Mehdia

It was the hottest day of the year, and my uncle was desperate to get out. Golden sand from the beach and not so golden sand from the pavement had mixed together in the air to tell us a storm was brewing. Men with loud voices were screaming at the top of their lungs to usher - or to scare people into their already overflowing shops for safety - or for sales, I wasn’t sure which. I thought about it for a moment as I held my uncle Samir’s hand and squeezed to remind him that we were not moving anywhere, yet everybody else was. Moe had gone off somewhere with Reda to find a taxi that would take us home for under 60DH and Najwa was crying hysterically with her fingers in her mouth despite how many times I would move her hand away or give her a quick hug. A group of older girls in swimsuits ran past us with dolphin bodies, seaweed hair and skin like glowing wet sand. I stared in awe and wondered if I could be as beautiful as that one day. They laughed viciously with pointed teeth just like my mothers, and Samir’s for that matter – I silently prayed that when I finally got my adult teeth, they’d look just like that.

Samir rolled his eyes and swore, “Welaad kalb – son of a bitch,” not thinking that I would understand – but I did – and I giggled into the back of his hand which seemed to startle him. He looked down at me for a moment and put a finger to his lips, laughing. He shook his brown curly hair out of his face, and I was reminded of why we were at the beach despite the heatwave warning in the first place. Samir and my grandmother had gotten into an argument because his hair was much too long and pretty for a man who wanted to go on to do great things and Samir replied that all he really wanted to do was go to the beach and so here we were. We had only spent about half an hour getting settled when the lifeguards under the instruction of the military-police chased everyone onto the motorway. At least the shops seemed to be doing better business than usual, they really did deserve all the customers they got. I moved Najwa’s hand away from her face again and automatically her fingers shot straight back up to her chin and she got louder. Nothing I did worked, and Samir was growing more irritated by the second. I rummaged in my beach bag for the last strawberry Tofita and passed it to her; Najwa stopped crying straight away.

Moe and Reda returned with no luck and so Samir put Najwa on his shoulders, Reda put me on his. Samir looked the kind of sad that made even me realize the sandstorm happening today meant something more for him than just a day at the beach ruined. I spoke to Moe in English for a while and asked him if he had noticed Samir’s sadness and he told me we would talk about it when we got back home – which we never did. I think Samir must have understood because he turned to give me a grin that was much too wide for his face and made him look like a shark that was being forced to smile. He shook his hair out of his face once again, it was so long that it hit Najwa in the face causing Reda to almost drop me as he doubled over in laughter.

Samir’s friend picked us up. The whole car ride was spent in a strange silence, as though we knew what was going to happen when we got home – of course we didn’t, but it seems that way now. When we arrived at my grandmother’s house, Samir mumbled something about going to the bathroom and walked straight upstairs to the roof. That bathroom was barely working, and we only ever used to wash our faces when it got too hot sunbathing up there; I had a feeling something bad was going to happen. We did all the proper greetings we were supposed to and as the house got louder and my cousin started to make tea, I slipped away unnoticed up the stairs. I crept slowly and reached the door to the roof; it was slightly ajar and luckily, I was small enough to shuffle through without a sound. Samir was standing in front of the cracked mirror, his hands clenched into tight fists by his side. He was looking at himself, turning his head slowly from side to side and shaking his hair slightly so that it covered his face. He ran his fingers through his mane and shook it out behind him, curls bouncing light brown in the light. Then I heard it, the whirring sound of his razor. He pulled his hair back and his locks fell in sad bundles on the floor around his feet. I started to cry silently, I shouldn’t be here, I thought, this is a private moment, this is his moment, why am I still here? My feet stuck to the ground in shock as I watched him tearfully shave away his identity; I tried to move but by the time I regained the feeling in my legs he was already rinsing his head. He wasn’t bald, but his hair was cropped short army style – a glimpse into his future. He wiped his face and turned around, unsurprised to see me, “Sheftek fil mraya. Alesh ket bkee? – I saw you in the mirror, why are you crying?” he said smiling. He didn’t wait for my answer, instead, he picked me up and took me downstairs to the front door, we sat on the steps and he lit a cigarette. I sat with my arm linked in his and my head resting on him, he never liked me to sit close when he smoked but this time he didn’t mind and for that I was grateful. “Waqaila ma ay aytoushlia bint daba – Guess they won’t call me a girl now.” He said smiling sadly and throwing his cigarette into the sand. He got up and walked inside, I stayed – I couldn’t bear to watch the glee on my grandmother’s face. This was something I would never forgive her for.