Mama collected me and my siblings from school the day Nanu Kawther passed, the last day of term. I knew something was wrong because Mama was always working and never did the school run. She told us on the way home that Nanu Kawther had died. This was the first person I’d known who had died.
‘How do you know she’s dead?’ I asked.
‘Because your uncle called,’ Mama said.
‘How does he know she is dead?’
‘She was sleeping, but she wasn’t breathing.’
When we got home, Baba was praying. Recently he had been praying in a chair because of his bad back, but that day he had his head pressed to the floor. I waited behind him until he was finished.
His zebibah, prayer bump, looked especially dark on his forehead. He hugged me and his whole body shook. It was the only time I had seen him cry.
‘I’m an orphan,’ he said. I didn’t know that adults could be orphans, but I believed him. Besides, in that moment, he didn’t feel like an adult at all.
I didn’t know how to act in mourning. Would I have stayed home from school if we weren’t on holidays? Would I have brought it up to my friends? How would I explain that there would be no funeral? The timing made it easier to stay home and avoid the questions and guilt.
Baba went back to work and spent most of his time at home praying. I spent most of my time playing The Sims. I’d play until my Sims reached old age, then I’d make a new family before any of them died.
One week into the holidays, I decided it was time to do something. So I called Carly, a girl from school I would walk home with sometimes. She was a skinny blonde who always wore two braids in her hair, and was roughly the same shoe size as me. I asked her if she wanted to go shopping.
The next day, we went into Supre, where I feigned interest in buying a boob tube. Then we sat in the food court and ate Subway that tasted like soap. Then we went to a bookshop, where I found a Sims game guide. I’d been wanting that particular guide. It was full of codes that could give you endless cash, turn your Sims’ skin purple or let them cheat death.
‘Am I having dinner at your house?’ said Carly.
‘I don’t know. I’d have to ask my mum.’
‘Because I told my mum I was having dinner at your house.’
‘My house isn’t the greatest place to be at the moment.’
She looked up. ‘Why?’
‘Because everyone is sad. My grandma died.’
‘Nana died?’
‘No. My other grandma. My dad’s mum.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know you had another grandma.’
‘Well, she’s dead now.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ She looked down to her hands, and I kept my eyes on the shelves. ‘Can I still come over for dinner?’
Mama made bamya stew, meat and rice. Carly sat in my usual seat, and I had to drag a garden chair inside and perch on the corner of the table. I only ever did that – gave up my seat – when Nanu Kawther was there. Baba was quiet at the dinner table; he preferred silence when eating, especially at the moment. His left arm stayed anchored to his placemat, while his right lifted food to his mouth, or waved to beckon a plate. He smelled of the sour citrus cologne he showered himself in every day. He reached across the table and grabbed the pot of rice, digging out two spoons for himself, then two spoons for me. In it were the dark, chewy, buttery bits. Mama must have done that on purpose.
Carly ate her rice and bits of meat, but left most of the bamya and sauce on her plate. She was a picky eater, she said. The only time I’d seen her be a picky eater was when she picked her nose at school.
‘Is your friend going to finish her food?’ said Baba. He said it with a smile, so as not to scare Carly. He had found at work that people often misinterpreted his tone, called him aggressive when he was just loud and plain-spoken.
‘Are you going to finish your food?’ I repeated to Carly.
‘I don’t think so. I’m full.’
‘There is not much left,’ said Baba, even though there was a lot left. ‘Yalla, Mama, finish your plate.’ Mama is what adults call little girls in Egypt – it’s a term of endearment. Like when they call them aroosa, doll. Or a bride.
‘I don’t think I can,’ said Carly.
‘Yalla, Mama, it is haram to waste food.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘If you do haram things,’ I explained, ‘you will go to hell when you die. Go on, eat it. Or my dad will be mad and you will go to hell.’
‘Shush! That’s not a nice way to speak to your friend,’ said Mama. She wasn’t in her usual seat either. She always sat next to Baba, but she had swapped with Mohamed to sit on the other end of the table, and that’s where she stayed from then on.
Baba and I kept our eyes on Carly. She started to sniffle. Of all the people at that table who had reason to cry, Carly was the one to do it.
MAMA
When the smell of caramel fills the house, I know my mother is waxing. She doesn’t like shaving, or the chemical removal foams. Hot sugar is different. It’s a more natural, healthy burn. An earthy one.
The sugar my mother is melting on the stove smells good enough to eat, but it is not for eating. Halawa, that’s what it’s called. Sweet. She asks me if I want some, and I say no.
When it’s caramelised, she pours it onto baking paper. She waits a little, allowing it to form into a cohesive blob. She keeps most of it in the fridge for next time, when she will get it out and knead the hardened sugar over the fire.
More often than not, a razor is my tool of choice. I would rather cut myself than have my skin ripped from my underarm.
My mother is a tough woman. She can withstand anything. She shows me and Aisha how to use the halawa properly. This is not the first time she has shown me, but I still can’t get it right. Last time I tried it, I ended up sticking myself to the carpet by the crotch.
Aisha does it. She is not afraid of pain. I am the weakest member of this family. Last time, my whimpering could be heard throughout the house.
My mother pulls up her pyjama pant leg and places a small bit of caramel. I can see her blue varicose veins.
‘I gave her those,’ Aisha says about the veins, in a tone approaching pride.
Then, in a quick movement, Mama strips the halawa off her leg.
‘If it weren’t for you,’ I say to Aisha, ‘Mama would have nice smooth legs. She wouldn’t have any problems.’
‘I don’t ever want to have kids,’ says Aisha. ‘They’re a waste of money and they give you varicose veins.’
‘That’s true,’ says Mama. ‘But if you don’t have kids, then what’s the point? What will be your legacy?’
‘Lots and lots of money,’ says Aisha, grinning.
RULE #9
LIFE IS NOT A FAIRYTALE
I heard that Allah made man out of mud. Fetid mud. Makes me wonder what was wrong with a nice piece of wood, or a rock. Stinky mud. That’s us. Putrid mounds rolling across the earth, thinking there’s something more to come for us.
My gut rolled over my naked thighs as I sat on Carly’s toilet. It wasn’t the first time it occurred to me that I couldn’t see my crotch when I sat. Just three rolls, rising over one another, as if they were racing to reach my knees and the bottom one was winning. Allah used a lot of mud on me. He didn’t have to, but He did.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Are you okay?’ called Carly. I had been in there for a while.
‘Yeah. Just finishing up.’ Fetid. A smell. Soaking my underwear. Trickling down the toilet bowl. Pooling on the floor. I knew I couldn’t hide in there forever.
✾
This is how I got there. Spring Fever: the end-of-year show at school. Every year, each grade would put on a performance across a three-night extravaganza. The main event was always the Grade Sevens, who performed an extended musical act, usually based on a Disney movie. It was the highlight of the year. Everyone looked forward to it, and it was finally our turn.
The Grade Sevens gathered in
the hall on a Friday afternoon. It was February, and the sweat under our twelve-year-old armpits stank of impending puberty. The acoustics meant the whir of the industrial fan above us, spinning at full speed, was drowned out by our chatter.
There were rumours the theme would be Snow White. I struggled to think which part I could play. The lead would be, for obvious reasons, out of the question. And I was too tall to be one of the seven dwarves. The past year had seen me grow taller than almost every kid at school. I knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long – Mama had assured me of this. We were a short family. But for now, it counted against a starring role.
Ms C was wearing a halterneck, which sat so close to her throat it must have been itchy. She raised one hand in the air – a signal for us to quieten. The boys in the back row continued to whisper, although they were listening. We were all listening. We all wanted to know.
Ms C ran a finger under her tight collar, as though to give herself some air. Then, she spoke. ‘You all know that Spring Fever is a privilege. Yes? We don’t have to do this. If you are not on your best behaviour, we will cancel your performance. All right?’ She had everyone’s attention now, and she knew it. ‘With that being said. Our theme this year will be Aladdin.’ She didn’t look at me when she said it, but I felt like she was talking to me. Just me. She had chosen this theme with me in mind. I couldn’t believe my luck. Aladdin was as Arab as you could hope for.
‘You’ve got Jasmine for sure,’ said Carly as we left the hall. ‘You’re the only one who looks like her.’ She was right. I was the only kid in school remotely like Princess Jasmine. I had Jasmine’s nose, Jasmine’s eyebrows, Jasmine’s ambiguously Islamic background. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t dainty. This role was made for me.
Our class began to practise every afternoon. The scene with Aladdin being chased by guards for stealing a loaf of bread would open the show. Carly was placed in front because she was short, and she had started doing jazz ballet, so she could at least hold a kind of rhythm with her feet.
Ms C pretended she was giving everyone an equal chance at the lead roles. Watching us as we learned the moves. Praising those who picked them up quickly. Until the leads were cast, Ms C said, we needed a stand-in, to block Aladdin’s movements. She tapped me on the shoulder. I had to run and jump over boxes as three boys, playing the guards, chased after me. The rest of the class danced in the background. I could see Carly out of the corner of my eye, looking at me and grinning. Ms C was prepping me. Was she wanting me to be the star? I had nothing against it, but my heart was set on Jasmine. She had to know that.
The next Friday, the announcement came.
‘You’ve all done well to pick up the dances,’ Ms C said. I knew she was being generous. Half the kids in my class couldn’t sway on beat if their life depended on it.
Ms C slid her finger under her collar again before she spoke. ‘Our Aladdin … will be Jake.’
This came as a relief. Jake, one of the tallest boys in the grade – one of the few taller than me – smiled at his friends, restless with excitement around him. Ms C must have thought carefully about her choice, I thought. Jake did not look Arab at all, but he would make me look smaller by comparison. I would make a good Jasmine next to him.
‘Settle down, please, boys,’ said Ms C. ‘Now, our Jasmine.’
I grabbed Carly’s hand and jiggled it in excitement. When Ms C announced it, reading off her slip of paper, all the girls sitting in front of me turned around and looked. Those big, fake, jealous smiles on their faces. But they weren’t looking at me. They were looking to my right. Carly. Ms C had said Carly.
I listened to the rest of the list. The Genie. Abu the monkey. The Sultan. The bad genie. Jafar. Jafar’s parrot. None of those roles went to me. I was to be in the background.
✾
Later that week, Carly invited me to her house after school. Perhaps this was her way of apologising. We hadn’t talked about it, the possibility that I wouldn’t get the role of Princess Jasmine. But something about the way she didn’t look me in the eye when I said congratulations made me think she knew. There were dynamics at work that I was too naive to appreciate.
Although she’d been over to my house countless times, I’d never been to hers. She said that she liked our house better, that was why.
I knew that we lived in the same neighbourhood – her house was just a little further away from school than mine, I imagined. It was spitting when we started walking, but it was raining solidly by the time we passed my house. We kept going. Past the park with the fossilised dirty nappy sitting proudly in the bark. Past the big traffic lights. Past the smaller park with the rust-encrusted swing set. We walked for what seemed like ages, until we turned into a big driveway, lined by trees. I never realised Carly lived this far away.
Two cars sat in front of a double garage door. The house was light grey on the outside, and all white on the inside. Even the couches were white. They screamed to be soiled.
Both her parents were home. Business owners, she had once vaguely mentioned.
‘Why do you walk home from school if your parents are here?’ I asked, drying my face on the inside of my collar.
Carly shrugged.
‘Because she insists on walking with you!’ called her mother, who had overheard from somewhere in the depths of the house. She emerged and didn’t introduce herself, but smiled at me as she took our schoolbags from us. ‘I’m putting these on the patio to dry.’ This didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, but then I realised their patio must have a roof.
There was a plate of fairy bread on the kitchen bench, already buttered and perfectly sprinkled. On the dining table was a blue midriff costume. Her mum had been hand-sewing rhinestones onto it.
‘She’s more excited than I am,’ said Carly. ‘I don’t really think I can do it.’
‘Nonsense!’ said her mum as she came back inside. The woman had good hearing. ‘Everyone on the P&C agreed you’d be a great Jasmine.’
Pee and See. I didn’t know what that meant. Like peeing in the toilet and then checking the colour. Pee and See. I was reminded that I had been holding on for a while.
The sliding door that led onto their backyard opened, and in came a large man with a salt-and-pepper moustache. ‘So many bloody toads out there,’ he said, shaking off the wet. ‘Bloody unnatural buggers.’ He was holding a golf club with a streak of what looked like blood on it. He didn’t seem to see me sitting at his kitchen bench.
‘Eww, gross, Dad,’ said Carly. ‘We’re going to practise.’ On the way to her bedroom, we passed a closed door, metal music emanating at low volume from behind it. Carly had an older brother, in Mohamed’s grade. I’d seen him at school before they graduated primary, but had never spoken a word to him. I realised I had forgotten his name.
Carly’s room was at the back of the house. It was huge. She had a big bed, with enough room to spare that we could dance and not bump into anything.
I had been watching Carly and Jake, as everyone was forced to, during rehearsals. I was only in one number, but Carly was in at least six.
‘I really can’t keep track of all the routines,’ she said. I knew she was just saying that to make me feel better, as if being a star was a burden that I was lucky to dodge. But I had already learned all her steps by heart. We both pretended I was doing her a favour by standing in for Jake.
The lifts were easy, because Carly wasn’t that big. I could do it better than Jake as I wasn’t afraid to touch her in the wrong place. I lifted her in the air as she jumped. Twirled her and dipped her.
Carly asked if I would like to swap. ‘Maybe you can be Jasmine for a bit,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘It’ll help me learn the moves, backwards and forwards.’
I knew she was doing it for my sake, but I didn’t care. She stood on her tiptoes as I bent my knees and twirled under her arm. I braced my weight as we went in for the dip. Tightening my bladder with every eight count. I needed to go, but
I held it in. Just to maintain the feeling of doing a dance made for me.
Then came the lift. There was no hiding that she couldn’t pick me up. I jumped, pretending someone would catch me. But I landed with a thud, straight back on my own two feet.
‘Maybe they just needed someone who could do the lifts,’ she said, sympathy in her voice.
‘Where’s your bathroom?’ I asked. Urgency in mine.
Carly took me down a corridor which seemed to last forever. The walls were covered in framed photographs of her – those staged glamour shots where the photographers make pre-teens look like middle-aged women by adding thick burgundy lipstick. A smell of vanilla wafted from a candle that didn’t look like it had ever been lit.
The bathroom was, again, all white, except for the gold fixtures – on the shower, the sink, the bath. Beside the toilet was a wicker basket filled with fresh paper rolls, signifying plenty, like in a magazine spread. Another virgin candle sat on a narrow table nearby. This one smelled of coconut. The whole experience was distracting enough for me not to notice one critical feature of that bathroom. The toilet seat. The lid was down.
Once I realised, it was too late. I was peeing on Carly’s toilet. The piss ran down the basin and onto the floor, pooling near the wicker basket. I had peed on Carly’s floor. I panicked and threw an entire fresh roll into the puddle to soak it up.
I tried to stop myself, but I couldn’t. I stood, still going, and lifted the lid. The urine on the back trickled down into the joins of the toilet.
When I finished, I took stock of the damage. My skort was soaked. I removed it, swishing it around the floor with my foot in an attempt to wipe up the mess. It was no use. It was a lost cause, and so was I.
I slumped on the toilet. Looking at my stomach. What a lot of mud Allah had used. Adding and adding, layer by layer. All for the ignominy of being looked at with disdain while covered in piss. My stomach was not the stomach of Princess Jasmine. It would not fit into the pretty midriff laid out on that dining table. And it was not very princessy to piss oneself, even in a grand bathroom. The role wasn’t for me. It never was. Allah didn’t make me for that.
Muddy People Page 9
