The Suitcase 2002

Zainab had a good scream and cry before Mohamed’s flight back. He hadn’t told anyone anything. He was still sneaking away to talk to her for a few minutes to give her his itinerary as he was getting ready to leave. She sat at her desk watching the plane slowly inch its way up the coast and across the ocean without the same love.

“Has he left yet?” Ibrahim inquired.

“Yeah. Sometime in the night. He’ll be in Paris today and here tomorrow, inshallah.”

“Do you have any special plans?”

“No. He’ll be exhausted. We’ll probably just pass out.”

“Oh, I doubt that. You haven’t seen each other for two months.” Ibrahim gave a smile and a wink that made Zainab chuckle and lose her blues, at least temporarily.

The next day Zainab kept watching the tiny plane work its way west from New York. It was getting close when Russel came in with the payroll.

“Hey, Russ. How you doing?”

“Can’t complain, Zainab. Can’t complain. Here’s the payroll for the restaurant. I’m going to Filistine in a couple of days to see ummi.”

“Oh, mabrook! Mabrook. I am sure that you are excited. Inshallah you have a good and more importantly safe voyage.”

“Ah, Russ. Bon voyage. I didn’t know that your mom was still in Palestine. I hope that you have a great trip.”

“Thank you, Ibrahim. Ummi never felt comfortable here. She had friends here but it just isn’t the same as the motherland. She insisted that we take her back to her beloved olive trees. She was determined to die amongst them.”

“Heaven lays at the feet of mothers, eh? You are a good son, Abdullah. Mashallah wa Hamdulillah.”

Russ gave Zainab a smile, put his right hand on his heart and bowed slightly to show his appreciation before going into Ibrahim’s office.

Russ was the American born son of Palestinian refugees. He was from a smaller town. Everyone teased him for his name, skin color, religion, culture and food. His first teacher refused to say his ‘heathen’ name. She insisted that he was now Russel. His parents were so happy to raise him in America. They didn’t understand his unique situation of being neither Filistini nor American enough.

His legal name was still Abdullah. He told Zainab that he believes in Allah but he just can’t practice Islam. His restaurant gave free soup and pita bread to those breaking the fast during Ramadan. He gave free meals on the eids, certain American holidays and other religious holidays.

He was known to have homeless and destitute people visit him during off hours. They would be given a meal. When they were finished, Abdullah would invite them into his office. He would grab the tray from the waiter and have them follow him back for conversation, tea and baklawa.

Nothing less from a good, God fearing Filistini American. Zainab saw his heart. He practiced Islam in the truest sense. Praying, fasting or going to masjid isn’t Islam. Islam is in the everyday words and deeds of humans. It is peace.

The men chatted as Zainab quickly input the payroll; printed the checks and reports; and assembled it all. When she was finished, she poked her head in to let Russel know.

Zainab was back at her desk when he came to collect. She handed it to him with a Ma’salam.

“How was Mohamed’s trip home? I’m a bit nervous about flying this year.”

“Oh, fuck. Where is he?” She furiously banged on the keyboard to get the latest update. “Phew. He is thirty minutes from landing. I had better get going soon.”

“Go then.”

“It’s okay. Huwa sulhafat. I am not circling metro for a half hour. I’ll leave once he lands.”

“He’s a turtle?” Russ said with a chuckle and head shake. “Inshallah he arrives safe. Ma’salam, Zainab.”

He put his right hand on his heart and bowed slightly. Zainab did the same and told him Ma’salam. As soon as he left, she decided to clean up and head on out.

“Bye, Ibe!” Zainab shouted as she poked her head into his office.

“Oh, is it that time already,” he said while taking off his glasses, getting up and walking towards her. Once he was by her side, he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Be careful driving. Good luck. Have a wonderful evening reuniting with your husband. Okay?”

“Okay,” Zainab reassured him. He was always looking out for her like a father. She told others that he was her Jewish daddy. “Bye, Ibe.”

“Bye,” Ibrahim said as she flew out the door, her malefah getting caught on the door handle briefly. She just couldn’t make a graceful exit to save her life.

Zainab only had to circle metro twice before finding Mohamed. She ran out to open the trunk and gave him a quick kiss as he put the suitcases inside. She wasn’t thinking.

“Zainab!” he shouted with a smile.

“I know. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Ahaybuk.” She ran back and climbed into the driver’s seat.

When Mohamed climbed in, he started telling her everything about his trip as she drove home. “I got presents for you and your parents.”

“Oh. Thank you,” was her reply. She wasn’t one to get excited over presents for herself. She had asked for a couple of things and supposed that those were what he was referring to.

The drive was rather annoying because he kept telling Zainab that he brought photos to accompany the stories. For the time being she had to imagine him atop an enormous camel in the desert and the tents erected for a welcome party.

When they got home, Mohamed took his time getting to the pièce de résistance. Zainab sat in the living room just staring at the enormous suitcase begging for it to reveal all as Mohamed showered. She would occasionally look over at Mohamed’s chair where she had placed his bowl of cereal, getting nauseous at the sight of corn flakes turning to mush.

Sulahfat were faster than Miskeen Mohamed. Daddy would yell at his girls about taking forever and roll his eyes. Zainab understood it very well with Mohamed. If the sensitive, macho man wasn’t around, Zainab would say that he was more of a woman than she was while rolling her eyes with a geesh. Most of the household beauty products belonged to that macho, virile, manly man.

There were many false starts but once Mohamed was sufficiently settled, Zainab was allowed to begin. She tugged the zipper around the perimeter, looked at Mohamed with a smile and said, “Open sesame,” while flinging the top up. It came back down but she eventually got it over to the other side.

Zainab grabbed the first item which was a plastic bag. Mohamed asked her to give it to him. Jamal had asked him to bring back some camel jerky. When she started to do so, a few lovely African bugs were found.

She quickly killed the fuckers. She wasn’t going to be responsible for allowing another foreign species to invade America. Her ancestors were some of the first invaders before the American Revolution. She was still proud but she did as Julia Sugarbaker said of the South, she put her crazies out on the front lawn for the world to see. She shielded Mohamed from the only true psychopath, her biological father and prayed that they’d never meet.

Once the bug and camel jerky situation was taken care of, she moved on to the second disaster. There was a sticky substance that leaked out of its container. Mohamed mentioned that it was a traditional product for hair removal as she tried to get it off of everything and out of the suitcase.

Once she had gotten most of it up, she got to the huge pile of malehfah. She opened each one as he explained. Many were a more gauzy material that had been tie dyed in various patterns and colors. She wrapped a few around her body to see how long they were.

His sisters were just told to shop for American women in malehfah and dresses. The sizes varied but were all rather small. She guessed many to be a size zero yet she had never met a Mauritanian woman smaller than an eight. Most were rather plump as was the fashion. Zainab’s fat ass wasn’t fitting into most of the dresses.

Zainab put the smallest dress in front of her body and declared, “Ana baqara.”

“Shinhoo? It’s good.” Mohamed declared as if the cow with a size 18 ass could squeeze into a zero. She stared and blinked a few times looking for the sarcasm or punchline. When none came, she moved on.

There was a plastic bag full of something that resembled road salt. Zainab showed Mohamed, “Shinhoo?” He excitedly grabbed it and headed into the kitchen. She followed and watched him go to work as he told her all about it.

“This gum Arabic. They use in laundry for make durah puissant. It also good for lose weight. Good for you, Zainab. I make mashroob with gum Arabic, sugar and milk. You try. You take every day. You lose weight. It also help stomach.”

Zainab was accustomed to his ridiculous notions about beauty. Mohamed had many assumptions about the upper middle class in America. He thought that Zainab was as wealthy as Paris Hilton and should act like it. The truth was that she had worked steadily from 15 on. She worked hard for everything that she managed to have which wasn’t much.

Zainab tried the drink and liked it a lot. It was her breakfast many busy mornings. She even used it to calm an upset tummy. The most delicious way in her opinion. Mohamed told her how to use it as a starch in laundry but she wasn’t about to waste the wonderful nuggets on laundry. She never liked nor used starch so Mohamed was told to make his durrah stiff as a board and uncomfortable in Zainab’s opinion.

There was a silly shorts and top outfit for daddy. Mom and Zainab both got oversized dresses for lounging. The slinkier dresses were a better fit for mom. There were also two enormous blankets that were so soft and fluffy.

The gifts were just cheap Chinese products found in the Dollar Stores of the immigrants but they didn’t realize it. They found them lovely and exotic. The blankets were their absolute favorite. When Zainab bought another one at the Dollar Store as a spare, it fell apart fairly quickly and easily in the wash. Mohamed was a far better shopper. Well, his sisters were. If only they understood that Americans aren’t that skinny.

The sisters did them both right with the lubkhour. Mohamed had Zainab and their apartment smelling like an exotic souq in Marrakech. She savored every single grain. He showed her how to infuse her clothes with the scent in the simplest way. Zainab lifted her dress and malehfah.

The burner was placed on the floor. Zainab stepped over it and lowered her dress. She was panicked about setting herself on fire like an old fashioned Christmas tree. The synthetic dress and gauzy cotton would easily burst into flames. The smoke was warm and the aroma slipped its way up through her neck, delighting her.

Once she was content, she sat down with Mohamed in his durah and her in her malehfah. He showed her the photos and told her the stories of As-Sahara Al-Kabir, the Big Desert. She imagined herself behind him on the beautiful white camel with its golden fur glistening in the sun along with his durrah. He spoke about the feel of the hot sand dunes which sounded wonderful on an achy back.

When he got to Chinguetti, she was beyond thrilled. The ancient cities were a marvel. She secretly longed to visit Timbuktu but Chinguetti was a close second. The sight of her sisters, daughter and parents brought tears to her eyes. She finally got a face to go along with the stories. Her daughter was the most painful for her. It is culture. It is tradition. It is immovable.

A child is of its mother. Zainab could never meet her precious Aishatou. She could only delight in the photos and stories, loving her in those precious moments. Aishatou might never know Zainab but Zainab loved her more than Mohamed. She would do anything for her, except the deceit of plural marriage. Mohamed would come to make it pass.

For now she cradled Aishatou’s photo in her hand, pressed her lips against her cheek and held it close to her heart. She said prayers for her and sang to her simplistically in her language.

Aishatou hayati wa qalbi.

Aishatou halwa wa jamila

Wa saida wa kareema.

Layla saida wa ahlam saida ya Aishatou.

May Allah protect and guide you all of your days.

Ahaybik ya Aishatou.

Until next time. Ma’salam.

Min sadiqatuk, Drsy.

From your friend, Darcy.