by Sarah Cleave
In 2012, I came to London for a workshop paid for by my job. I raised my arms in the air and cried, ‘Asylum, asylum’ as soon as it was my turn to approach the immigration counter at Heathrow airport. Other passengers waiting in line looked alarmed. Airport security rolled their eyes at me then took me to a detention centre. They let me go after five or six months, I can’t remember. I was left roaming the streets of London with £200 pending a court hearing ahead of my asylum request. I never spoke to my family again. They had no idea how to reach me. They ceased to exist.
In 2012 I discovered alcohol.
In 2013 I was granted asylum.
In 2013 I tried to kill myself and stopped with the fifth pill before I pushed my fingers down the back of my throat and vomited the rest out.
In 2013 my GP said I needed to drink less.
In 2014 I had sex with a stranger in a toilet stall. He was rough, and I was terrified.
Between 2012 and 2014, I started and lost many cash-in-hand jobs.
In 2014, I saw the remains of a Baghdad car bomb, a mangled heap of metal, mounted on a clean white podium under a blinding spotlight at the Imperial War Museum in London. I felt sorry for it for being so out of place and so nakedly on display. A crowd of people in shorts, summer dresses, funny t-shirts, baseball caps and purple braids gathered in a circle around the car. The slabs of dented metal were so mangled they looked like tens of human guts pressed together and left baking in Iraq’s burning sun until they were bone-dry.
But what do these people know? Staring at it. Taking photos. The car bomb made me feel nostalgic and homesick. I tried to touch it. Security cornered me and threw me out. I decided to call my parents in Baghdad, but I’d forgotten their phone number.
In 2014, I discovered meth.
In 2014, I became angry.
In 2014, the nice family who helped with my asylum case threw me out on the street. I was sorry for hitting them and trying to steal their things. I didn’t mean to. I was high. I tried apologising but they locked me out and threatened to call the police.
The two men behind the counter at the Indian takeaway were now starting to regret feeding the woman.
‘Bro, she’s not shut up since she got here,’ one of them said.
The other man waved his hand, ‘Let her be, bro.’ Jamela, oblivious to her surroundings, was busy pressing her dirty fingers on the side of the foil plate to scavenge every last grain of rice.
Suddenly, she raised her eyebrows, stood tall. The glazed look in her eyes became sharp. The face of Donald Trump appeared on the television in the corner. ‘Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country’s representatives can figure out what the hell is going on.’
‘Fuck you!’ Jamela yelled waving a fist at the television. The two restaurant workers looked alarmed; they were used to the timid Jamela. Yet, there she was standing and waving her fist at the television. ‘Fuck you!’ she yelled again. ‘That was my car bomb. Mine! And they had no right not letting me touch it. Fucking tourists.’
‘Bro, she’s talking about a bomb! Call the police.’ The man hid away in the kitchen to make the call while the other stood behind the counter nervously watching Jamela fling her fists in the air, cursing.
Two large police officers arrived. They dug their hands deep under her armpits and dragged her out of the takeaway, hands cuffed behind her back. She was thrown into the back of the police car.
‘In 1991 I experienced my first air raid …’
‘We’re taking her to the station for questioning,’ one of the officers said over the radio. ‘She looks harmless, probably just a homeless crack head.’
Jamela made herself comfortable in the back seat. She and the officer made eye contact through the rear-view mirror. Jamela began again: ‘In 1991, I experienced my first air raid …’
THE SLOW MAN
Wajdi al-Ahdal
Yemen
The Year 100 According to the Babylonian Calendar
TWELVE CARAVANS ARRIVING FROM the north were stopped and denied entry to Egypt on reaching the checkpoint at Gaza.
No prejudice was behind the ban; truth be told, the Egyptian Commander of the border guards on the northern frontier—a man named Tanah Ramba—was simply one of the slowest men ever born.
Now, some might say that the Commander’s lethargy was no one’s business but his own. Yet, we live in an interconnected world and everything can change in the blink of an eye.
It took the Commander three hours on foot to reach the border post from his residence, even though it wasn’t far and a brisk walker could have made the same journey in twelve minutes.
The Commander had an odd gait; after each step forward, he would stop, look ahead, and inhale deeply, taking in as much air as his lungs would hold. Seconds later he pounded the earth resolutely three times while glancing back at his lame left foot, which he then pulled forward with three jerks.
He had devised this technique himself, if only to discourage people from entering Egypt. And to rile them further, he spent as little time as possible at the border crossing. He would return to his lodgings in a light carriage drawn by a thoroughbred horse.
People gossiped about the Commander behind his back, spreading a rumour that he was kin to the pharaoh and had royal blood flowing in his veins.
He was barely fifty, but his lean frame and grey hair made him look much older. Those who saw him, and didn’t know any better, guessed he must be at least a hundred years old.
His ebony-black concubine, a woman of uncertain lineage, shaved his face each morning and moisturised his skin with oil scented with frankincense. Despite all her ministrations, his complexion had never regained its lustre; she could not contrive to make his face look splendid enough to match his rank.
A few years earlier, he had eaten a poisoned meal of kidneys in Beersheba. Although he had escaped death, his health never fully recovered. The poison had discoloured his face, turning his lower jaw coal-black and dotted with flame-red pimples. He also suffered from the occasional muscle spasm, making it almost impossible for him to move or sleep.
The Commander insisted that it was the Babylonians that had poisoned him, because who else would benefit from his demise.
Everyone dismissed these allegations, but the Commander would soon be proven right.
Only a month after this supposed attempt on the Commander’s life, the pharaoh died—again through poison. An inquest was underway to identify the perpetrator or perpetrators.
The Commander was absolutely convinced that a network of Babylonian spies had assassinated the pharaoh with poison.
Acting on his own authority, without asking permission from the capital, which after all was in a state of mourning, the Commander issued a travel ban preventing Babylonians—and the people ruled by them—from entering Egypt.
He justified his ban as a temporary measure, designed to keep Egypt and its territories safe from the infiltration of enemies.
Around noon, the Commander was sitting on his special chair in front of the control post, warming himself in the sun’s rays. Chill winds from the sea were blowing rotating, petal-like clouds towards them, harbingers of a quickly approaching winter storm. The Priest Barsis had been anxiously waiting for the Commander to appear, biting down hard on his lip.
The Commander held a hand over his coal-black chin and asked, ‘What does the Lord’s servant desire?’
The Priest dried the sweat from his brow and replied, ‘Soldier of Amun, a momentous event!’
‘I’m listening.’
‘When we were praying this morning, the sacred bird—the Ibis—flew into the temple. I have served for thirty years as the custodian of the House of Amun in Gaza, but this is the first time such an auspicious event has occurred.’
‘So does this mean I’ll die?’ the Commander quipped.
The Priest ignored this and continued very seriously:
‘This is a sign from the Lord Amun.
We must not ignore it.’
The Commander fidgeted. ‘You know much more about such matters than I do.’
‘I followed this messenger of the Lord when it left the temple and saw it land over there.’ He pointed to the East with his finger and continued: ‘On the hump of a camel belonging to the Ishmaelite caravan.’
‘It may have thought they were rats!’ the Commander laughed.
Sweat poured down the priest’s forehead, but he tried to look calm.
‘I implore you; send your troops with me to search that caravan.’
The Commander consented to the Priest’s request and sent a squad of soldiers off with him.
Egyptian merchants came to Gaza in throngs, offering fire-sale prices for goods from the banned caravans. Some grudgingly sold the goods they had hoped to carry to Egypt, and others simply headed back to their home countries, refusing to sell at such prices.
One caravan remained because the men were struggling to reach a consensus. They were in no hurry to leave, but bargained so aggressively for fair prices that the Egyptian middlemen eventually abandoned them.
Later that day, the Commander’s men approached the Ishmaelites and surrounded them as they ate. The Priest ordered the soldiers to search the caravan by decree of the Commander of the Egyptian border guards.
The Priest oversaw the search personally and the Ishmaelites brought him their sacks one-by-one for inspection. The Priest searched through the sacks but found nothing unusual in them: just the customary cargo of high quality incense, cinnamon, myrrh, frankincense, and other expensive fragrances that temples are eager to acquire and that the wealthy purchase at exorbitant prices.
The Priest continued to prowl around the caravan, refusing to leave until he’d found something, anything, that would give him answers. He wasn’t sure what that something was, but could sense he was making the Ishmaelites nervous.
Then he asked to speak to the leader of the caravan. A distinguished shaykh with a beard like a lion’s mane appeared, his eyes glittering and flashing.
The Priest stared at him for a moment and then addressed him in Akkadian with a Babylonian accent: ‘Where are you from?’
‘Mecca.’
‘I’ve heard of it. Now that you’ve been denied entry to Egypt, what are you going to do?’
‘We’re going to camp here until you let us in.’
‘You’re obstinate,’ said the Priest. ‘Will you let me help you?’
‘Can you?’ asked the Shaykh.
‘I can obtain an exemption from the travel ban for you from the Commander.’
‘That’s very kind of you. We’d give you a tenth of all the cargo on my camels in return.’
The Priest smiled. ‘I’ll do this free of charge.’
The Shaykh was baffled and sceptical.
The Priest pointed to a child lying sound asleep on his side, as bees buzzed gently around his head. ‘Is the boy sick?’
‘No, it’s just that the trip exhausted him.’
‘You all are so cold-hearted: a young boy like that can’t stand the hardship of such an expedition.’
‘We found him abandoned in the desert. The boy was famished and naked. So, we fed him, clothed him and brought him along with us.’
The Priest approached the sleeping child and began to scrutinise him. He felt the child’s forehead. ‘He has a fever. I’ll send for some medicine.’
The master of the caravan remained silent. He was busy trying to decipher the Priest’s intentions.
The Priest took a step back when it became clear that the bees did not want him near the child.
‘Is he Canaanite?’
‘No, he’s Hebrew,’ said the Shaykh.
‘I thought I saw a bird land here earlier,’ the Priest said.
‘You’re right. It was a bird with a black head and white wings. The tips of its feathers were black as if it had dipped them in ink. Is it a bird that brings good luck?’
The Priest tapped his bald head with a finger and said, ‘I think so.’
Under cover of darkness an unknown man slipped into the Commander’s fortress-like residence. Two people whispered together, joking. ‘What’s new?’
‘The high Priest of Amun visited us tonight.’
‘That devil Barsis! What did he have to say?’
‘He asked my master to grant a special permit for the Ishmaelite caravan to enter Egypt.’
‘Ha! Did your master agree?’
‘Yes.’
A brief silence.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I’m wondering what interest that devil Barsis has in that caravan.’
‘I heard him mention a sign from the Lord Amun … and something about a boy who will be important.’
‘So that must be it,’ said the man jumping to his feet. ‘What’s gotten into you?’
‘Come on! There’s no time to lose.’
The Commander arrived as his men were beginning to eat lunch. He thought he would find the Priest waiting for him. When he didn’t see him, he inquired only to be told that he had left that very morning to follow the Ishmaelite caravan. The Commander sighed, relieved that the caravan had finally given up hope of entering Egypt and had departed far away from the nation’s borders.
His deputy informed him that the Ishmaelite caravan had left pursuant to his orders. The Commander was dumbfounded and said he had never issued any such order. He was truly shocked and allowed his ugly, discoloured jaw to dangle down when his deputy showed him the papyrus document stamped with his seal.
But because he was so tired, slow and indecisive, the Commander did nothing. He did not grasp the full scope of the conspiracy till he returned to his residence and found that his favourite concubine had vanished.
The next day he rejected his deputy’s suggestion to send troops to bring back the Ishmaelite caravan. He was content to wait for the Priest to return.
He had no idea that the Priest’s head had already rolled off his shoulders and that he was unlikely to return any time soon.
128 Babylonian Era
Once eighty percent of the Egyptian populace perished in the famine, the powerful Babylonian army was able to extend its reign to Egypt.
The Israelite tribe was eliminated in mysterious circumstances.
Babylonian engineers finally erased Egypt from the map by diverting the course of the Nile to flow south into Lake Chad rather than north to the Mediterranean.
1000 Babylonian Era
After centuries of massive engineering efforts that employed the manpower of millions of slaves, the waters of the Nile finally reached the Senegal River and flowed into the Atlantic Ocean.
The Babylonians continued settling peoples from Asia on the banks of this mighty river.
3900 Babylonian Era
People no longer knew anything of monotheist religions. Worship of the god Marduk prevailed, and his temples were scattered throughout the Earth’s seven continents. (The Babylonians discovered a seventh lurking beneath the Indian Ocean and raised it, making it fit for human habitation.) Dakar was the world’s spiritual capital.
The Festival of the New Year was celebrated each spring with the ritual copulation of the God Marduk to one of his priestesses.
Europe was by now completely abandoned, and history books no longer made any reference to the Greeks or Romans.
4000 Babylonian Era
When electronic chaos cracked the space-time cone of four-dimensional existence, previously unknown creatures slipped through this gap and claimed, on their arrival, to be the planet’s primordial species who were returning to colonise it once more.
They referred to themselves as ‘They Who Have Come to Retrieve the Earth from Mankind.’
4011 Babylonian Era
The end of the human race was accompanied by the hegemony of creatures far more intelligent and far more evil than people had ever been.
Translated from the Arabic by William M. Hutchins
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Anoud is an Iraqi-born author living in Algiers. Her story ‘Kahramana’ was featured in Iraq + 100 (Comma Press).
Najwa Binshatwan is a Libyan academic, novelist and playwright. She is the author of three collections of short stories and three novels, including The Slaves’ Pen (shortlisted for IPAF 2017). In 2005, her novel The Horses’ Hair won the inaugural Sudanese al-Begrawiya Festival prize, in the same year that Sudan was Capital of Arab Culture. She was chosen as one of the 39 best Arab authors under the age of 40 by the Beirut39 project and her story ‘The Pool and the Piano’ was included in the Beirut39 anthology.
Ubah Cristina Ali Farah was born in Verona, Italy, of a Somali father and an Italian mother. She grew up in Mogadishu but fled at the outbreak of the civil war at the age of eighteen. She is a poet, novelist, playwright, and oral performer. She taught Somali language and culture at Roma Tre University and is currently based in Brussels. She has published stories and poems in several anthologies and in 2006 she won the Lingua Madre National Literary Prize. Her novel Madre piccola (2007) was awarded the prestigious Vittorini Prize and has been translated into Dutch and English.
Born in 1979, Rania Mamoun is a Sudanese author, journalist, and activist. She has published two novels in Arabic—Green Flash (2006) and Son of the Sun (2013)—as well as a short story collection Thirteen Months of Sunrise, which will be published in English by Comma Press in 2018. Her short stories have been published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Book of Khartoum (Comma Press, 2016), the first ever anthology of Sudanese short fiction in translation. She has also worked as culture page editor of Al-Thaqafi magazine, a columnist for Ad-Adwaa newspaper and presenter of the ‘Silicon Valley’ cultural programme on Sudanese TV.