by Yasin Adnan
Just beyond Naima’s place was a residence of a special type, where Issoufou, a thirty-year-old Nigerian lived. He had broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a medium frame which obscured his full stomach. He was always smiling and elegant. He studied commerce at the international university in Marrakech. Mostly people just saw him leaving in the morning or returning at night. He gave off the impression that he was always busy with some urgent matter. His father, according to his neighbor, doorman, and assistant Aissatou, was a minister in the government of Mamadou Tandja, and he had been arrested after the military coup in February 2010. This coup was led by Colonel Salou Djibo and it forced Issoufou and the rest of his family to disperse across the world. They had money in a number of different countries, but complicated administrative issues prevented them from accessing those funds legally. Issoufou lived in the apartment alone while his fellow countrymen were crammed like sardines in tiny one-room apartments.
Issoufou didn’t go out until he was comfortable with how he looked; it seemed as if Georgio Armani himself had outfitted him. His suit was ironed with careful attention, and the collars of his white shirts were starched and pressed—ever since he’d bought a steam iron from Marjan, his neighbor Aissatou had been in charge of ironing his clothes. A gold necklace hung on his chest, his designer shoes were always polished, and he carried an expensive leather bag. Another gold chain on his wrist competed for attention with the gold ring on his finger. He always smelled of the thick Armani cologne called Attitude.
Aissatou, a twenty-five-year-old Senegalese man, lived in the next apartment. He first came as a migrant to Fes, the center of the Tijani Sufi order, which more than half the Senegalese Muslims had joined, and where the shrine of the great Sheikh Ahmed al-Tijani was held. He remained there until he could travel north to Tangier with the intention of crossing the strait to Europe. There, in Tangier, on the bank of the Mediterranean, the paradise of Europe appeared to be close, like a mirage. But without being able to navigate the strait, the dangers were plentiful. The Mediterranean formed the most violent borders in the world. A sea harvest of victims’ souls by the thousands—a gigantic graveyard of bloated corpses and sunken dreams. The living conditions in the nearby forests of Ceuta were unbearable. He never even thought of heading east toward Nador, where his countrymen were living in dire conditions in the Kouruku forest, dreaming of slipping into Melilla before finding themselves, at the end of their hopeless adventure, detained at the camp in the coastal village of Arekmane. The Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla formed the only land border between Africa and Europe. The guards on the Moroccan borders dedicated themselves to this illegal crossing point for African migrants with gusto, in order to gain the favor of their European associates. Racism against black people had been simmering, especially within the lower classes of the Boukhalef neighborhood, which was known as the center of the African community in Tangier. These sentiments made Aissatou completely rethink his idea of settling in Tangier. Instead he headed south in the direction of the Red City. Marrakech was the most African city of all the metropolises in the kingdom. There he sought out Issoufou, whom he’d previously met through a Tijani friend in Fes. The Nigerian advised him to move into the vacant apartment in front of his.
The apartment was owned by a Moroccan who now lived in Sweden. He had abandoned it a year before after a night of bunga bunga had been turned upside down. He had run group sex parties until an underage prostitute was murdered there, and the police raided the apartment and arrested the lot of them—with the exception of the owner, who escaped to his Swedish refuge with the help of a fat bribe.
Aissatou didn’t find it difficult to adapt to his new environment. He regularly went to the main mosque in Hay Saada, and his strict adherence to prayer allowed him to become well-known in the neighborhood and trusted by its residents, who found his broken classical Arabic and Senegalese accent to be charming. After finishing his prayers he would spread out his goods for sale—cell phones, wristwatches, and women’s accessories—in front of the mosque. He was comfortable with this new pace of life. He would frequent the dhikr circles at the Tijani group meetings by Bab Doukkala, and also spent time near Bab Aylan, Bab Ahmar, and in Hay Ksour, where he widened his circle of acquaintances as well as his commercial activities.
Sometimes he would stay with a Sudanese friend named Uthman, a tall and slender young man who was almost thirty. Uthman wore round glasses that filled him with a perhaps unwarranted dignity. His great-grandfather had been one of the sheikhs and a spokesman of the Tijani order in the Sudan, during the days of holy jihad against the English and Turks—the time of the Mahdist Revolution. He studied law in Marrakech before joining the doctoral faculty at Mohammed V University in Rabat. But for about two years now he has devoted himself to preparing his travel papers to move to England and to join his brother. Uthman Mustafa Sheikh lived between Marrakech and Rabat, with dreams of London.
Aissatou wasn’t shy about poking holes in his friend’s fantasy of lying on the banks of the Thames: “There’s no reason to hurry, brother. Do you think the British are burning with desire to welcome you? You’ll be met with accusations. You have been inflicted with all the curses: first you’re Arab, then Muslim, and on top of that you’re black!”
Uthman shook with laughter before answering him: “Fear not, clever one . . . It’ll be enough for them to know I’m a Tijani, and a friend of a Senegalese devotee named Aissatou who wanders the country where the Almoravids once ruled. Then their opinions of me will change completely.”
* * *
Bilal had ambivalent feelings toward his black neighbors. He would get fed up with Fatimata’s screaming. She was clearly incapable of speaking softly. Even the noisy presence of the Malians bothered him. He often complained to Farid and Said about the racket they caused.
“They all talk at the same time. It’s like they’re fighting,” Bilal told them.
“Those bastards have megaphones for mouths,” replied Farid.
Despite this, Bilal was quick to come to the defense of his black neighbors, proclaiming his disgust whenever people made inappropriate or openly racist comments. Farid and Said were in their midtwenties and both were unemployed. And since there was no way for them to frequent cafés with their empty pockets, they sought shelter with Bilal, sharing a pot of morning tea that his mother Umm al-Khayr prepared for him at ten. They shared loose cigarettes that they would get from the vendor in front of Café Original on the corner. They were envious of Issoufou, who was sometimes accompanied by girls, which they shamefully begrudged. Because of this, every time someone walked in front of them, the two repeated the song of those congregations in Jemaa el-Fnaa Square by the late Omar Meekhi:
Bambara Bamba,
Bambara the one with the balls.
Bambara Bamba,
The one who likes girls.
White or black ones,
For them his soul dies.
One time Issoufou came home accompanied by a blond foreigner, one of those normally encountered in the tourist areas and who was clearly out of place in Hay Saada. She looked pleased as she followed him into the apartment. Farid and Said glanced at her, observing the scene with a disgust and envy that crushed their hearts. Farid spoke slowly while staring at the blonde: “That bitch is beautiful!”
“Too bad that dung beetle has his arms all over her,” replied Said, defeated.
“Mark my words, tomorrow her picture will be in the papers. Really, he’ll devour her . . . that son of a bitch, black-ass nigger. He’s a cannibal.”
“Bro, I don’t understand, what do they like about these black men?” Said asked.
“They lick it good.”
“I bet he won’t just lick—he’s gonna eat too. He’ll even eat her shit.”
“Man, I swear only foreigners make it in this country. This Negro was just jumping around with monkeys yesterday and now he easily finds a European girlfriend, son of a bitch.”
Bilal couldn’t bear this vulgar t
alk, remembering how hurt he had been when Lalla Ghitha had called him a nigger. His blood starting to boil with rage, he said: “Get your asses the fuck out of here. Seriously, go jerk off someplace else. This is a respectable business. You spend the whole day leaning on the wall like you’re keeping it from falling . . . You’ll pick up shit, not foreign women.”
Farid and Said didn’t understand what had suddenly shaken their friend. Regardless, they were filled with hatred for those former slaves whom they blamed for their problems with Bilal. When a group of Malian children walked past Fatimata’s salon that morning, Farid shouted at them: “The country’s overflowing with you sons of bitches!”
* * *
Issoufou was one of the few Africans who frequented the local cafés, as most in the community tended to live isolated among themselves, far from Moroccans and their problems. Many Africans limited their interactions with Moroccans to the essentials, especially since they perceived among the Moroccans feelings of superiority. Even the most humble grocer would approach them with a false sense of nobility.
Issoufou left his apartment in Hay Saada to wander through the main street. He paused in front of the shops, looking scornfully at the cheap goods before heading to Tito’s Café at the intersection of Allal el-Fassi Avenue and Abdelkarim el-Khattabi Boulevard, overlooking the large Marjan Market. Allal el-Fassi and Abdelkarim el-Khattabi had been opposition fighters who fought to expel the French and the Spanish during the struggle against colonization. Today their progeny were ready to dance on their graves in order to attract those same foreigners to come here and invest. Meanwhile, others were ready to give up the nation with all its martyrs and resistance fighters in exchange for residency papers for the blond capitals. The paths of history indeed have strange and deceptive points of intersection.
Issoufou entered the coffee shop, swaying as he removed his Armani glasses. Conspicuously dressed in Armani as well, he scanned the tables and TV screens around the room that were broadcasting songs on the Rotana Records channel. He took a seat in a prime corner booth upstairs, so he could look down on the trifling patrons as he drank his coffee. Recently Noura had started to frequent the café. She secluded herself in another corner, studying for upcoming exams far from the noise of her mother and the incessant racket of Lala Aweesh Street, which always prevented her from focusing. But after a while she noticed this elegant dark man, whom she thought resembled Dr. Eric Forman from the show House.
Sometimes she observed Issoufou meeting mysterious folks there—most of them Moroccan. Occasionally a French woman in her midthirties would be there with him. Their relationship appeared to be professional, judging from the papers and documents that they’d whisper over. Issoufou soon noticed Noura’s attention and they exchanged a smile once or twice. By the third time, he asked the waiter to bring her a cup of juice, which she gratefully accepted, encouraging him to move over to her table.
Issoufou came exactly at the right time. Noura had been yearning for Bilal’s arms, his hot breath, his thick lips, which would bring back memories of the Menara and Agdal gardens, where they would make love beneath the olive trees, after Bilal had silenced the garden’s attendant with cash. But for Noura, she desired him as much as she loathed him. And she sympathized with him as a victim of her mother’s conduct as much as his neglect had wounded her. The affairs of the heart are capable of transforming a victim into an executioner from one beat to the next. And with that, Issoufou’s gentleness and courtesy made him appear like a knight, a savior sent from the heavens, especially since Noura’s fruit was ripe enough to fall before her desire in the arms of a new lover.
Noura ended up in Issoufou’s bed after a series of dates at Tito’s Café and dinners at Kanoun, a nearby Lebanese restaurant. Sometimes he would take her to Café Mama Afrika or the club and restaurant African Chic on the Umm al-Rabi alleyway in Gueliz, behind Hotel Marrakech. There, at African Chic, her heart danced with joy when Issoufou first declared his love for her. He started trusting his feelings for her so that she’d offer him love in return. She found a delicateness and refinement in him. It was true that Bilal had loved her and had wanted to marry her, but he had never made her feel like a princess. With Issoufou she’d become a real princess. He was truly a gentleman. He always complimented her beauty and elegance, and would reveal his feelings to her sincerely and spontaneously. He granted her so much trust and security, even sharing with her many of his deepest secrets. From their first dates he spoke to her about his father, the former minister, who was now a prisoner in Niamey, Niger; about his family scattered across God’s vast land; and about their wealth, which he was trying to restore with the help of an international law office in Paris. He told her about the representative in Marrakech, a woman who met with him regularly to discuss the case.
“Is it the Frenchwoman who is sometimes with you in the café?” Noura asked him, as if to reassure her heart.
And he answered her evenly: “Exactly. Her name is Katherine. She’s a lawyer. She lives in the Hivernage area of Gueliz and represents her office here. They have a number of French clients residing in Marrakech.”
“The case sounds complicated.”
“Kind of. But things are moving in a good direction. I’ve been living here for more than five years now, and I submitted my request for residency to the new bureau for migration and asylum,” he explained. “All I have to do is find a worthy partner I can trust. One of the recent administrative measures involves being under the patronage of a local—especially since the new laws ease the paths to residency and work for refugees. We might be able to set up a company and open a joint account for the future funds if I get my legal affairs in order. Because of concerns over terrorist financing, there is growing international surveillance on the movement of capital. However, as soon as I can get ahold of the money to establish the company legally, everything will end up in a good place. The most important part of all this is that I find the right partner.”
It hadn’t even crossed Noura’s mind that she might be this sought-after partner, that a savior had come to rescue her from her miserable life on Lalla Aweesh Street; from her tense relationship with her mother that had become unbearable, especially since the episode with Bilal; from a university that wouldn’t grant her a diploma other than to join the ranks of unemployed college graduates. But now she considered selling the Tameslouht land and entering into a professional partnership out of a dream with this dark, handsome gentleman.
* * *
Noura learned the meaning of true pleasure with Issoufou. Naked in bed, she experienced an orgasm for the first time. It was real euphoria, not at all like that love stolen between the trees, when Bilal had rubbed up against her body, quickly spilling his semen. Despite the barrier of her virginity, the talented Issoufou did things with his tongue she couldn’t believe. After a lengthy session of kissing—just a warm-up—he spread her out on his mattress which was black and white like a zebra. He removed her clothing piece by piece, engrossing himself in suckling at her pear-like breasts with his powerful lips, and then focusing on her nipples, teasing them. With the caution of a mystic, he descended steadily down her chest to her navel, before moving to her inner thighs in a kind of sweet torture. Then he turned toward her small blossom, breathing in deeply before exhaling with his burning breath. He kissed her folds, exciting her clitoris, which he wrestled with his outstretched tongue, until Noura let out a quivering scream—a scream which made Issoufou stroke his loaded rocket, joining her there at the heights of euphoria.
She thought to herself that this feeling, in and of itself, was worth all the risks she took to be alone with Issoufou. She would ask permission from her mother to spend the night at her friend Hayat’s house in Daoudiate, claiming they were preparing for exams together, only to go to Issoufou’s place instead. He would head upstairs first while she lingered outside, watching Bilal from afar until he was busy with a customer, and then she would sneak through the door. Bilal had been a mere stepping-stone on her
road to this new love. She would feel victorious whenever she brushed past him, like a racehorse vaulting over a fence.
* * *
Noura was leaving Issoufou’s apartment when Bilal suddenly appeared before her with a menacing expression on his face. “Where were you, you slut?”
“How could you call me that? Your sister is the slut . . . and anyway, what business is it of yours? Who are you to ask me?”
“I’m the one who’s going to call the cops on you if I keep seeing you run around here with that nigger.”
“Nigger! Really? My God. This word just comes out of you smooth and sweet like honeyed butter.”
“He’s a nigger . . . a cannibal. If I catch you here again, goddamnit, see if I don’t get you arrested, the both of you.”
Noura didn’t know what to say. Bilal glared at her, his eyes burning with anger and hatred. She slunk back to her apartment furious with this bastard who she had once loved. Perhaps she should pick up the pace. She had to find a way to return to Issoufou. She was annoyed with this shit from Bilal, a man who’d abandoned her, fleeing like a coward at the first sign of difficulty, holding her mother’s offenses against her. And now he wanted to ruin her newfound love.
Later, Noura told her new knight the whole story with Bilal: about him wanting to get engaged, about her mother’s rejection and his fleeing like a coward, even his trying to block her way when she left the apartment. She professed her love for him, saying that she wished to be with him forever. She then offered to sell the Tameslouht land to establish the company’s funding—and as soon as Issoufou’s money arrived they would move somewhere else, far away from Bilal and this stupid little neighborhood.