The Poet of Shoubra Street

Short Story Part 2 of 4

Chapter 5 

Ibrahim wakes the next morning in his bed, alone. His wife has been up for hours,  herding their children like cattle to get them ready for the day. When he awakens, he sits on the side of his bed before pushing himself up to get dressed and join his family. 

He is recalling the way he felt the night before. The excitement that pulsed through his veins, simply from the thought of unlocking the unknown potential he had within himself. Ah, this magic dust! He felt a little bit agitated this morning, a bit restless and distracted, but he told himself all he needed was a cup of tea to feel like himself again. 

“You know where I'll be…,” he hears Abbas say in his head, as he blankly gazes out the window in his room. 

Ibrahim eventually wills himself to get up and walk to the window. He looks again at the city in which he had lived and known all his life. He felt at that minute a pang of sadness, even embarrassment. For while he knew his city so well, would his city ever know him? Would he be able to get his works of poetry and short stories to the masses? Would he be remembered as The Poet of Shoubra, or would he never be remembered at all? 

The small taste he had had with fame, when his poem was published in the local newspaper, was still fresh in his soul, like a sprig of mint delicately flavoring his tea. But it was limited to the neighborhood where everyone already knew him to be a poet. It really added up to not much more recognition than before. He began at this moment to feel self-pity and anger, as though his life had been put on hold and wasted, but for what and for who? 

Ibrahim moved out into the living area, where his children are leaning out a window and screaming down at some neighborhood kids playing on the street corner. He goes to the bathroom to freshen up, then quickly returns to his room. 

His wife walks in and asks if he is okay. He replies yes, then asks what day it is. She reminds him that it was Saturday, that he had nowhere to be in such a hurry, as she watches him frantically putting on his clothes. 

“I have somewhere to be,” he says to her, frustrated. “I have to meet Razi,” he lied. She looks at him with sadness in her eyes. 

“I thought we would go to the market together, I have to buy some items for dinner. The children haven’t been out for some time, we can go together and you can meet Razi after?” Suggestion in her voice as she asks him. 

“Yes yes, very well. Are you ready?” He asks her, hurriedly. He feels annoyed, but doesn’t know at what or at whom. He is the man in this Middle Eastern country, with all the power in his house, who does he have to be upset at if something doesn’t go his way? 

She looks at him perplexed, as clearly, no one was ready. She says to him, “Give me fifteen minutes and we will all be ready to go.” 

Ibrahim nods and tells her that he will wait downstairs on the street corner while she gets herself and the kids ready. He walks past her as she stands in the doorway. He instructs his children to help each other get ready and he would see them downstairs soon. They look happy to see him, and he dangles the possibility they are going to get some treats from the bazaars, so they quickly and energetically get to their feet, run to their separate areas in the small apartment, and start getting themselves together. 

Ibrahim walks down the many flights of stairs to the bustling street corner below. He lights a cigarette and waits there for his family, puffing agitatedly. He paces up and down the street, where many of his neighbors say hello to him and some even stop to make small talk. His neighbor Mai asks how his wife and children are doing. He replies hurriedly. “They are all doing great, thank you Mai. I'll be sure to tell Munira you said hello.” 

Mai begins to speak again, but her words fade away as his attention is pulled to someone behind her. He notices that Razi had just walked into one of the tea shops across the way. 

“Please excuse me Mai. I need to see something,” he says to her frenetically, as he crosses the street, not bothering to look and see if it was safe or not. 

“Razi!!” he yelled from the street. 

Razi looked out the window and saw Ibrahim walking toward him. Smiling, he walked outside. 

“Ibrahim, how are you my friend? What are you doing standing over there on your own?” 

“I am waiting for my wife and kids to come downstairs, we are going to the market.” He then adds quickly, as he wants his own questions answered first: “What are you doing here Razi?” 

“I am meeting Abbas and one of his friends here in a little bit,” he said. “They are going to make an exchange and Abbas wanted me to accompany him.” 

Ibrahim’s eyes light up. “What kind of exchange?” he asked. 

“I am not too sure,” says Razi. “Why don’t you meet us later on at my house and we will catch up, I have to go now.” 

“Okay, I will go to your home later on,” Ibrahim said. As Razi walks away from him, Ibrahim hears the voice of his wife calling him from across the street. 

“We are over here Ibrahim! Come now, let's go.” 

Ibrahim looks back at her and waves his hand as a way to gesture that he is on his way. He turns back to Razi and sees the small bit of his jacket flowing against the door as he makes his way inside the shop. 

“What are they doing in there?” Ibrahim thought. Obsession in his mind. He wants to be there with them. He wants to be a part of the amazing things that come from Abbas. He feels frustrated that this life is, once again, pulling him away from the things that could make him great, for it is greatness that he seeks more than anything. 

Chapter 6 

It is 8PM and the streets of Shoubra are as loud as ever. Ibrahim has gone to the markets with his family and gifted his children some sweet basbousa and om ali. Now he is done with all that, and feels as though the rumble from the Earth's core itself adds a rhythm to the buildings that hug Ibrahim as he walks. His heart is pounding in his chest faster than he knew it could, he is so anxious to make it to Razi’s house where he can see Abbas. He arrives at Razi’s home at last and is, as usual, welcomed inside by Razi’s wife Khepri. 

Razi emerges from a back room to greet Ibrahim. 

“Hello my friend, how are you?” Razi extends his arms for a warm embrace from Ibrahim. 

“I am well,” replies Ibrahim, as he follows Razi into his study, where he sees Abbas sitting next to a man he does not recognize. 

“Ah, Ibrahim, my friend, how are you?” says Abbas. “Please come and meet Zayn, my good friend I was telling you about who has recently traveled to Afghanistan” 

Zayn is a tall, plump young man with a thick dark beard. He looks a lot like the disheveled poets Ibrahim often sees huddled in the corner of the dim tea shops he used to attend in Zamalek, the writer’s hub of Cairo. As a matter of fact, he feels something familiar when he makes eye contact with Zayn, as though he may have seen him before, though he is uncertain. 

“Pleased to meet you,” says Ibrahim, as he extends his hand for a shake from Zayn, who takes it and meets his eyes cheerfully. 

“Nice to meet you Ibrahim, I have heard great things of you,” says Zayn. 

“Yes of course, we have been talking about you all day my friend,” adds Razi. “We were telling Zayn here how great of a writer you are, as he is a writer himself. In fact, he and Abbas have worked on some short stories together.” 

The men settle into conversation, as their words morph into laughter, blending smoothly into the loud city life blaring from the open window behind them. 

“Zayn was the one we went to meet in that shop near your home, Ibrahim. He was there to bring some more of the powder that we seek,” explains Razi. Ibrahim looks at Zayn inquisitively. Zayn, without moving, is still able to express his easy confidence. 

The men are together again, just as Ibrahim had foretold. This time, there is no hesitation. After the conversations exchanged and introductions to their new friend, Ibrahim takes the initiative and invokes the poppy tears. 

Chapter 7 

Zayn quickly grabs a bag from his coat pocket and begins to prepare the magic powder. He asks Ibrahim how he feels most comfortable taking this. Did he want to snort a little through his nose by placing some in his pinky nail? Did he prefer to snort a line that Zayn could prepare for him on the coffee table? Ibrahim looks apprehensive, then says he will do as Razi and Abbas do. 

The men all scoop a small amount with their pinky nails. Razi holds it up to his nostril, and makes eye contact with Ibrahim, who takes this connection as a sign that he and Razi will do this together, at the same time. Ibrahim holds the small amount up to his nose, he and Razi nod their heads, and nearly insert the poppy powder into their noses, as they inhale fiercely through their nostrils and take every small grain that they could. 

Ibrahim instantly feels a warm sensation in his face, a sting in his nose, and a sense that his mind is being taken over by an outside force. A friendly outside force. Ibrahim hears a faint voice say: “All right guys, take a seat and let the medicine take you where it feels you need to go.” 

Ibrahim sits down and surrenders. He has gone into what could only be described as a meditative state. He had understood that, as Razi had described to him, everyone’s experience with this drug is different. He hadn’t known what he would experience, he hadn’t known how he would feel, but now he feels more than willing to surrender to all of it nonetheless. Ibrahim gives into the dream. 

Ibrahim is walking down the streets of Zamalek. People are waving at him and asking how he is doing. He seems to be well-known and respected in this community. It is as though he is looking at himself from afar. As though the Ibrahim looking on is different from the Ibrahim walking on the streets. 

This Ibrahim looking in begins to somehow levitate above the streets, and looks down at Ibrahim walking from a bird’s eye view. He then begins to feel all that this other Ibrahim is feeling: the pride, the happiness, for all that he has accomplished. The sheer sensation of feeling comfortable in his own body, and not being forced down by the weight of the world on his shoulders. This last sensation is new for him, and he has never before felt anything so divine. 

He watches this other Ibrahim walk with a smile on his face, his shoulders back and his neck high. The man he sees walking on the streets has a different sway about him. It is the gait of a man that he does not yet know, but one he desperately wishes to be. 

Ibrahim begins to hear distant chatter. The voice of Zayn asking if he is okay. Ibrahim begins to understand where he is, back in the study of Razi’s home with the men huddled around him. Razi is bent over the table with a garbage bin in his hands hurling away the drug-induced nausea that had overcome him. Zayn laughs a little and looks over to Ibrahim. 

“How are you feeling brother?” 

Ibrahim responds. “I am… okay. Just taking a moment to collect myself. What time is it? How long has it been? 

Zayn replies, “It’s been an hour friend.” 

Ibrahim is shocked. “Wow, has it been that long? What happened to you Zayn?” 

“Me? I only took a little bit but mostly wanted to make you feel comfortable doing it. I got a little buzzed but nothing too extreme.” 

“That felt amazing,” confesses Ibrahim. “I didn't understand exactly what was happening, but it seemed like I was floating in the air and watching myself from above. I dreamed of a life I don’t yet have but one I so badly want.” 

As Ibrahim recalls his experience with the guys sitting around him, all listening without interruption, he realizes that he could have this life. That it is a life he dreams of not because of its impossibility but because of it truly being within arm's reach. There is very little in this world that one cannot accomplish for himself if one truly sets one’s mind to it. This sort of maxim had always been told to him, and now, finally, with the help of this magical medicine, he was beginning to see what it meant. 

As Ibrahim finally composes himself and begins to walk home, he starts to think of what his dreams and aspirations really are. He realizes that he is still a young man, yet he lives the life of an old dying grandfather. All he does with his free time is think about how he’s going to pay bills, how he’s going to take care of his seven children, what he’s going to do when he gets home, what television show will he watch, what story or poem will he write next, and how his soul-given art will likely never be published or read by anyone other than a handful of his close friends and admirers. Ibrahim wanted more for himself. He felt suddenly greedy for it, almost crazed.

When he was a very young boy he never thought to himself that he would grow to be a father and a husband at this age. Culturally it is taught that people should have children, that men and women should get married and grow old. But what about what he wants as an individual? What about the mountains he wants to climb that are outside of his city? These ideas cause him pain. What is he to do with these depressing thoughts? 

Ibrahim begins to think: culture never takes into consideration what the individual wants. Culture never thinks about what other people might want to do. Culture only serves to put barriers and judgmental eyes on the people of society, beseeching believers to look down and frown upon those who dare to be different, who dare to break the mold. Ibrahim understands this now, after taking that transcendent flight. He had been able to look down and see the man he could have been. Indeed, a man he may still yet become. 

Ibrahim walks into his home in the early hours of the morning, knowing that his wife will never ask him a single question about his whereabouts, or what he has been up to. Munira is a reliable and submissive wife, the common Middle Eastern Muslim wife: the woman that feeds you when you’re hungry, takes care of their children when they need taking care of, gives you tea when you’re thirsty, and always gives space because that’s what she has been taught to do. 

Ibrahim begins to hate the fact that this is what society has brought him as a wife. She too could be so much more than what she is. She could be an independent thinker. A scholar, an author, a poet herself, but instead she has to be stuck in this small apartment with her average, unspectacular husband. All because she was born with a vagina and ovaries inside a culture that makes her less than. It is the society they share that makes her believe she is unworthy. It benefits Ibrahim and all the other men in this society. But does it? 

Does anyone know what real love is? To accidentally stumble upon someone’s beauty and charisma and finesse, to meet them at a coffee shop or a tea house, and to have conversations until the sun leaves and the moon replaces it in the sky? Do they know what it’s like to really fall in love or will they forever fall in “like?” Fall in “what society expects?” 

Relationships inside this culture are often riddled with confusion and discomfort about the idea of marrying and having sex and children with a stranger. As a child grows up to love the father, so too is the Muslim woman forced to love her husband. Oftentimes it is not actually love, but something else. Who’s to say what it really is, when all they have is the example of their own father to look to. Their own parents' flawed relationship and their culture’s mistaken values to use for guidance. 

Ibrahim catches himself, realizing that he had never had these thoughts before. He had experienced a form of awakening. He had died and gone to heaven, and was now reborn anew. But what will he do now? Will he continue on the same path and leave the gods to be disappointed in him, or will he wake up and do something different? What now? What am I to do now? He had been told his whole life that in this world we have millions of resources at our fingertips, despite when and where you were born. But what do we do with these gifts from the gods? Where do we take them? How do we utilize them for our benefit, and for the benefit of our world? 

As Ibrahim lays awake in bed, he finds himself salivating for another taste of that awe-inspiring powder. He feels sure that he would find the answer to all of his questions if he just had one more dose. He couldn’t wait to get back to Razi’s, couldn’t wait to take that magical flight once more. 

The story continues next week with part 3. Thank you for reading.