The Egyptian who has spent the whole time in the toilet
Oof. Phooey. An exceptionally awful smell roundhouse kicks me in the nose when I make to knock on the door behind which Moshen, a 36 year old Egyptian male has been hiding for a week now.
Who are you and how do you know my name?
Your wife told me.
Sifa! What did I tell you about running that shapeless mouth of yours to strangers?
Sifa: This coming from a coward who seeks refuge in a toilet? Curse arranged marriages!
Dude, I mean you no harm. I mean only to extract information from you that will be published in a foreign country and make you a star. Chilax.
Sniffle sniffle sob. Hurry up and leave. People with sharp objects might have followed you here.
OK. Tell me, what is that smell?
What you detect with your nose is the product of my fear. My bowels respond to loud noises.
But you’re ensconced in a toilet. Surely it’s only logical for you to deposit the finished products of your fear in the bowl.
Are you judging me?
No. Why the toilet though? Why not the basement or that secret hi-tech room you have under your orchard?
I’ve modeled my life after Sadam Hussein’s. When things get iffy, I enter the loo in a jiffy. This doesn’t really make sense as sadam actually hid in a hole, but I’m citing artistic license here.
My calling is to be a poet. Selling insurance is the sort of unromantic job that has turned me into a sniveling coward who runs to the toilet at the slightest sign of trouble. Now leave.
I tap the shoulder of a young man who is wearing what looks like a flowery kanzu. He is staring into the middle distance, swaying from side to side and is seated between two girls who are trying to plait his hair. The video of Kush is playing on a loop. From the glazed look in his eyes, it’s safe to assume that he’s been taking the song and whatever connotations it boasts very seriously.
Hello, I’m miss kyrte from (no this won’t do. I need to sound cool. ) Er, wsup mah mehn.
Please. Do me a favor. Get to your point. There is still so much for me to do and so little time for me to do it in.
You’re not doing anything.
That’s the point. I’m chillin’. I never get to chill. This is only the second time in my life that I have been blazed and in a chilled state. Dangerous wordplay, right? Point is I resent your intrusion.
Is this sort of thing allowed? I mean, police and all, morals…
The wages of sin used to be ex-communication and imprisonment, but now the police are busy shooting each other at the square. I have only Aids and knocked up girlfriends to be afraid of. Nothing serious.
How does it feel to be free?
Mostly, I feel betrayed. First of all, I haven’t gone blind and believe me when I tell you that I’ve done all the things that I was assured would rid me of my sight; with vim and vigor. I even have new biceps and a sore palm to show. This makes me question everything. Who am I? What am I? What have I been missing out on? Why are my elders such pricks?
The nomad in the desert who hasn’t got a clue
Hello. I’m Ramses CXV. I’m not sure if I’m actually seeing you or if you’re a mirage. Or a djinn. Strange things have been known to happen in these parts.
Hello Rammy. Can I call you Rammy?
What kind of person cares what a figment of his imagination calls him?
I am not a figment of your imagination.
Ok. Ok. Tell me what you think about Hosni Mubarak and the crisis that your country is going through.
Have I told you that I’m a direct descendant of Ramses II? I also have the best goats in the region.
Your feelings. Tell me what they are. Are you Angry, sa..
You are making me angry, sahib. Go away.
You have no clue what I’m talking about, do you?
I have only one clue, and it’s about goats. What’s the dilliyo with you?