Glimpses from the Past
Written by Moulay Idriss El Maarouf
Downpours of tears would meet the gluey liquid and blend…
You could have seen me sprinting, racing the pain, which in chorus with every pace, roared
and growled. My unpredictable howlings would now and then run wild. My pain had teeth that bite, daggers that jab, pierce and stab. Every time I scurried with such pain, I grew to hate the stick that hits with wrath and fury. But at one moment the thought of me and Halima, the daughter of my schoolteacher, beside the ditch of the village rivulet, touching, with dumbfounded fingertips, her bashful nipples, would arouse in me a smile which would invade my tears in vengeance. As I smile, I would be tempted to lick the flowing juice to make sure it had the same brackish taste.
…Still running, I would take notice of Miloud Botasa, his hand droopily clasping a small-size bottle of Sidi Ali mineral water, now inebriated by what remained from the cheapest alcohol there was on planet. His body was swaying my direction. I would hold my breath, every time a one-way pathway would fix a rendezvous between the two of us. I would think that, in his state of drunkenness, he would be sensitive to my respiration, perceptive of my heartbeats.
Upon such alarming thought, I would stifle my tears and reduce speed, coming suddenly to a sudden halt, producing an awkward jerk at which some of the village boys, already amused by the scene, would laugh from behind the barred windows of their houses. They would even bring the incident to memory whenever I would brag a story of courage, or brawl.
'Wallah ladim, you should've seen his eyes at the sight of Botasa, sticking out like a bull's, and his tears, you should've seen them, freezing wallah ladim, or perhaps changing trails upwards so that Botasa would fail to see them', one of the evil ones would take me back in full mockery.
Botasa unloved children, and was always ready to act. That day, I was watching Botasa from under my thick eyebrows, marching with terror and anticipation by the cactuses. I wished I were a branch of cactus at that moment. To my good fortune, Botasa was not in the mood to see me. He was fumbling his pockets for the butts of cigarette he would spend the whole day saving from the ground.
As he walked a sufficient distance away, I held my schoolbooks tightly against my chest, my little skeletal fingers comforting them so as not to aggravate the ripped up undersides of the thin plastic bag. No sooner had I resumed with precipitated strides, than I recognized the laughter of the short dim-witted son of Mahjouba, the sorcerer, shouting: 'Wahoo! Wahoo! I saw you coward!'
'I will tell the village what you were doing with the goat!' I replied sobbingly.
In full swiftness, I cleared my throat, and rushed home like a burro, nose running …
Downpours of tears would meet the gluey liquid and blend…
©Moulay Idriss El Maarouf
