Manal and Alaa's bit bucket

When you turn to walk away and find that you're stepping on your kitten or that you've flung it across the room, there is a feeling of horror at having kicked the thing. But deep down it's always flattering that the cat follows you despite your indifference, or that something chooses to follow you at all.

It was late in the morning and I hadn't had breakfast and was craving fuul--outdoor, aluminum saucer street fuul, specifically. I was on Hoda Shaarawi by Felfela downtown and I headed towards the makeshift fuul stand/station some meters past Ka7lawi (or Afifi to those in the know), the kibda and sogo2 guy (sausages and garlic-chilli stir-fry liver).

I walked up to the messy counter and stood across from one of the guys working there. He was mashing up a seasoned batch in a large bowl and when he noticed me he looked up and made a quick sun-rises-sun-sets swipe with his hand and said "7amdollah" (Praise be to God) and promptly returned to his seemingly strenuous task.

I asked him, "7amdollah 3ammatan, walla 7amdollah amshi?" (7amdollah in general, or 7amdollah thus I should leave?)

"3ammatan emshi," he said, without looking up (in general you should leave).

After Eight, the club, lends its name to an ahwa (coffeshop) and the alley that runs between Kasr El Nil and Mohammed Bassiouni streets. In there you can buy flowers and a mobile phone, check your email, photocopy your ID, mend clothes, iron them, smoke shisha, drink tea and eat fuul. You could also eat home-style food at Om Dahab's little stall.

Om Dahab is an asshole, an endearingly artful and deliberate one, and therein lies her genius. She can be mean and difficult, but always in a way that uplifts, charms and invites for play. You leave having grown closer to her and she to you. I asked for "kromb ma7shi" (cabbage leaves stuffed with rice) and she refused my order and made fun of me to the other patrons. I waited and she eventually returned, asking if I'd meant "ma7shi kromb", her maternal indulgent eyes drilling me with reconciliation. She then said that I had to pay up front because she didn't trust me. I asked her if I needed to prove myself in order to earn her trust. She said yes then pointed to a seated man and said that he's from Aswan and that she knows him and his mother and his father and his entire family. I told her that I was from Alex and that I'd make sure to bring my brother when he visits. I paid.

I sat and waited next to the man from Aswan, who looked in his late thirties, had a moustache and wore an elegant suit. Om Dahab had shouted over telling him he was unlucky and that he'd have to wait a bit for the kofta. He said it was ok and got someone to bring him a shisha from the adjoining ahwa. A few minutes into his puffing of the me3assel half-smoke, a smiling girl of about twenty walked up and removed the thimble-shaped hood of his shisha and placed it on the table beside him. She wore jeans and a denim shirt embroidered with colored thread on the pockets and lapels and her her hair was up in a bun, her faced lightly made up. She leaned forward and with theatrical slowness removed the clay bowl from the pipe stem and dumped its contents—the tobacco and lit coal—onto the pipe's collar tray. The man made a single frustrated tutt and took a long deep breath with closed eyes. The girl straightened her back and made a 'hmph' sound. She turned on her heel and walked off. I couldn't see her from where I sat but she must have looked back at the man because he had moved to the edge of his seat and was saying "Mashy mashy, ana hawareeki, ha2oll leee .... ha2oll leee..." (No, fine, I'll show you, I'm going to tell... I'm going to tell...) and he silently spoke a name, accentuating his facial movements to compensate for the discretionary measure. He leaned back in his seat smiling, clearly thinking wicked thoughts. A moment later he was hunched over the pipe trying to fix himself a new 7agar, mumbling as he did so.

Suzanne kissed Mohammed and she and Nazif waved their flags. I had been going nuts on the reload button, forced to follow the game on Filgoal.com because we don’t get the terrestrial stations or ART at home in Alex. Extra time had neared its end and I couldn’t bear not seeing the action so I threw on a jacket and ran to the supermarket downstairs. As I approached I heard noise and saw the cashier and an older patron do arthritic jumping-jacks in the middle of the shop, their eyes fixed to the TV screen perched atop the Fairuz fridge, the cashier shouting “Khalas khelset! Khelset keda khalas!” (It’s over, it’s all over!) I lept in and looked to the screen, only to see Abo Treika dash past the goal, his arms spread in jubilation, a mild roar emanating from inside the TV and from everywhere around us.

The cameras switched to a cascading choppy sea of red, black and white, the throngs at the stadium writhing, leaping and waving in celebration. “Da rez2 el nas el ghalaaba dol elli raa7o el stad… 3ashan mayrawwa7oosh ma2horeen.” (This is all the bounty of those poor folk who went to the stadium, so they wouldn’t go home sad.)

"I won't call them 3arab, 3iraqis or Muslims until they start acting like it. Until then they're A-rabs, I-raqis and Moslems."

(4 Taxi chats, Christmas Saturday through Wa2fa Monday)

1

"Mohandiseen!" The Fiat 128 leaned forward as it quickly slowed to a stop. I got in the front and said Salamo3aleiko. The driver was young, mid to late twenties and wore a white galabeyya and had fair, wavy, heavily gelled hair. He looked bedouin. He said 3aleikomelsalam and laughed, speeding his way to second gear, and then looked back towards me and said "Ma3lesh asli lessa taafi segaret 7asheesh add keda," (sorry, I just finished a hash joint this big) and he pointed to his right hand wrist while extending its index finger. "Eshta," I said, and produced a chuckle of camraderie.

I was in a stationery shop downtown waiting for photocopies when in walked a tall middle-aged man wearing a galabeyya and a 3emma. He asked the guy behind the counter "3andoko el 7aseb el 2aali bta3 el sanaweyya el 3amma da?" (Do you have that calculator they use in secondary school?)

The man pointed to a box on the shelf behind him and said "Ah, dah, sitta w 3eshreen geneih." (Yeah, this one, twenty six pounds.) It was a Casio FX 82 something something, I had similar one back in the day. Good stuff.

"Aaah," said the visitor, and with knee-jerk fataka (misinformed coy familiarity with esoteric knowledge) added in a perfectly semi-questioning tone, "Seeni da..." (Yeah...so it's Chinese, this one...)


There was a talk-show show on TV during Ramadan the year before last where they would host celebrities and stage these pranks, like having criminals storm the set or the host suffer a heart attack.