The Dusk to Dawn Encounter

The Dusk to Dawn Encounter

Haniya and I had not been in touch since our Mount Holyoke College days in the late 1990s. But true to the sisterhood bond, when I reached out fifteen years later to let her know that I would be in Cairo on assignment, she graciously agreed to give me after hours access to the Zamelek Library so I could photograph the renovations. 

As I walked up the concrete stairs to the turn of the century yellow mansion that doubled as a library, the sun was slowly setting as the last ribbons of light rippled across the Nile River. Haniya had assured me that her structural engineer, Jamaal, who she said was ‘family,’ would meet me at the entrance. I peeked through the frosted glass and saw a ghostlike image floating toward the door. As the image came into focus, I could see that it was a man, dressed in a flowing white outfit. Fumbling nervously with the keys, he found the one that opened the door. 

“Ashira?” he said breathlessly.

“Yes.”

 “I’m Jamaal. Haniya told me that you were coming. Apologies for the delay. The guard was called away.” He opened the door widely. “You are most welcomed.  Please come in.”   

As I walked past him, I noticed that his perfectly shaped goatee and his after five shadow were walnut colored. He towered over me by more than a foot, and I recognized that Bulgari Aqua scent immediately. Only men in the Middle East can wear a gallabiyah and look like they should be on the cover of GQ. Jamaal was no exception.

Jamaal interrupted my thoughts, “Haniya tells me that you are into antiquities.” He began walking down a narrow hallway. 

His southern drawl confused me. “Into? I have an appreciation for antiquities and for preserving and retelling history – if that’s what you mean.” I replied coyly.  “Also, thanks so much for agreeing to let me explore at this late hour. Haniya told me that you guys have been working like crazy on this renovation project.”  

“Crazy ain’t the word I’d use.” There that southern lilt was again. I hadn’t misheard it. 

A uniformed male walked by, and Jamaal spoke to him in a rapid Arabic. Though my auditory skills failed me, my nose was faithful. The guard smelled of syrupy sandalwood, and the aroma transported me to the souks of Marrakech and Istanbul.     

“How’s your Arabic?” Jamaal asked, without looking directly at me. 

“You mean my Arabic beyond “alsalamalekum,” “inshallah, “ “mashallah, and “sukran”? It’s non-existent!” I chuckled. He began walking again, and I followed him though he didn’t offer any information about where we were heading. His white gallabiyah and ghutra flowed as he gracefully walked across the alabaster hexagonal shapes that gave the marble floors their dizzying playfulness. The woodiness of Jamaal’s fragrance mixed with the guard’s earthy aroma intoxicated me.

“Well, your accent isn’t half bad! The emphasis is in the right place. I’ll be happy to be your tutor.”  I wondered if that offer might extend beyond language sessions. 

Before I could respond, Jamaal began giving what I think were instructions about leaving the lights on in this side of the library to a salt and pepper haired man who wore a dark navy uniform.  

“Let’s go check this out.” Jamaal instructed. 

“Wait! Let’s go check this out?” I said, with my hand on my hips. “Where did you live in the States?” 

“South Carolina and DC,” he answered.  

“Is that where you picked up your accent?”  

He chuckled and said, “Man, this accent is forever getting me in trouble.” He stopped in front of a glossy mahogany bench. Above the bench was an enormous painting of an espresso-colored man sitting on a golden chaise-longue. In front of him stood a woman whose sheer white garb contrasted boldly against her carob skin. Her hand was positioned slightly on the man’s shoulder. An elongated head piece with a large garnet stone sat atop her wooly hair. I stared at the piece. 

“Shall we?” Jamaal extended his hand offering me a seat. I had been walking the streets of Cairo since noon, so my feet were killing me. I plopped down unceremoniously. I leaned back and closed my eyes, then I remembered that Jamaal and I were talking about his accent. 

“So, tell how that accent of yours has gotten you in trouble.” I asked while raising my head from the back of the bench. I fluffed the back of my afro to release the indentation that had been left by the bench. 

“How many Arab brothuz you know talk like I do?” he asked sincerely. It was then that I noticed the fatigue and the boyishness in his face.  

“Well, I must admit – you’re the first.” I said removing my camera from my backpack. I took a few photos of the elaborate ceiling. The marble columns supported arches that were encrusted with golden squares. 

“So, imagine you’re this brown, moozlim, cuz that’s what they would say, right? With a British accent? When I moved to the States at 18, I quickly realized that y’all are hard on a brotha with that kinda accent. So over time, I guess I changed how I talked. What you’re hearing now is the end result.” he confessed. 

I stood up to get a closer look at the details of the columns. With my camera in my hands, I adjusted my zoom lens, then said, “I don’t even know how to categorize your accent. Kinda southern, kinda country, kinda hip, yet wannabe British.” I burst into laughter. 

“Now that’s cold.” He joined my laughter.   

I sat back down, this time further away from him. I turned facing him putting my elbow on the bench. “I’m really curious about your experience in the South.” My level of comfort with this stranger did not surprise me as he really did remind me of home and the ease with which I would talk to any man in my neighborhood. 

           He tilted his head backwards and rubbed his goatee smoothing his stubble.  “I loved living in the South. I didn’t have any racial problems. I was part of a bowling league, and...” 

           I raised my hand and interrupted him, “What?” 

He turned and looked at me and said, “What? You don’t think an Arab boy could bowl? Bowling is a real man’s sport; I’ll have you know.” 

I wagged my index finger and corrected, “My issue is not with your being Arab. It’s the bowling part that concerns me.” I shook my head in disbelief. “You embraced the southern American culture too readily.” 

He seemed to be lost in his reverie but managed to say, “Man, I had some good times. It wasn’t even a problem when I dated an African-American woman.”

I snapped my fingers twice and turned up my lips, “There it is! That’s where all this swagger is coming from. I got it now, Jamaal.” 

He shook his head rapidly and added, “It wasn’t even like that. We had a great time.”   

I raised my right brow and inquired, “Yeah, but did you tell her what you intended, if you ever wanted to get serious? Was marriage ever even an option?”

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs,  “Oh I was clear with her from jump. I don’t think she thought it would get too serious.” He added, “But I tell you what was funny…she brought me home to meet her people.”

           “What? How did that go?”

           “Well after the family got finished asking me if I was the kind of moozlim who followed Farrakhan and after her daddy finished calling me “boy,” I managed.”

My howl echoed down the hall.  He shared heart-warming and hysterical details of meeting this southern African-American family.  He mentioned that he was introduced to Juneteenth, Kwanzaa, and macaroni and cheese thanks to this woman. 

           “Haniya will have my neck if I don’t take you to the third floor to see the art collection. The late Princess Samiha left this place with some unbelievable stuff.” He stood up. Hovering over me, he offered his hand. “Shall we take a look?” 

           I hastily put my camera in my backpack, closed it, and placed my hand in his. When I stood up, he gently released my hand. 

           “The stairs are just around the corner.” Jamaal led the way. Then he added, “A sista from Texas, living in Ghana, on assignment in Egypt? I’m sure there’s a long story behind that one.” 

           Not sure if that was an invitation to expound, I simply replied, “Probably as long as yours.”  

We walked a short distance to an alcove. His hands trailed the smooth, cool marble wall, and I heard a click. “Let there be light.” He joked.  I noticed that the stairwell was quite narrow. He rapidly climbed the stairs. “So is your family in Ghana?”  His voice reverberated down the narrow stairwell. 

           “If you mean a spouse and children, no. I’m not married, and I don’t have children. If you mean parents and siblings, everyone is still in the States.” 

           Looking down from the top of the stairs, he said, “I see.” When I reached the top of the stairs, I peeped in and saw dusty paintings, cobweb covered sculptures, string instruments missing at least one string, and aisles of books.  It was the books that caught my eye, because their green covering and gold letters reminded of the bouquainistes on the quay overlooking the Seine in Paris. Someone had allowed the literary brilliance of Hugo, Flaubert, Camus, and even Voltaire to attract dust instead of seducing longing Egyptian minds. I fumbled for my camera so I could lock in the image.      

           Snapping photos I asked, “How about you?” 

He looked confused, “How about me what?” 

I snickered, “I mean what about your family?” 

“Oh. I’m married – recently married with no children. Five brothers and one sister.” He paused. “Everyone is in Dubai.”  

           I did not want to handle him like he was a rare, endangered pangolin – poke at him, watch him coil in a ball, and hide behind armored scales, but Jamaal was an enigma. I stared at him and knew that there was a complexity, a depth, and a resolve that was familiar to me. I trusted my instincts and asked him about relationships and being a worldly chameleon.  

           As the minutes hastily turned into hours, our conversation became more intimate – more classified. I was so engrossed in our banter I neglected to swoon at the 19^th century English roll top desk on which I had propped my backpack and elbows hours prior. Jamaal was lounging across the bureau’s contemporary – a 19^th century mahogany framed chaise lounge. Under any other circumstances, I would have been captivated by the history of these pieces. I concluded rightly that Jamaal’s contemporary history was much more adrenalizing.  

Jamaal’s torso was strewn across the red, embossed upholstered padding. His unshaven, chiseled jawbone rested on his palm, and he confided, “Ashira, I knew I had to marry a woman from Dubai. Despite everything I’ve seen and where I’ve been, I married a woman my mother liked – not someone I loved.” 

           I looked at him and at that moment, I saw him, and despite us being of different genders, he forced me to contemplate my own kismet. 

           “So has your wife been to the US? I mean have you shared your experiences with her? Does she speak English?” I peppered my inquiries rhythmically. 

           “Never, no and yeah, but it ain’t the same.” He responded. “Her English is fine, but she can’t understand the experiences I’ve had – and I’m ok with that.” 

           “Yeah, but is she? I mean isn’t she being robbed of knowing a part of who you are and what makes you, you?” I felt my womanist ire rising.

He chuckled, “For a modern woman, you seem to have some old ass ideas about marriage and romance. She doesn’t have to know everything about me. She’s a student, which is good for me, because she has her own life, and she isn’t sitting around thinking that I gotta fill her every need.” 

   I looked at him and shook my head. 

           He shrugged his shoulders and in a high pitch asked, “What? You pissed?” 

I stopped shaking my head and said, “No. Not pissed. I’m just thinking that I’m glad your wife is still in school. She knows that she needs to be able to handle her own business – and not depend on your whims. Not to offend or generalize, but y’all will act crazy.” 

           He rubbed his goatee. “Well now. I can’t argue with you there cuz we are strange.”

           I glanced at my watch and realized that it was 4:00am, but I didn’t dare stop the conversation. “You get a gold star for honesty. I appreciate that.” 

           He snickered, “Men run shit over here. I ain’t saying it’s right, but it’s how it is. For instance, I’m in Cairo taking care of business, making plenty of money. I can decide if I’m going to accept a contract anywhere in the world. Can my wife do the same thing? Absolutely not. Now in America, I must admit that I always admired how African-American women had this independence that I haven’t seen among too many other women in the world.” 

           I quipped, “We don’t have much choice.” 

 He retorted, “Yeah, you got choices. You can find some man to take care of things, go to the beauty shop, get your hair done and get you some fake nails.”

I screamed with laughter! Had all the objects in this storeroom not been valuables, I would have thrown the heaviest thing I could at his aquiline nose. 

After I caught my breath, I said, “I don’t know what sisters you encountered, but not all of us wear fake nails.” I raised my hands to dawn my unmanicured claws. “On a serious note, most African-American women I know were taught that education is key. It’s a means to independence, freedom and choices. Now I know that’s not the notion of Black women that’s portrayed, but it’s the reality I know. I am enraged by the images of my people, my community that are exported around the globe. It’s an unbalanced story that seems to sell. It’s the modern way that Blacks are sold.” 

“I was joking about the fake nails…well, half joking.” He cleared his throat. “But I am with you about images. What’s the Arab image that sells? Terrorist, extremist, polygamist, misogynist, right? I’m totally with you on the unitary representation of brown and black peoples.” He said authoritatively. 

            “Is it ok if I ask what happened with the sister?” 

He took a deep breath. “You can ask me anything. I’ve removed my shoes and ghutrah.” He pointed to his loafers on the floor and the white shear cloth laying prostrate across the couch. “We’re family now.” 

“All right then, family. What happened? Racial or religious differences?” I assumed. 

“Nah. Nothing like that. It just ran its course.  I do remember once we were all out bowling with some other guys from school. Someone said, “Yeah, Jamal, once you go black, you never go back.” I didn’t respond to the comment and neither did she. We get back to her place, and she cusses me out. I had never heard some of the things coming out of her mouth. Talk about an advanced English lesson in obscenities! I’m still not sure what she expected me to do.” 

“Well, there is no guide to romance with a black woman, but maybe she hoped you would speak up? ” I paused. “I guess that was a Black person who said that?”

“Yeah, a mutual friend. I just felt like…I don’t know.” He was at a loss for words. 

“It was a Black thing, and she should’ve handled it?” I quipped. 

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.” 

He was not going to offer more details, so I pushed, “But that’s what you thought.   Because the guy was Black, she should’ve gotten her brother straight?”

 “I guess. Furthermore, it didn’t make sense for me to get my ass whipped by him.”

My guffaw ricocheted off the eggshell walls. 

We both heard the melodious call to morning prayers “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” 

“Morning prayers.” Jamaal said softly.

I saw thin, streaks of morning light through the wooden shutters. 

“Wow! I am meeting Haniya in a couple of hours. I should get back to my hotel.” I wasn’t somnolent; in fact, I was revitalized. Talking, no connecting with Jamaal, had renewed me. 

He quickly put on his shoes. “Please let me walk you to your hotel.” 

“Thanks for the offer. The hotel is next door, and the streets are empty at this hour. I’ll be fine.” 

He grabbed the abandoned white cloth, “I have to walk you out anyway. All the doors are locked.” 

We retraced our steps back the entrance. I smelled the sandalwood fragrance once again, and the tired guard smiled as he opened the main door. As we walked down the cement stairs, I appealed, “Jamaal, you can leave me here.” 

“I’ll walk you to the gate and watch just to make sure you get there safely.” 

When we arrived at the iron gate, I turned to him.  I was about to speak, but he interrupted, “Meeting you has been the best part of my time in Cairo. Thanks for reminding me of the wonderful experiences I had in the States. This has been good.” 

“You have no idea how great it’s been being able to speak English quickly and not having to change my vocabulary.” We both laughed. I added, “I felt understood.”  

           I waved goodbye, and he lifted his hand. The morning sun beams bounced playfully off the Nile River, and I walked into the morning light, allowing the rays to warm my face. I smiled knowing that all was well and exactly as it should be.