With a hiss of air brakes and exhaling fumes of fuel, the bus pulled into Derb Al-Kabir in Anfa. The morning was near frosty and quiet and Mririda’s heart was beating fast watching the passengers in their thick woolly djellabas shuffling down the aisle to get off. Most of them gripping the straps of their luggage with gnarly knuckles, tired after a long overnight ride. She looked back towards the empty seats in the bus, and then she looked forward as the last passenger dismounted, and she wondered, what should I do now? I’ve nowhere to go. Asidi rbbi! Oh, my God! I wished the bus would keep going. When I left, I was just leaving, not going anywhere.
In front of her, a woman, in a white warm djellaba and a white veil around her face, was holding her crying baby boy in her arms, swaying him and singing a whispered song to him. The bus driver was collecting his stuff, ready to get out. Mririda hastily covered her head with her white haïk and dragged herself towards the front door. The driver was gazing at her. She tried not to look at him, tried not to allow her vision to stray in his direction.
“Is the angel alone in Anfa?” the driver said in Tamazight, stepping towards her.
“Angels are never alone. They’re with Allah. No one will dare touch them.”
“Is that blood in your haïk, angel?” the driver said, pointing at Mririda’s white haïk, which was crusted with drops of blood and streaked with desert dust.
“I slaughtered a chicken before leaving home. I’ll change it. Stop gazing like an owl. Staring at it does not make the moon yours,” she said and hurried to a nearby wood bench, clutching her bundle in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.
Mririda sank down onto the bench feeling as little as a speck of dust in the vast expanse of Oulad Ziane bus station. She’d heard a lot about Anfa from the residents of her hamlet in Azilal, especially from Caïd Moussa, her former captor, who was appointed by the French to govern Rif tribes and collect taxes from the locals. All their tales seemed to teach the same moral: Anfa was a hazardous place, especially for women. French colonizers were everywhere, so she had to exercise caution. But she had nothing to lose.
The things Caïd Moussa had said to her had been like an evil spell that turned her into some kind of beetle on its back flailing its legs but unable to do anything about it, a despised creature without worth or an iota dignity. But there was no one to blame but herself. She had really been the one to woo him at the souk, so she should not whine now. She should have avoided praising his power and wealth while singing and dancing at the Halqa, a performance in the market square. But she should not be concerned right now. She had ripped herself from him, and though it hurt like a bandage torn from a not yet healed wound, she was relieved to have escaped his clutches.
No more slavery. Let this be a new start, she thought.
Buses were parked at parallel angles on the right and small ticket offices were lined up on the left. In front of her, passengers were having breakfast in cafés, dipping pieces of fresh bread into small bowls of olive oil or sipping hot soup. She wanted to eat something, but in her village women were not allowed to sit in public places. She could almost imagine the harsh eyes of Caïd Moussa on her. I had already broken with my tribal traditions. Why do I care now?
She dug through her black plastic bag to see how much money she still had. She counted out the dull coins. Five francs, she murmured. She put the money back and stretched out on the bench. Remembering that it was inappropriate for a woman to lie down in public places, she sat up appropriately and put the bundle on the floor by her feet. But then, scared of thieves, she put the bundle on her lap and rested her head on it.
Sitting there like that, she took inventory of her problems. My main issue is the language. I need to learn Darija and French. She was hesitant to wander from the terminal. At least here among all these travelers, I will not draw any attention. So she meandered through the bus terminal, stretching her legs and getting her bearings. She walked past the cafés, some with waiters setting out chairs and others already filled with travelers. She looked furtively at their plates of food and steaming glasses of tea.
What attracted her attention most was the large number of homeless people in the station. They were sleeping at different corners, curled up on pieces of cardboard with no blanket on them. When a tall bald man in shabby dark clothes approached her, she quickened her steps and looked the other way. His ratty black djellaba and owl-like eyes reminded her of Caïd Moussa’s soldier. Though she had taken her revenge on him, she shivered thinking about him. The two years she spent in Caïd Moussa’s castle left a deep scar on her. The lines of her poem, “The Bad Lover,” leapt into her mind. If she ever returned to Azilal, she would share it with René, the French teacher. She should not forget it by any means. Despite her young age, Mririda had forgotten a lot of the love poems she told in the souk. It was as if cruelty had erased all their tenderness. She had been so glad to come across René, who promised to commit all her poems to paper. Now, she closed her eyes for a while and thought hard about the beginning of the poem and she softly recited it.
The Bad Lover[1]
Leave me, soldier without honor or manners! I can see through your bright uniform into all your contempt, Your hand salutes an officer but raised to slap a woman, insults on your lips, Now that you have had what you want from me Sated with my pleasures, you bark at me but call me the dog! You’d have me blush for my bread? But you, were you never ashamed When you pushed feigning gentility at my door, But you, Up like a bull? Were you coming to play cards? You turned yourself into something humble, Agreeing right off to my demands, To losing all your pay in advance. And the more your eyes undressed me, The more your rough desire put you in my power. When you finally took off my clothes I could have had your soul for the asking! I could have cursed your mother And your father, and their ancestors! Toward what paradise were you flying? But now that you’ve calmed down, You’re back on earth, Arrogant, rough and coarse as your djellaba.
When she whispered the last line to herself, she laughed so heartily that her face turned red. Then she murmured to herself, Great, Mririda. You did it. I still remember all the lines. I need to go to Azilal now. No, perhaps I’ll never go back. What did the city give me? Nothing. I’ll tell this poem in the souks of Anfa. But are there Souks here? I don’t know. Who is going to understand Tamazight here anyway? But then seeing that the tall man was still behind her, she hurried to escape his stares.
In the public toilets situated behind the buses, she tried to rub the blood from her haïk, but it would not come off. Darkened by water, the stains only became more visible and suspicious. She carefully removed and folded the haïk and placed it in her plastic bag. She took her money out and tossed the bag into a corner of the room. She blushed when she looked at herself in a mirror in front of her. Distraught, her hair unkempt, her home dress unbelted, she stood frozen in her place. How can I walk out in this dress? Am I in taddart inu, my home? She wondered. Hurriedly, she left the restroom, taking her bundle in her hand.
She did not want to go out of the bus station without male company. Being with a male family member on trips like this was an unquestioned rule in her village. She wished she had got married to Asafo, her first beloved, to whom she had dedicated a poem before she was kidnapped by Caïd Moussa. In her poem, she referred to him as the son of the high pasture.
What Do You Want?[2]
What do you want, girl of the village below? To marry me, is that what you are thinking? It is said that you are hardly unfriendly, And I too dream of holding you. Here is my only piece of silver. The peddler will sell you perfumed soap, A comb, a mirror,—what do I know? But by my neck, I’ll bring you a red scarf from Demnat if you want. What do I need, son of the high pasture, With a piece of silver or silk scarf? Then tell me what you want— to marry me? What do you think, pretty girl of the village below? You make me laugh, son of the high pasture. I don’t care about money or a scarf, and even less about marriage. I expect from you what you expect from me. And satisfied, we will leave each other. What I want, strong son of the high pasture, What I want is the shelter of this bush Where you will lie on my breasts—which I hold Out to you—and in a moment happiness Sweeter than milk, While my eyes lose themselves in the sky.
Right now, she wanted so badly to be with the son of the high pasture from the Rif. But her father forced her to marry a man he had chosen, someone she didn’t love. She escaped from her husband’s’ house after two weeks of marriage and she became a vagabond with no home of her own, traveling roads, woods, and deserts, reciting her poems in souks and streets of Azilal. At the age of eighteen, she was proud to be the first woman in her village to perform in public squares and souks. She did make enough money chanting her Tamazight poetry to fill her belly, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill her. When her father heard of her daring exploits, he informed his friends that the day he gave her up for marriage was the day he regarded her dead. As far as he was concerned, Malika (Mririda’s real name) was no longer alive. But she was, and she stopped in the middle of the crowd and touched her own two cheeks as if to prove it.
Now getting on to mid-morning, the bus station was teeming with people of all ages. She could not find an empty place in the station to rest. The noise of the bus engines was in tune with the noise of the touts running around calling out the names of the cities and the names of the bus companies. She listened to the wild music of the city and felt equal parts terror and elation.
***
In her home clothes, Mririda felt invisible among the crowd. She stood near the entrance gate of the station, trying to look as if she was expecting to see a member of her family and a neighbor from Azilal. I am not going out. I have nowhere to go. Maybe Caïd Moussa is looking for me, she thought. Hungry, she went to a nearby store inside the station to buy something to eat. She decided to spend two francs and save the rest for the future. She looked bewildered when she was inside the store, crammed with goods on shelves that rose to the ceiling. She heard somebody talking to her in Tamazight.
“Azzou n Tmazirt. The wind of the country?” a young man behind the counter said.
“Sorry?”
“Are you from Mogador?”
“No! I’m from Megdaz in the Tassaout valley!”
“Alone. You’re a woman and half. Do you want something?”
“And you’re just half, Azzou. Give me a loaf of bread and a tin of sardine. Keep your damn comments for yourself.”
“Here you are, a burning firebrand. One franc and half.”
She desired a lengthy talk with him if only to hear the lovely syllables of her native tongue, but the young man turned away as soon as he handed her the change. She took her sandwich off the counter and found a wooden bench where she could sit. She had a strong appetite. She knew, of course, that women in her village were not supposed to eat in the street, but she was just too hungry to care. She bottled her fear and decided to give another blow to the traditions that she had long forsaken. She enjoyed her sandwich in one of the busiest places in Anfa. She also wanted a cigarette, but she could not afford it. She needed the last three francs for food.
***
She spent the whole afternoon on the bench, looking at people passing by. When she felt exhausted, cold, and drowsy, she lay down, putting her bundle under her head. But she could not rest, haunted by the fear that Caïd Moussa would capture her again. She closed her eyes. Her mind was working on a new poem, inspired by the brief flirtations of the young man in the store.
Azouou[3]
Azouou! Evening Breeze! What a perfect name! But why are you so mean? I won’t leave your door Till it opens, Or I die waiting. I see in your eyes the sparking flint. Your lips against your glittering teeth Draw me to them. The peaches of Assermoh have the roundness Of your breasts, your skin has the softness Of a ring dove’s down. The small blue tattoo between your eyes, The tattoo on your chin, The tattoos on your ankles. . . . And the hidden tattoos— Will I never see those, Azouou? Let your hair down over your shoulders. I will bury my face there Like a partridge hiding under its wing. Why do you turn me away? What do you want? What gift will please you And bring a smile to your face and to mine?
She repeated the poem several times adjusting a little each time before she felt satisfied. When she heard the sound of a muezzin calling for the evening prayer, she stood up in a rush, trying to figure out where she was. People were still moving around, most of them were carrying their luggage. It was growing dark. A young man with a blue warm djellaba was standing next to her, counting money. Her face flushed with embarrassment as he looked at her house clothing.
“When is your bus leaving?” he said to her in Darija.
Like her beloved boyfriend Asafo in the village, the young boy was about twenty years old, tall and skinny. His left eye was half-closed. His nose was long and swollen. He sat on the bench next to her and continued counting the coins in his hands. He repeated the question. Mririda did not reply. She knew some words in Darija, but she was not able to grasp what he was saying. She shook her head. Then, the boy spoke in Tamazight,
“Mani trit? Where are you going?”
“Azzou, the wind has no destination. I’ve just arrived and I’ll soon leave,” Mririda said in an overly soft voice, pushing away from him.
“Just arrived?”
“I mean this morning. Why you are so nosey?”
“I’m not really nosey! But I don’t like liars.”
Mririda locked her gaze on the youngster. She wanted to box him, but she recalled she was in Anfa and opted to remain silent. When she stepped up to leave, she overheard him say,
“You left this in the toilet. The bathroom attendant told me it’s yours.”
She kept her head hung low, unable to speak. She snatched her black plastic bag from him and quickly hid it inside the bundle of her clothes.
“You need to be careful in this bus station. It’s ripe with thieves and drug dealers,” the young man said, approaching her.
Maybe you are one of them, she thought. But she nodded in agreement. She put her bundle and the bag firmly near her chest and was ready to leave.
“You don’t have anywhere to sleep, do you?”
She fidgeted, and then burst into tears. The young man approached her and took her hand in his. He led her to a nearby wood bench.
“Please, leave me alone!” she shouted, hiding her face in her bundle when they sat down.
“Listen! I can give you a hand. I may look like a tramp in these clothes, but I’m not a bad guy. Believe me. This bus station is a jungle. You need to be a lion to survive.”
Mririda wiped her tears with her sleeve and said, “I wish I were dead. It’s hard to believe men.”
“Listen! Don’t believe me if you don’t want to, but just a piece of advice, don’t spend the night here. They’re going to eat you.”
“But I have nowhere to go,” she retorted.
“I’ll show you a place where you can stay.”
“I don’t have money to pay you,” she said after a long hesitation, “but I can pay you in another way.”
“How?” the young man asked.
“Are you stupid, boy? Our two hearts will be together tonight if you want. I’ll sell myself to you.” And then she began chanting a part of her poem, “Azouou’s Reply”[4]
I’ll give myself to you. Undo my belt! You’ll be my beloved Azou! Take my lips! Our mouths will open, Our bodies will be one And our two hearts will be together.
While speaking, she gestured at his face and wanted to kiss him. He pushed her away and said,
“Listen, Lalla Azzou, Lady wind, I want to help you. Tomorrow, go back to your home. Anfa is not for you.”
“Listen, boy. I’ve no home. Azzou, the wind, does not belong to one place. It looks for paradise in the world.”
She blushed because she did not want anyone in Anfa to know about her shameful background as a courtesan in Azilal.
“My name’s Malika, but people call me Mririda n’Aït Attik. I’m a streetwalker. I’ve no family.”
“Listen!” he said. “I just want to help you leave this jungle without getting eaten. This is not paradise. You’re mistaken.”
“Where shall I go?”
“There is an old Jewish tinsmith in Melah across the main street. I know him well. You can sleep in his place till tomorrow. You’ll be safe there.”
“I don’t want to stay for free. I come to Anfa for work. I want to work.”
“What can you do?”
“I sell pleasure to men. I recite poems in souks. Do you want me to show you how I do that?”
When he moved closer to grasp her hand, she quickly rose, putting some distance between them. She then imagined herself in a bustling souk, gesturing to an imaginary audience.
“Don’t come near. Stay away from me. Listen to my voice. You don’t need to see my face. Mririda is a voice, not a body. Move back or I will go away. Stop,” she shouted.
The young man backed a few steps from her and glared.
“Would you like to hear my poem, ‘The Brooch’. Yes, a brooch. It’s the story of my beloved Asafo, who immigrated to the north and never returned. Ok, listen!
The Brooch[5]
Grandmother, grandmother, Since he left I think only of him And I see him everywhere. He gave me a fine silver brooch And when I adjust my haïk on my shoulders, When I hook its flap over my breasts, When I take it off at night to sleep, It’s not the brooch I see, but him! My granddaughter, Throw away the brooch. You will forget him and your suffering will be over. Grandmother, it’s over a month since I threw it away, But it cut deeply into my hand. I can’t take my eyes off the red scar: When I wash, when I spin, when I drink— And my thoughts are still of him! My granddaughter, may Allah heal your pain! The scar is not on your hand, but in your heart.”
The young man applauded Mririda’s performance and said quietly, “this is good. But not for Anfa. The French outlawed all gatherings. Bab El Kebir Square is now deserted. They no longer allow Moroccans to come together. They say that the American president will visit Anfa next week to discuss with the French General de Gaulle whether or not they will divide Morocco. They, too, need their fair share in Africa. May Allah have mercy on us. Anyway, why am I telling you all of this? Listen to me carefully, don’t deceive yourself. Nobody will want to hear a woman recite poems here. Moroccans want bread now, not poetry.”
A tiny flame of anger flared up inside her. “I’ll stab you like I did Caïd Moussa’s soldier,” she said. “I don’t care who is coming here. Never belittle my poetry. It’s my life.”
“I don’t think you will kill a chicken. Anyway, stay here. I will fetch you some soup to eat.”
“I swear I killed the cruel ugly man. He wanted me to stop telling poems. He wanted me to be his sex machine. I do not give myself for free, except for my real lovers. I sell pleasure. Like a grocer who sells products; like a builder who sells his arms and hours.” She slumped on the bench and started to cry. As the man made to leave, she called out to him, sobbing, “What’s your name, young man?”
He came close to her, almost whispering, “Mohammad. I fled my village in Amzmiz because I did not want to fight in the conflict. They want me to die in the name of France. I’m not going to do it. I’ve been here since 1936, selling bus tickets and working behind the scenes to combat the French. That’s why I don’t want you to suffer, my sister. Things are getting worse now. The Americans and the British will soon be here. Return to the village. It’s your paradise. Spend time with your family. I haven’t seen my family in years. Perhaps they believe I was killed in the war. On the way to the Jew’s shop, I’ll tell you more.” Mohammad walked away.
Mririda watched his fast feet and remembered Bachir, her only brother, whom Caïd Moussa had sent to fight with the French army in Spain and had never returned. Riled by the memory of her loss, she got up and immediately flung her bundle aside, running towards the Oulad Ziane station’s gate. She yelled like a crazed lady the whole time, “Down with France, down with Caïd Moussa! I’m no longer scared. I’ll battle you all. I’m sick of you, losers. Get out! Out…”
[1]From Songs of Mririda, by Mririda n’ Ait Attik; translated by Daniel Halpern and Paula Paley.
[2] From Songs of Mririda
[3] From Songs of Mririda
[4] From Songs of Mririda
[5] From Songs of Mririda
About the Author:
Mahou Mohamed is a Moroccan high school teacher. His short stories have appeared or forthcoming in Adelaide Literary Journal, Indian Periodical, Publish’d Afrika, The Kalahari Review, Brittle Paper, and elswhere. He received two awards: the Amazigh Writers’ Award (Tirra) in 2011 and the Publish’d AfriKa Magazine Award in 2023.
*Feature image by Christopher Etchells on Unsplash
Isele Magazine 
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