mercredi 15 novembre 2017

A Part-time Prostitute IV

"I think I am in love!", she said one evening. Dreamy shining eyes, silly smile on her lips and a cigarette between her chubby fingers. "I think am in love, girl. No, I am in love".

Oh no! 
"But wait, lemme open the window, I don't want my hair to stink."

"Do you remember the guy I told you about once. The high school teacher that I met in the bar where my friend works back in Meknes? The guy I ignored most of that evening? I remember telling you about him.

It turned out that he really liked me that evening and later on, he requested my phone number from my friend and started calling me. I didn't think about him seriously, neither liked him back then; He is not my type and younger than me."

"Then what changed?"

"I don't know, it just happened. When you were away for the holidays, I got really lonely. We talked a lot, day and night, and he grew on me. We have lot in common. We, both, are away from our family. We, both, bore responsibility at early age. We both are single obviously. So yeah! 

"So he is living in Meknes?

"No, his family is in Meknes but his work is located in Taounate, so he only visits his family during holidays or given weekends. So we hit it off. Talking over the phone and texting. Here, let me show you his picture.

Me: "humm he doesn't look his age!"

"No. So when you were away for the holiday. We decided to meet in Meknes. So it happened. We met at the same bar, drunk together and chitchatted and agreed to meet again. When he knew that I love red wine, he ordered a whole bottle. He invited me to visit him in place and I agreed."

Me: "So you are going all the way to visit him?"

"Yes, it's an opportunity to meet him outside, you know, to get to know him better."

"Your work?"

"I'll take Friday and Saturday morning"

"Ok then, be save"
What to tell her? The woman already made up her mind, her bag was already packed.


Knocking on my door, still carrying her bag, just got back from her trip. 

"Giiiiirl, come, come I got plenty to tell you! And I brought nougat! I know it's your weakness.

This weekend. It was the best of my life. It was just peeeeeeeeerfect!

So, when I arrived to Taounate, I found him waiting for me at the taxi station and everything. We headed home. It was dark. Nobody saw us, I think. Anyways, when we got in, the lights were on. And guess what? He prepared dinner and bought wine. RED WINE, my fav. Can you believe it?, he remembered. 

jeudi 19 octobre 2017

When I look back at my teens, I empathize with the little me.

It all began when I started noticing the differences between me, my family and the outer world. My mother is white, my father is black, both from the South of Morocco, with African features. So, I grew up surrounded by family members that I resemble: dark skin, nappy curly hair, long fingers…
Thanks to my grandfather (blessed be his soul), with whom I spent most of my childhood, I learnt to appreciate his skin tone and mine as well. I grew fond of his skin that shone as if it was highly-polished.

I was full of myself, my perfectly curly hair and doll-like figure. At early age, I had never really understood the weight of difference between myself and my Caucasian classmates and friends. For me, skin color was a feature just like an eye, or a leg, or a mouth, just a thing that anyone has, a part of who we are.

During my teen, and with the overwhelming urge to fit into the surrounding, I started comparing myself to others. Mainly comparing my gravity-defying curls to those silky hair strands of my classmates and of the characters in cartoons and later on, to those of the women in TV commercials and movies. To be honest, my blackness never ever created any issue but my hair did.
My 4A-type natural hair used to reach my lower back. At first, my mother took good care of it: applying natural masks, Henna treatment and other natural grandmother-to-daughter recipes. My aunt used to braid it for me. My favorite hairstyle was cornrow braids. One of my primary school teachers used to make fun of my hairstyle. At first, it was a joke I enjoyed along with my classmates as he used to compare the braid rows to roads and used to give each row a direction.

This is the road to Marrakesh, that the highway to Tangier, this to Casablanca and this takes you downtown”, he used to say while finger tracing the spaces between the rows. I used to laugh. But that road nomination comparison game repeated itself every single time I put corn braids, which was often. Why is it always me? I used to wonder. Other girls used to wear their hair in two-section buns or French braids. And never ever did he point that out. Why me?
By the age of 15, I had to start taking care of my own hair. The products available in the Moroccan markets back then were not suitable for natural hair . Nothing seemed to help me smooth the frizz, comb and untangle and style my natural hair; No thing seemed to help me cope and shield myself from the constant remarks about my hair.
My aunt stopped braiding it for me. My own mother had been relaxing her hair since God knows when and wore it short. My cousins had silky hair. My younger sister had silky hair as well. I was the only one in almost all my classes with curly hair. I always stood out whereas I was trying to fit in.

Then, people offered me advice, to which I carefully listened: how relaxing my hair would make me fit in and make me look 'normal', even girly-er and more beautiful, and would help me manage all that hair. I urged my mother to relax my hair, which she did. I relaxed those gravity-defying, natural, frizzy hairs.
Guess what? Even with relaxed hair I just could not fit in. I used to relax my hair every 6–9 months for about 5 years, if I remember well. My hair became so damaged that nothing I do help: breakage, heat damage, hair loss, you name it. I had enough. I stopped by the time I finished high school and resumed university.

By then, I grew tired of all those burdens and decided to drop them and live. I don’t fit in, so what? I don’t have to fit in to live, to study, and to build a career and a future. I no longer knew how to take care of my damaged hair, neither how to style it, so what? I’ll just moisturize it and wear it in a bun. After a while, I just had enough. I started doing research to better understand how to deal with my hair. I learnt about the famous “big chop”, about transitioning, natural hair types, hair loss and damage solution and so on and so forth.

It took almost 4 years to grow my hair back, a much healthier natural hair. I regained my curls and my pride, to be honest. How? Alienation. I had to live in another city to pursue my studies. I was a foreigner and knew almost no one. That alienation made me reach many conclusions, most important of which were self-love. I big-chopped during that period.

Went from mid-back long damaged hair to a five-year-old-Micheal-Jackson Afro. That big chop was more than cutting damaged hair, it was also cutting through those self demeaning tendencies. It was cutting deep into those built-up prejudices that I took over from what people labelled me by. It was cutting deep into myself.

That Afro made me befriend lots of natural hair buddies, made. That standing out I always hated during my childhood became my strongest asset. During those 3 years, I read and read and read about self-acknowledgement, self-esteem, and self-knowledge, embracing the self, and owning the difference; about the struggle to overcome that yearning to fit in. I watched loads of videos, Tedx talks, comedy shows with Africans, African-Americans and black communities, with people that look like me, with Afro heads, natural, nappy, kinky, and curly hair. I found the representation I always needed. I will be the representation many girls need.

NB. I don't own the art works.

vendredi 13 octobre 2017

"يا باخلا بالوصل"

"يا من هواه أعزه وأذلني
 كيف السبيل إلى وصالك دلني
 وتركتني حيران صباً هائماً
 أرعى النجوم وأنت في نوم هني
 عاهدتني أنْ لا تميل عن الهوى
 وحلفت لي يا غصن أن لا تنثني
 هبّ النسيم ومال غصنُ مثله
 أين الزمان وأين ما عاهدتني
 جاد الزمان وأنت ما واصلتني
 يا باخلاً بالوصل أنت قتلتني
واصلتني حتى ملكت حشاشتي
 ورجعتَ من بعد الوصال هجرتني
 الهجر من بعد الوصال قطيعة
 يا ليت من قبل الوصال تركتني
 أنت الذي حلفتني وحلفت لي
 وحلفت أنك لا تخون فخنتني
 لما ملكت قياد سرى بالهوى
 وعلمت أني عاشق لك خنتني
ولأقعدن على الطريق فاشتكى
في زي مظلوم وأنت ظلمتني
 ولأشكينك عند سلطان الهوى
 ليعذبنك مثل ما عذبتني
 ولأدعين عليك في جنح الدجى
 فعساك تبلى مثل ما أبليتني"
............................ سعيد بن أحمد بن سعيد

mercredi 13 septembre 2017

I مرفئ آخر

وها قد رست سفني في مرفئ آخر. وهذه المرة، ليست بهدف الدراسة ولكن من أجل "طرف" خبز. حي جديد، بيت جديد، سرير جديد، كل شئ جديد إلا أنا، البالية. لا الطريق كانت سهلة ولا الرياح صبا.

بعد طنجة، رجعت إلى الديار، إلي حضن أمي الدافئ وإلي درع أبي الواقي وإلي تصابي أختي المتصابي وإلى حجرتي الفتون وبيدي ورقة، دبلوم لم يختزل من عامي المعانات والحراك والبؤس والفرح والجروح التي مافتئت تندمل إلا نجاح. لما لم يذكروا الليالي البيضاء؟ لما لم يذكروها؟ لما لم يذكروا العاهرة ليلا والعفيفة نهارا؟ لما لم يذكروا الدموع والركوع؟ لما لم يذكروا الليالي الحمراء والخمر والميسر ودم العذراء؟ لما لم يذكروا الكتائب العسكرية والطاكتيك وحراك البؤساء؟ لما لم يذكروا اللقاءات والعناقات والآمال المعلقات؟ لما لم يذكروا الصداقات والصفقات والوعود الخذل؟ لما لم يذكروا الأمواج واعوجاجها تحت أعيننا الدامعة؟  لما لم يذكروا الحب وهل تعرف ما معنى الحب وموت الحمار؟ ورقة وحفلة وصياح بأسماء وتصفيق وضحك ذقون.

رجعت إلى الديار وعرضت علي وظيفة وسميت الله وقبلتها. وظيفة لطالما مدحوها لي ومزاياها وما سأتعلم منها. وبالفعل كان ذلك. تعلمت الكثير وربما فاتني أكثر. وضعت كلما تعلمته تحت الاختبار ولم يخب فيﱠ الظن. وأصبحت جيبا وقت الضرب على الأجيب ولجامي بين يدي أول الشهر وتعاستي بعد كل يوم ثاني كل شهر. أوراق أوراق أوراق. أصبحت خبيرة في شؤون الزواج ومساطر الطلاق. -- أنصح كل مقبلة على الزواج، لا تفرحي بالزغاريد والحناء وتشبتي بمؤخر الصداق والنفقة والمتعة واجعلي مالك ملكك باسمك قبل الكتاب ووياك ثم وياك أن تثقي بابن حواء، ففي فقلبه أربع حفرات والشرع أعطاه أربع طلقات فإعطه العصمة وتصبحين واحدة من زوجات 'متولي' الأخريات.—وتعلمت كيف تبتى ملفات الزيجات المختلطة والخطوات والأسئلة المطروحة خلال لقاءات الحصول على التأشيرات واطلعت عن قرب على وثائق من العم سام والعديد من البلدان الأخرى وعلى شهادات الوفاة والازدياد والتجنيس والعزوبة والبطالة والرصائد البنكية والميزات المدرسية والمواريث والملكيات و و و وأصبحت أخشى الوصوصة.

ومضت الأيام متشابهة لدرجة أن البقال المجاورللعمل يُحضر لي طلبي حالما أقبل عليه، لدرجة أن زميلي في العمل يسألي كل صباح كيف لم أمل من فطور خبز الزرع والجبن والعسل وعصير الموز بالفواكه الجافة دون سكر وغذاء المقرونية واللحم المفروم والجين ووجبة خفيفة الفول السوداني وقطع الشكولاطة السوداء، كل يوم لمدة سنة ونصف أو أكثر. أغير بعضا إلا الفطور، لا أدري لما لم أمل من ذلك الفطور. ربما كنت أحاول التعود: أكل، شرب، نوم، عمل، أكل، شرب، نوم، عمل، أكل، شرب، نوم، عمل، أكل، شرب، نوم، عمل........ حتى نصحني أحدهم بالرياضة، لا لأنني أعاني من السمنة أو الكسل، بل لكسر الروتين ليصبح أكل، شرب، نوم، عمل، رياضة، أكل، شرب، نوم، عمل، رياضة، أكل، شرب، نوم، عمل، رياضة،......  حتى قررت ذات آخر أسبوع أن أسافر إلا طنجة أزور بعض الأصدقاء. لم أنم ليلتها فرحا، كأنني سأسافر للأول مرة، كأني سأطير لأول مرة، وكل المرات الأولى. عند الوصول، فضلت المشئ، فالتاكسي سيطير بي إلا الوجهة وأنا أود الاحتساء جرعة جرعة. أحسست عندها بالحرية والفرحة والحياة والنوستالجيا،.....بعد أشهر من الرقود والضمور وأكل، وشرب، ونوم، وعمل، ورياضة.


vendredi 17 février 2017

A Sola Backpacker - Part V

My first step on the national road, l found a little seahorse, totally preserved and dried up by the sun. I examined it, it still has those little rough edges. I wondered how it arrived there as the port is quite far away. A seahorse,  I was thrilled. That was my omen: That my trip is going to be dream-like. A seahorse!

Anyways, the road was fine, full of cars, trucks, motorbikes, not a single walker. Deep down I was expecting the worse to happen. A girl by herself on a road. But this didn't discourage me. After all, I knew it is going to be so. The only issue is that I was afraid to take my phone out of my pack and check the map to verify if I am still on track as I passed by many roads, to do the counts to know how much more road ahead. The only helpful thing is the marking of the remaining distance to Essaouira. That helped do the counts. To arrive to Tamraght, my first stop,  I had 16Km. Following my pace, I did 2Km per 30min. After a while I passed by Inza, without stopping. I continued to Aourir. 

Aourir, the city of bananas. I passed by shops full of banana from roof to bottom, drooling over them like a minion at banana sight. The monkey in me could not resist, so I stopped to have some of those small overly-sweet tasty bananas and of course pack some more for snacks. The seller was a heavily-wrinkled old man, wearing a faded brownish djellaba and a knitted hat. I salam'ed him and I asked him for the price of 1kg without really caring about his answer, yet it is the custom in here; asking before buying. He rose from his chair and started looking for his knife to cut me some from those tens of hanging banana branches. I watched his hands, dirty. not disgustingly dirty, but proudly dirty, wrinkled, sun-burnt in here and there with swollen fingers, because of the cold I guess. I told him that whomever passes by Aourir without stopping to taste Aourir's ripe bananas has eventually and unfortunately lost a lot; their life is senseless. His eye lit up and he granted me with a big smile from a nearly toothless mouth and said in Berber-accented Arabic "ayah" meaning yes. He then asked me if I spoke some Berber, I shyly said "Imik s'mik" meaning a little. Honestly, I only know a few.  

Upon resuming the walking, I asked some locals about how many hours/Km to arrive to Tamraght, one of them said that I have about 5Km to go. Off I went again.

vendredi 10 février 2017

A Sola backpacker - Part IV

Monday February 2nd, 2017, today, finally, I hit the road.
According to my trip plan, My departure is from Agadir. I decided to arrive to Agadir on Monday afternoon, spend the night in Agadir so I could rest from the 7-hours trip from Salé to Casablanca to Agadir and start the journey early in the morning.

Silly me, I thought that watching backpackers videos on YouTube will make me get my pack right but nooo. From the start, I didn't have the necessary clothes and equipment so I had to buy things. I stopped in Casablanca to get supplies. As I was in a hurry, I didn't arrange my clothes as I should have. I just stuffed them into my pack.

Once I arrived to my hotel room I decided to arrange my pack. I have noticed that I've packed things I might not use. Useless things mean extra weight, mean lower pace and fatigue given that I will be trekking all the way up to Taghazout, about 20km on foot. I had an extra pair of hiking shoes, pretty heavy and pretty worn out, 4 books and a notebook (kept the notebook and one books), cosmetic products (what was I thinking?) I had three options: throw these things, give them away or send them to my hometown. As they were pretty special to me, first thing in the morning, I sent them home. They weighted 2.5kg, imagine! 2.5kg off my back. That matter delayed me about 1:30 from the time I have set. Lesson learnt.

Anyways, at 11:30am, I was on the national road. Though Google maps pointed out the way, I had to ask around, policemen mostly, to get it right. And off I went.

Ps. I am still growing my backpack