noises and the color red, was out here somewhere! I skipped over several shards of glass that were scattered at carelessly organized spots under their broken window frames. It was hard to understand what was going on or why the masses had assembled. I flipped my mind over for ideas as to how all this could have happened bein yom w leila (overnight). I remembered seeing similar sights two years ago at the death of Afribia's favorite singer, and then again at a feeble uprising of scattered revolts. But they were never this... this... loud! Could this be the real awaited revolution? Was Afribia finally tiptoeing out of the shade of tyranny?I was not sure, but none of it mattered as much as the whereabouts of my brother did.

"OSAMA! OSAMA! WHERE ARE YOU YA BATAL?! IT'LL BE OKAY, JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE. IT'S MONTASER, OSAMA! CAN YOU HEAR ME? YAKHWANA I'M LOOKING FOR MY LITTLE BROTHER, HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?" I yelled out again and again, sometimes louder than the crowd, other times in muffled streaks that only I could hear.


Just then, smoke filled the air and people began to disperse. Salty drops of tears began to form, involuntarily, at the edges of my eyes. Where there were ten people around me with footsteps echoing my own, there had now been two unconscious bodies. One of which seemed oddly smaller. My eyesight was cloudy, but I could have sworn it looked like Osama. Confusion, agony, pain, and drowsiness rushed through my body all at once. Then, without any forewarnings my knees buckled. Did I tell them they needed to fall to get a closer look? If I did what were my eyelids doing weighing down on my sight?

"Osama?" I called, as I peeked through my drooping eyelids at the corpse in front of me. "Osama... it's Montaser... I'm... I'm here... it'll be okay." I whispered as I exhaustedly edged my hand closer to cup my brother's face. The last thing I could remember was the shock of a damp sticky fluid that oozed down Osama's chin and onto my fingers.

--------------------------------------[~]--------------------------------------

I woke up to the pinch of sharp needle piercing into my arm.

"Finally, you're awake. We're in Soba Hospital. The tear gas knocked you out for a while." Said a tall, bouldering female figure in the most matter-of-fact tone. "Hold still. We need to take some blood."

"Where is Osama?" I remembers asking. "The young boy who was next to me, my brother, where is he?"

"Asbet! Hold still!" She repeated. I looked up at her dark face with scrutiny. Her bold features had an intense look of concentration strewn across them. I examined her dusty white uniform, and shoes that might have once been white. She flicked the ends of her sky-blue scarf over her shoulders and looked up to hold my gaze for a split second. I saw that she was trying to muffle some emotion. Frustration? Sympathy? Nervousness? It was hard to tell, she probably masked her emotions quite often at this tired old hospital.

"Yakh asma'eeni, (listen) did the boy I was holding come with me? Do you have him here?" I felt a pang that must have been purposely orchestrated by the nurse to get her point across. "Yakh, Why are you taking my blood, anyways?"

The nurse continued to ignore me while her needle filled up with my dark red fluids. As soon as she was satisfied she turned around to leave, when I grabbed her arm.

"Please! Do you know anything about the boy?! Osama?" I pleaded.

"The doctor will come to talk to you in a while." She replied, yanking her arm from underneath my grasp. "Don't exhaust yourself."

As I watched her back disappear around a corner at the end of the hallway, I reached out for my IV tubes and yanked them out forcefully. This was the second time I had dozed off while my brother was, God-knows-where. If anything happened to him, I would have no one but myself to blame.

"Excuse me! What do you think you're doing?!" Yelled nurse "asbet" from the farther end of the room. "Stay where you are, you're in no position to be moving around. Listen, ma tghalebni! (don't trouble me) There are hundreds of others I need to attend to, so just stay in your..."

But I would not listen, I was already tying my shoe laces. I had to find Osama.

"He's in the operating room." She blurted, flatly.

There it was—my worst nightmare in its most vicious forms, reenacting itself at that very moment.

"What?!" I bellowed

"I'm sorry. He was shot. That was what the blood was for..." She replied, almost sympathetically. "Now can you please stay where you are. The doctor will tell you the details. Just stay for a few minutes."

I looked down at my feet, begging them to move. But they would not budge. I did not know how long I held that frozen position. I imagined the grief and disappointment that would shatter my mom's heart. How was I going to tell her that her youngest son was shot, while her eldest was asleep? How would I live with myself? More importantly, how could I live without my brother?"

"Ya ibni? Ya ibni. Son? Son, can you hear me?" A balding man repeated, as he shook me by the shoulder. "Son I need you to listen to me. Are you okay? Do you know where you are? I need you to talk to me."

"Is he okay?" I managed

A few minutes seemingly dragged themselves into an endless silence, and as I looked up at the doctor's face I understood.

"I'm so sorry, son"

"Where is he?"

"The shot was aimed directly at his head, and we did everything..."

"'Everything we could, but we still couldn't save him? This is God's will? You're so sorry?'" I furiously mimicked, "Listen, I know you have patients to attend to, just cut the crap and tell me where he is."

"They want you at the morgue to identify the..."

I dashed past the doctor and followed the signs to where the morgue had to be. I could not cry, I could not yell, I could not breathe. I was numb, broken, and very much confused. As I walked towards the room that reeked with the stench of soulless bodies, a man in a blue and black army suit nudged me to a halt. I looked down at the butt of the Kalashnikov on my chest, then up at the man who was holding it there to stop me.

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?

Afribian Nights II: Samara [Final Chapter]

“'You, the people, in your popular uprising succeeded in cutting off the monster’s head, but the lifeless body continues to deceive you that the monster is still dangerous. No, it is not! Having cut off the monster’s head, it is your sacred duty to push down the monster’s body, not to stand in fear of it.' He said, as we stood, peaking through the bushes at a man who radiated a unique eminence of prestige.

I did not know who he was, but I already felt safe within his proximity. With towering broad shoulders, he stood tall and scanned his audience of energetic cadets with small dark eyes, that swam atop firm circular cheekbones wrinkled from smiling, I suppose. His head shone all the way back to the apex of his skull where a thin twine of nappy hair formed a crescent that trickled down the sides of his face and dripped off his chin in a black and white goatee. He was not attractive, per se, but his presence filled the air with a captivating sense of something I still cannot find the right words to describe. His voice bellowed through the camp with an urgent sense of authority despite the serene, heartwarming words it conveyed.

'I appreciate and applaud your tenacity and courage throughout the difficult years of our struggle as a group, and I applaud your personal struggle as individuals. I salute your great spirit of survival and steadfastness. I commend you for the firm commitment to the cause of our people despite all the hardships and suffering you have gone through. Your Movement had always wanted to prepare you to be the future leaders of our nation. This is still the purpose; you are the generation that shall develop the new Afribia. Even though the difficulties and events of our struggle have separated many of you from the movement and some of us have scattered all over the world yet the aim is not lost.' He continued.

'I have come to wake you up and remind you that your day has come, tomorrow is already here; you have very little time left to prepare yourselves for leadership in whatever fields: agriculture, carpentry, architecture, medicine, politics, economics, or even raising a family…all these require skills and all contribute to building the New Afribia, which we have fought and sacrificed the last twenty years of our lives for. Even before you have completed the task of organizing yourselves nationally, you have the eyes of the world upon you at this very gathering. I am confident in your ability to come together in a spirit of unity towards a greater good – bringing the world’s awareness to the plight of the desperate people in Afribia. I have great faith that you will conduct your business as responsible leaders, rising above factional and political differences. As you speak, the world will hear and learn about the lost boys and girls of Afribia, the children of Afribia's war-torn countryside. Millions of your people have lost their future, their lives; they have no voice, except through you. The despair and tragedy spans every tribe, every religion, every language, and every culture found in your vast land. But still, we hold out hope for a day where we will again know the security and comfort of our family’s love, the prosperity of a country no longer at war, and peace in our homeland. Such cherished dreams will require all of the love, work, faith, trust and compassion we can assemble as allies and friends across the world. If you master this spirit of unity here," he gently placed his palm over the upper left side of his chest "You will truly be maturing into the leaders deeply needed by your country. Each one of you has my respect and admiration for enduring a life that no child should ever face, and for recognizing that the road ahead is still long, filled with both hardship and unexpected joy, self-discipline and the barest glimpse of cherished dreams that...'

At that particular moment his eyes held mine, and I witnessed a benevolent smile play about the corners of his lips. The young cadets turned their heads to face us. A girl, with height exceeding her age walked towards us alongside a sturdy, buffed boy with deep creases of anger drawn across his forehead. They ruffled the bushes with their machine guns and extended their arms to clasp the muddied cloth covering our shoulders; thugging us, front and center, on our knees right under Sargent Garang Joe's mercy. I looked up and he tipped my head down, held me by the arm and helped me to my feet.

'No child, if you intend to sit on your knees and look up with weakness let it be in prayer to your God, not to me. I am not your enemy, unless you declare yourself to be mine. If you do not, you will remain in God's mercy and my grace. What are your names?'

'Samara Salih Alsir,' I said 'And this is my friend Karam Mohammed Ahmed' I completed before Karam found his voice to speak.

The Sargent smiled radiantly as he glared at Karam. 'Has the rat gotten your tongue? Is it the woman who should speak for the man now?' He mocked.

Karam cleared his throat, 'No, my tongue is right here. If she speaks for me it is because I allow her to. But she knows who remains in the position of authority here.' he managed to tease back, despite the tension that eroded him.

I elbowed him in the waist, and he screeched.

'What I mean to say is, actually, this is no ordinary lady. She is my equal in strength and wit, so I am glad that she speaks on my behalf. It is as if I am speaking, but in a prettier voice.' Karam corrected himself.

Laughter contagiously spread from the Sargent's belly to that of everyone around us. Soon enough, Karam and I found ourselves unloading our heavy weight of fatigue and worry, and submitting to the stream of giggles and chuckles that took hold of the air at that moment.

The Sargent then stroked my hair away from my face and looked into my eyes. Extending his other hand out in salutations he whispered, 'What a pleasure it is to meet you Samara. You are just as fierce as I would expect any daughter of Salih Alsir to be.'

It didn’t make sense to me why I had survived when my family didn’t, until I came across Sargent Garang Joe’s camp. Most of the comrades at Joe's camp knew who I was as soon as I stated my last name, they knew who my father and brother were. They said my family had been part of the rebellion for a long time, and that it was no accident. They told us of the people who had raided the town we stayed at that miserable night. Deewajanjas, or the devil's advocates, as they called them, were barbaric men who had been employed by the Cup-Heads to run Afribians out of their homes. The Deewajanjas were taught to hate our kind, they aimed to create some unrealistic, silly sense of ethnic "uniformity". As such, they had been tracking my father down for a while, the Sargent explained.

Gradually, each night, after we had completed our chores and attended training sessions of self-defense, the Sargent would have us sit around us as he explained Afribia's politics and history to our young, yearning minds. He lifted the cloak off of the injustice that had seemed to divide our land. We learned of the malicious people who wanted to drink Afribia's black gold, and leave Afribians thirsty. We were taught to unify under our understanding for each other's loss and grief, but we were constantly warned against allowing hate to fuel our ambitions.

'Hate is a volatile emotion that can turn against you, my child. If you let it motivate your pure intentions, then you will become vengeful and bitter and that same hate will come to eat you out. Today our country runs on a hate for those in power, and that is why we do not move forward.' The Sargent constantly reminded us.

I grew ten years older each night. Months passed and soon I, too, carried a gun. Whatever child had been left of Samara at that point, was wiped out clean. I dedicated the following ten years of my life to finding the people who had torn my family apart, and bringing down the men who ruled our country with such loose chaos. Occasionally, our camp would be discovered by enemies, but we always had God and the truth on our side. Until one day, while Karam and I were out hunting food for the camp, a man larger than Mohammed, the jail keeper, came out of the bushes with raging red eyes. We fought him with all our might, but he did not come alone... and that is how I ended up here, and Karam probably ended up somewhere in heaven." Samara bowed to hide the tears that threatened to fall.

"Now, they want me to become a traitor like them; to reveal the truth about Sargent Joe’s efforts. But I spit in their faces and they wipe off that spit by lashing me. Idiots. They don’t know that my voice is in a place their whips cannot reach. A place powered by this,” She made a fist with her right hand and pounded the upper left side of her chest.

"The heartless butchers try as they may to bruise my skin and break my bones, hoping they may reach my soul and destroy that too; but it is wed to a cause forever immune to their blades."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

So that, my children, is why we tauntingly sing of Butchers.

“Is she dead now Ms. Maha?” asked a young face among the keen Afribian audience.

"No, baby love. No." Said Maha

"Samara is Afribia, and Afribia never dies. She’s right here, in the sand, the wind, the Nile; between your veins and arteries and on the petals of every Hibiscus flower. She dances around Afribia weightlessly now. All that those bad men did was free her from a body that would have gotten old and useless anyways. Samara, the daughter to Christian Black-African Nuha, and Muslim Arabian Salah, lives on forever in these tales that my mother, Nahed, once told me. Today, I pass it on to you so that you may later tell your children and they, theirs."

As Maha patted one of the children on the head and got up to tend to supper, she saw a little girl extend her arm to her friend who, in turn, stroked her palm open with his fingers and began to sing,

The butcher, the butcher

The Kisrah and the stew

The butcher, the butcher

Where lies the home of your groom?