Give him more, Mosaad Junior.” My grandmother, invoking the blight of Allah upon then, whispers: “Drop dead, the both of you.”Īfter this comes the last stop, Grandpa Sayed’s, which arrives whilst we are moving at a slow pace. Meanwhile, Grandpa Mosaad giggles, saying, “Kill him. As she speeds off, she shouts at Mosaad Junior, the grandson of my Grandpa Mosaad, to stop bothering me, “Let him be, boy.” At the same time, I take shelter behind her from Mosaad Junior’s insidious punches. This spurs my grandmother to hurry, despite her acute slowness. We see him as we usually do, a cigarette straddling his hand as he salutes us with a cough, spray flying over our faces. Then we salute Grandpa Mosaad, the owner of the second stop, who is more mild-mannered than Grandpa Saad. “When I die, will you recite the Fatiha for me, Sami?” she asks, and I wish her a long life. After that, she almost can’t find her breath. However, my grandmother trips over a small stone and nearly falls on the ground, saying, “Watch out for the brick, Sami!” We pass the second stop, after my grandmother has stayed a few minutes. The walking stick precedes us as if it’s exploring our way. And at this moment, I notice my grandmother’s hand holding mine, and she says laughingly while nodding to my Grandpa Saad: “Let’s flee or we will be hit.” My eyes stray once more to the ball that my friend Hamada has kicked, as it hits Grandpa Saad, who curses out the boys. I take it timidly, and yet I’m extremely happy inside. My eyes, meanwhile, would stray to my companions playing football, and paid no attention until my hand clutched a pound slipped into it by my grandmother, who winked and said, “Take this to buy some sweets and keep it secret.” The first stop was Grandpa Saad’s house, where she’d ask forgiveness for the man who had hit her with his motorbike while bringing my grandfather’s pension and begin narrating this accident in detail. It’s our custom.Īlthough the distance between our home and my uncle’s is no more than a hundred meters, my grandmother had grown used to dividing this weekly walk into three stops. She sucks in all her breath and orders me to close the door, and I give a loud laugh, since I’d known she would say that. She repeats: “I don’t know when your uncle will remodel this corridor.” “Well, hand me the walking stick.” I give her the walking stick and grip her hand tightly, lest she falls from the high entrance hall. “You are all talk,” she says, with her distinctive humor. I interrupt her delaying tactics: “Come on, or I’ll carry you on my back.” And as for food, I’ve just eaten,” she says, as she always does. “Setty,” I call, and she replies as if she’s been waiting for me: “Who? Semsem?” I tell her: “Yes! Baba wants you to come over and have dinner with us today. I hardly see my grandmother sitting in her permanent dark place on the right, although electricity has lit our village’s homes for five years. I walk up “the bridge,” which is the name I’ve given to the entrance hall in my uncle’s home, because it’s higher than the other rooms. When I reach it, I find the door wide open, as usual, since it’s a vintage wooden door the sides of which don’t meet, so that it stays open day and night. In a state of ecstasy, I sprint to my uncle’s home. I’ll bring my grandmother from my uncle’s home, as is our weekly custom. “I’ll be the one to bring Setty today, Baba,” I tell my father with all the vigor of childhood.
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