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najat el hachmi
hair, regal Rif forehead and
headscarf. They’ve been more
than generous and hospitable
towards you. You’ve no reason
to complain, as you speak
their language as well or
better than they do, they’ve
almost forgotten where you
come from and who you are,
almost.
I said goodbye to them all as
I reached the station square
and went into the building
with the faded salmon-pink
walls and red lettered station
name.
I waited on the platform my
heart racing. All at once the
smell of the slurry filled my
nose and now lodged there. I
wondered if this was the city’s
revenge, to fill my nostrils
with its characteristic stink
that I could never now throw
off; even though my life was
so different far from here, or
I was quite a different person,
I’d carry this pungent stench
wherever I went. But then I
saw a frizzy head slip through
the door and started to
worry in case somebody saw
me. A Moroccan, of course,
someone who knows who I am
and what I do by the minute,
who will scrutinise me so later
they can tell each other they
spotted me in such and such a
place and then tell their wives
and their wives will talk about
it among themselves until one
pays a visit to our house and
speaking to my mother will
happen to mention it without
making any big deal: no girl
is as well behaved as yours,
we’ve never seen her do
anything silly, she never says
a word to anyone. By anyone
they mean I never speak to
men, however much they aim
remarks at me in the street,
however much they chase