TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Immigration: The Contest

The vessel set off into the sea; at the beginning of the journey, the passengers were in a good mood; we were the chosen ones and that raised our spirits; hymns were sung and cries of joy were heard; but, before long, the heat grew intense and many of us started complaining of thirst, and the waves seemed so high that the weak started crying and the religious started praying, myself included, although I recognize that I was calm because behind the words spoken on the dock I had sensed the baraka ; I don’t know how to explain it, it must come down to Allah; for some strange reason, I knew this was a hidden filter in the game; I was completely sure that there were hidden cameras in some part of the canoe and they were putting us through a surprise challenge in difficult conditions, as they had in previous seasons. I decided not to fall into the trap and I concentrated. I thought about things that really mattered to me. I tried to remember the confusing teachings I had received from the Spanish writer, his lessons on Spanish language, taught as if it were a natural science; the stroll to the Moorish café every evening, always following the same path, the same one I walked my first day in Tangiers but backwards: pass in front of Les Aliments Sherezade: turn left up Tapiro: walk by the rooftop café: and then the alleyway with a solid wooden door: continue up Ben Charki: advance around the wall in front of Hotel Cuba: get to the covered gallery: contemplate the decrepit foosball tables that go unmentioned on Google Maps: and come face to face with your fate: the facade of the Moorish café: and inside the daily conversation between the Spanish writer and the Scandinavian: then he introduced you: and you felt the sting of his gaze unfurl and then lasciviously penetrate your body: even though you had not yet captivated him with your dance of womanly undulations. 127