Written By: Zena Mohamed
He breathed heavily as the scorching sun scintillated from his skin which strikingly resembled the opaque hues of Egypt’s golden sands. “Almost there, need to catch one more,” he mutters. As his fishing pole cast into the sparkling blue waters along the coast of Marsa Matrouh, the rod handle gleamed back at his reflection. It wasn’t long until he felt a nibble and then a strong tug.
Abu Qir’s Harbor lay on the Mediterranean, where fishermen line up one next to the other, nattering in Iskandarani, the Alexandrian dialect. Beneath the waters of the inlet rest the ancient cities of Canopus, Heracleion, and Menouthis. It is speculated that the rising sea emptied these cities of their denizens. Heracleion, once the leading center of trade, boasted the largest port of the land. For millennia, Masryeen, Sudanian, Turkeyeen, Italianeen, and Hunud gravitated toward Abukir’s abundance. That was before the battle for our great Neel between the brutish British and feeble Faranzi who truncated our bustling historic cities to bare, dismantled, and crumbled ruins. Today, Masryeen strive to make a living from the wealth beneath the sea and the drift that keeps their boats afloat.
Leaning backward, the man grapples with the decrepit wooden rod and reels in quickly, knowing that his scheme may fail within seconds. Sweat trickles down from the curling locks of his temple, to his high cheekbones, and down to his pronounced collarbones. He reels in quickly, fully aware of the skill needed to secure his chance of an evening meal. He struggles equally against the thought of the mullet descending with the bait to the barren ocean floor. Reeling in as rapidly as he possibly could, his night-sky eyes adamant, his face scrunching: at last, and alas! the barbuni floats in mid-air, latched on defiantly. He unhooks the red-scaled goatfish and grabs it in one hand. The rod set up against the metal enclosure tilts backward and bumps into his lower limb. The mullet’s eyes widen and slip right before him with the ragworm pursed between its lips, wriggling its way back into the depths of Abu Qir. It is clear that he and the mullet had one thing in common: trying to get their first meal of the day. The sun streaks the Mediterranean sky with orange and yellow, and he awaits again.
Eventually, he begins on his trek carrying a pail filled with barbuni and ice in one hand, and a mesh basket and rod in the other. He heads to a railway in Sidi Gaber to visit his father who works as a train conductor from morning until night. Since he was young, he’d refuse to take money from his parents because he understood impoverishment and economic inequality in Egypt all too well. One U.S. dollar was equivalent to sixty-four Egyptian Gini in the 60s. The rise of war worsened the economic conditions for civilians and led to a surge in indigence and left them in a state of destitution. He speeds up his pace, and suddenly, a blue fluorescent light shone and tugged against his cedar-wrenched brogues causing him to stumble forward abruptly. Yet to his avail, the pail tilts and lifts itself back up. He finds the rod set beneath his arm, positioned upon his chest right where it was before. “Eh, da? What is this?” the man says. He probes the milieu inquisitively and brushes it off. “It seems as if everything is trying to prevent me from having some barbuni today, huh?” he insists with a smile.
There is his father Khamis taking a midday break and eating a kebda sandwich by an earthward bent tree. “Ahmed! Habibi!” his father calls out. They give each other a big hug, a kiss on one cheek and then the other, and several hearty pats on the back. Ahmed shows his father all the murgan and barbuni he caught early that morning and tells him the story about that one that got away. “I had it right in front of me! it almost reeled me in!” he exclaims. They laugh it off. “Son, Umar Bin al Kattab once said, what is destined will reach you, even if it be beneath two mountains. What is not destined, will not reach you, even if it be between your two lips!” Ahmed looks attentively at the ground and then back up at his father with an approving look on his face. One leg crossed over the other, he puckers his lips and put his arm out against the tree trunk. “Enta sah, baba. You’re right,” he affirms. Soon enough, passengers rush on board to catch the next two-and-a-half-hour ride to the busy capital, El Kahera. “I must get back to my shift, son. Season the mullet the way Mama has taught you and we’ll enjoy them later tonight!” “I will, Baba!” he says. “Don’t get away, Habibi!” his father returns with a sly smile. The trein lets out two raucous honks and a hushed chime. As smoke ascends from the side pipe of the steam locomotive, his father’s voice fades into the distance. After saying their farewells, they part ways foreseeing a feast the coming night.
Ahmed knows it’s going to be a long walk so on his way home he decides to go through the Zan’et el Setat souk or women’s market. Over a century ago, the commercial locale earned its name because young women would walk through the alleyways in hopes that a man would see them and be interested in asking for their hand. However, it quickly grew to become a popular vicinity for those seeking to buy fruits, and vegetables, sweets, gold, silver, fabrics, and yes, bridal accessories. Ahmed saunters through the crowd where shopkeepers all over Masr have come, shouting out the price of their goods to lure shoppers and coax them to buy. “Warm roasted nuts! “Itnēn gini, two gini!” “Hey, kid! Your rod is starting to look like an ailing branch. Come look at a new one, I’ll give you a good price.” He stands there pensively and cannot fathom that his mother, a nurse, and father a sawah, spent day and night working to take care of him and his older brother. All of their words came together and sounded like a blur. In every vendor, he sees Baba’s face, a hardworking Egyptian man trying to make ends meet. The souk grew vibrant, clothing and mats picturesque, they began to rattle gently. Ramadan lanterns tilt toward him from both directions, making the pathway more difficult to see, yet the light they released made the promenade so evidently clear. Tagine pots, clothing, and rugs swayed in all directions. Spices swirling around in a whirlwind arose from hand-woven baskets forged from the leaves of date palms. The residue and aroma of the bahārāt left in the air sprung aggressive coughs from the clientele and the obscured powder woven into the light wind wasn’t hesitant to blind the eyes. The sight was staggeringly alluring yet the circumstance was almost unbearable. A blue fluorescent light shone and tugged against the sole of his shoe once again. Forthwith he trips, the pail tilts with him and lifts itself back up although a handful of melting ice manages to escape. The liquefying floe splashes against the concrete leaving a shaded stain while the rest seeps through the rugged ground. “Go, Ahmed don’t look back.” he heard a voice say.
Ahmed soon arrives in Maharam Bek, a small neighborhood that he grew up in and a commonplace that everywhere bespeaks Skandaranians’ love for football. He sees a few children in the back street kicking a kora and doesn’t miss out on the chance to join them. “Itnēn w Itnēn?” two vs two? they ask him. “Yallaaa!” Ahmed says. Both hands full, he sends the kora to one kid and the next but it quickly flies right back at him. He sends it off with a forceful kick, withal it meets his opponent. One kid comes toward Ahmed nutmegging and passes it to his teammate. They pick up their pace, kicking the kora so swiftly that each time he turns around, it dissapears. Passing him by from every direction, the makeshift ball rolls rapidly across the pitted land. Suddenly, Ahmed goes through one and then the next, his shoes glowing and his eyes locked with the cardboard box between two pails that the kids crafted as a goalpost. He scores. “Goaaaaal!” the kids shout with joy. They all gather around him, prancing and patting him on the back. Seeing the the kids create such fun amidst privation fascinates him but also tugs at his heart. Economic despair in Egypt was on the rise and he was wary of the hunger that speaks through the children’s eyes. He gives each of them a gini and he goes on his way.
It isn’t long until he takes his final steps to the tapered passageway leading to the beit. The grip on the bucket getting looser, his breathing and steps heavier. He opens the rickety old door as steadily as he could in case his brother is home sleeping. The wider he opens it, the louder the hinge creaks. A sliver of wood fell behind him. “Akheeran! Finally!” he says. He puts his belongings down on the kitchen counter, sips on the scant amount of qahwa left on the coffee table, and turns to close the door shut. In a trice, the hinge connected to the mid-rail didn’t give him the slightest prospect to think that he could possibly get it closed. He strenuously pulls the handle toward him but to no avail, the door bounces back and the chiseled wood vibrates back into place. The words play again and again in the back of his mind, “Go, Ahmed don’t look back.” Ahmed takes the murgan and barbuni, lay them on the counter, and generously seasons the mullet with the paradigmatic Alexandrian spice mixture of toom, kamun, and kusbara. He leaves the mullet to marinate, goes into his room, sits down on his bed, and lets out a big “Uff.” It was a matter of seconds before he gets up again and starts to pack his belongings.
Mama Zainab enters and busies herself preparing for the evening meal. Every sound, every smell, etches for him a memory like an ancient hieroglyph. At the dinner table, they feast on the mullet with some torshi–pickled green peppers, beetroot, and cauliflower.
The next morning Ahmed awakes at 4 am to get on the first trein heading to Kahera. Little does Khamis know his son lay his head against the casement of his trein car heading on a mission to give his family the life they’ve always dreamed of having.
He waves at the Great Pyramids of Giza on his way to the airport. Later, his trek through Mexico will make him think of them.
When he finally stands at the border, a river far less grand than his beloved Neel, he pictures a barbuni with a ragworm between its pursed lips, swimming through the ancient cities of Canopus, Heracleion, and Menouthis beneath the waters of Abu Qir. A blue light reappears once again and tugs at the front of his laces. It pushes him forward.
A few days later, his father sits at the dinner table eating and picking at the bones of a barbuni. As he reaches out for a piece to eat, it drops onto the table and falls to the floor. “What is destined will reach you, even if it be beneath two mountains. What is not destined, will not reach you, even if it be between your two lips!“ “You’re right” “I miss him dearly Zainab,” he told his wife. “Trust him,” she said.
“He’s the one that got away, didn’t he?” Khamis said with a smile.
