An Act of Kindness

Trigger warnings:

Child endangerment

Extreme poverty

Implied violence

Reference to exploitation

An Act of Kindness

Was this the heaven he was promised?

But he didn’t press the button yet.

His small, bony hand felt for it in the inner pocket of his pristine white dishdasha. Relief washed over him. Still there.

The Saviour could have chosen one of the originals, yet he chose him, a newcomer, a nobody. For his family, it was an honour. Salvation.

He had one job to do. And he had to do it right.

A drop of sweat tickled down the side of his face, even though the sun finally eased its assault on the Cairo market on this last evening of Ramadan. All day the sun had baked the city, and now the concrete exhaled its stored heat, turning the evening air heavy and still. Yet excitement bubbled as the narrow alleys filled with people. The smells of spices, fried dough, and sweets overpowered the layers of perfumes meant to mask the scent of sweat. He drew in that pulsing air.

The scents he had never known overwhelmed him. Where he lived smelled of decay and desperation.

The Saviour grabbed his slender wrist, pulling him close as they pushed through the crowd. The boy’s eyes darted everywhere. In his eight years of life, he’d never been past the checkpoint of the Aribar we Noz quarter of Garbage City. He’d never seen such vivid colours. Greyness had dominated his world. Here, everything burst with colour, and shine, and light—and laughter. Children’s laughter. Women’s laughter. Even grown men laughed.

A different world. Another world.

His dark eyes spotted a pile of Turkish delight stacked in a pyramid and glowing pink in the lamplight. The scent of rose and sugar reached him, and his mouth watered. He slowed, drawn to it. His stomach was bloated and sore from the meal the Saviour had brought for his family as a first payment for his courage. But the memory of the taste of Turkish delight awakened a craving.

He had tasted it once. A piece had stuck to his shirt as he rolled down the garbage hill, pushed by the originals’ children who banned him yet again from digging on their territory. The sticky, gooey, rose-scented piece of candy had smelled divine. It was so enticing that he forgot the pain caused by cuts on his body.

He wolfed down the sweet, too hungry to think. But he regretted it instantly. A trace of sugar and rose water made his taste buds sing, and he craved more of that taste and texture. He could’ve made it last. If he’d chewed. His eyes filled with tears, but he wiped them off quickly. Crying was useless.

Begging for permission to dig was also futile, but he had tried again. He had no choice. There wasn’t a single scrap of food, or a drop of water left in their room. The originals guarded the mountain fiercely. It was their income, their food, and their treasure. No newcomers allowed.

The Saviour pulled on his arm harder, almost yanking it out of the socket.

The crowd grew denser and louder as they progressed toward the centre of the market. The Saviour blocked his view of where they were going, and other passers-by obstructed his sight on all other sides, cocooning him and keeping him from enjoying the market. Memories assaulted him.

His baby brother’s tiny body had shaken with screams before his smiling mother put him to her breast. The baby opened his mouth like a fish searching for a source of his first nourishment. She’d noticed him behind the dirty curtain that separated the living area from the sleeping area, and she motioned for him to come closer.

“I won’t come next time. You and your next bastard can die for all I care. I am done cleaning up after your kind. Done!” the midwife said.

“Not now, please. I can take your insults any day, but today,” mother said.

The midwife dropped the bloody cloth on the ground, adding a humph and a stomp unbecoming of her age. She left the room without giving them another glance.

The boy came closer to the bed and peeked at the newborn, who was eagerly suckling and kneading mother’s engorged breast with his tight little fists.

Just a few hours ago, his mother had been screaming and crying in pain while they enjoyed the best meal of their lives right next to her. His brothers and sisters gobbled up the food the Saviour had brought for his last meal. They ate with noisy satisfaction. But when the Saviour had opened a bottle of fizzy drink and poured each of them a glass, they paused, eager to taste that miracle. Of course, Mina was the first one to try it.

“This tastes like bursting stars!” she proclaimed, and the group laughed.

“Meet your brother,” mother said.

“He looks a bit like an old man,” the boy said.

Mother took the boy’s hand into her slim one.

“For now. He’ll fill out. He’ll grow up to be a big man, just like your father. Remember how big your father was?” she asked.

Oh, how he wanted to remember, but that memory was so distant, faded, brittle.

“Of course I do. He was the biggest man in the village. He was the leader of our people. The Protector,” the boy said.

His mother nodded.

“Just like you.” She looked away, and her lip quivered.

The boy went down on his knees next to the cot to be closer to the baby. He inhaled his scent, sweet and comforting.

“I will name him Amir,” mother said, unable to look at the boy kneeling beside her.

The boy grinned. His brother would carry his name.

“It’s time to go,” the Saviour said from behind the curtain.

He left the room haunted by his mother’s screams.

“This is where I leave you.” The Saviour turned towards him and leaned over.

“You know what you need to do to get the reward for your family.”

The boy nodded.

His legs became heavy as he took a few steps towards the centre of the market. It was nothing like the Saviour had described it. It was so much more beautiful. He stared at the coloured glass in the shop windows, at goods and foods he had never seen in his life. He stood in awe of a world he had never known existed.

His thumb found the button in his pocket. His palms were sweaty and he tightened his grip on the plastic object, afraid it would slip out of his hand. He was dizzy, unable to focus. He drew shallow breaths.

A group of running children passed by him, and he almost lost his balance. To his right, he saw a boy his age eating Turkish delight. To his left, a young family argued about which festive lamps to choose. Farther up, a small child rode on his father’s shoulders, laughing and bragging about how tall he was.

The boy’s lungs screamed for air. He couldn’t inhale. His knees wobbled.

He had to make his father proud. He had to take care of his family—of his namesake. He was not a coward. He was gasping.

“Would you like one?”

The soft sound reached him through the rush in his ears. His vision focused on a small hand holding a large piece of Turkish delight. Amir inhaled the scent of roses.