Nobody's Torche

In the departure lounge, many travelers from many countries, loud and energetic as ever, as if it’s not 5:30 in the morning. The waning gibbous is making space for the sun to come; the stars are still freckling as if they’re fighting. The sun finally rose at 6:35. The moon, with his stubborn light, refuses to vanish into the unreachable, staying to reclaim the sky somehow for itself, or for all the wishes he gathers every night.

In the departure lounge, 20 minutes before the flight, many humans, many stories and many lifetimes, some tattoos, some briefcases, and some kids. All being observed by the girl in the last beam seating, long black hair tied as a ponytail, big black eyes, light brown skin, a bit fluffy (not fat but not fit either/wibbly wabbly girl).

Wearing a black shirt with the painting of a door in it, basic black jeans, and old black Vans (its color turned to something else but black), wearing a tiny shoulder bag, that’s it.

After the birds from the outside captured her attention for a moment, she lowered her head a bit and saw the Vans:

“I remember washing these... what’s with this color?” (she murmurs to herself).

She bends forward to wipe it with her hands to check if it’s dust; she smirks:

“They got burnt out... huh.”

The plane arrives, and all the passengers head to the gate. Not giving her brain a chance to rush her, she stays a bit longer in the seat.

OH, I FORGOT TO TELL YOU HER NAME IS ZAMAN, ZAMAN BILAL.

She took her seat, put on her safety belt, turned off her phone, and suddenly she smiled. The flight took one hour, and now here she is in Casablanca, or the White City, the city that doesn’t go quiet, and whenever you look for a dark spot, blinding lights somehow find you right away, whether it’s some reckless motorcycle driver, a policeman, or a shooting star.

Zaman, as she walks through the big city, jumped into the National Roses Festival, where women from all cooperations in Morocco gather to show their bio products made specifically from the rose. Curious about it, since it’s all pink and welcoming from the outside, with all the laughs, the music, and the women wearing their best outfits, putting on their makeup and enjoying themselves.

As she was walking in, she spotted a security guy when he stopped three kids from entering, saying that they will steal or ruin something. That very subtle scene dug into her heart as she thought: why? Because their parents aren’t here? Because of their dusty clothes? Why?

She kept thinking till she met another kid sneaking inside to sell heart shapes made of roses and threads. She looked at him and asked:

“You made this?”

(He nods, and suddenly shouts: “It’s only 5 MAD, please take it!”)

Another subtle scene that dug into her heart.

Even though she doesn’t like weak plants, as she calls it. One day, in a family gathering, her uncle Solaiman claimed clearly that he doesn’t like any type of flowers since it dies pretty easily when not looked after regularly (it was a failing attempt to convince my grandmother to plant something else in the patio space she dedicated only for this).

“Cactus, even when you close your eyes on her face, even when you forget about it for days and maybe weeks, it lives, hahahaha, isn’t that great? Mama, you will forget the flowers and they will die, but the cactus will remember you and will live.”

She was 12 yo when she heard this at the food table. Now she is 23 yo. Her grandmother and uncle both died due to COVID-19 in the same month.

Solaiman was right, though. The cactus didn’t die. It lived to remind all of that day, of that suggestion.

Zaman has her own cactus, and she speaks to it as if a real friend (she is not crazy or anything). She just didn’t realize that she saw herself in the cactus from the moment her uncle pronounced those words:

“Even when you forget about it, it lives.”

She gives the boy the 5 MAD and puts the heart in her bag as she walks out of that place, smiling. Went right away to the shore to contemplate the sea, hoping that somehow the waves will take something she wishes to get rid of and bring something new and bright, maybe a shell, maybe a pearl, or you know what, let it be the seagulls taking the crumbs of bread from the shore.

“Relieving,” she says.

“Maybe just distracting,” she says to herself.

She shakes her head and goes back to thinking about the kids that were dragged out of the festival because of their looks or God knows what. That disappointment recalled something she didn’t want to welcome: a memory of her father bullying her mother, saying her food sucks and, despite the long hours she spends in the kitchen, she manages successfully to cook like a stupid teen girl.

And mother laughs.

When Zaman was a kid, she couldn’t understand why her mother always responded with such a delightful face. It was only later that she realized that was her mother’s coping mechanism, facing the bullying, the harming words, and the disgusting smirks and jokes with laughter.

I never hated you, Mom, I just didn’t get it. Father was a sick, twisted, and immature man. I can understand why I despise him, but not you. I just didn’t get it, Mom. (with tears in her eyes)

A question pops up: what was the kids' reaction to that situation? Are they orphans? Did they laugh after it? Or did they feel the shame?

She burst into tears thinking about all of this. After God knows how much time, she stood up, removed the sand from her dying Vans and laughed about it.

Now, what?

She takes a taxi and heads to the most crowded bazaar in the city: Derb Ghallef, where you can find anything and everything but a real look from someone, or a smile.

Happy with her pistachio and caramel ice cream (you may ask who gets pistachio and caramel in the same ice cream, I have no idea, let’s just pretend that didn’t happen), giggling under her breaths, for she is looking at everyone passing by her when no one is looking at her. She felt some kind of freedom, stealing looks at people’s cheeks, eyes, mouths, hands, and shoes every once in a while.

This joyful moment didn’t last, for a vendor was passing to the other side of the road with his popcorn cart. He didn’t see her, of course, and she didn’t see him as she was wiping down caramel drops from her T-shirt and pistachio from her hair. He stumbled on her, making her fall on her knees, drop the ice cream, and face the ground.

No one stopped, no one moved toward her, not even the vendor who hit her. After a couple of seconds, both of her hands were covering her right knee where she felt most of the pain. She didn’t realize there was blood until she removed one hand, with her jeans ripped off.

She looks up, sees that no one cares, no one listens, no one sees. She breathed in some air, saw beyond people’s heads, who actually looked like titans, and she was the delicate bird with the broken wing on the ground; she saw the street lamps and smiled.

She went back to the place she’s renting, where there is her dear cactus. She told her everything that happened to her, and specifically the last accident where she had to question herself and people’s humanity.

With tears all over her face, her nose running and the cactus listening, she remembers the street lights and her subtle smile. She wipes her tears, takes a shower, and goes to sleep.

She spends three days recalling the same day, same events, and different memories from her childhood.

When the 1st of July came, she woke up at 6:12 a.m. with such good energy to start her day and explore whatever crazy subtle events that may happen to her. After three days of locking herself in her house, she decided that from that day on, if she had to cry out loud, she will, and if she had to laugh out loud, that too will be, but she will never keep her subtle feelings locked in her world; she will free all.

She takes her orangy bike and sings on the way to the garden where she’s planning to have her little croissant and iced coffee.

Zaman sings out loud, laughs out loud, and will cry out loud when the day comes. She is the heroine in her life. People don’t see it, but she is the one greeting the street cleaner, showing the lost ant the road to the rest, sending wishes to the birds, rubbing the herb gently as she hums, contemplating here and there, and most importantly, smiling, because that’s the way she knows to live.