This is Mr Soadine s, hubby, song for me. I love it.

Holy Zemita!

Oh my my, I am so thrilled. I can not stop smiling and my face now really hurts. I can not stop dancing and my feet are killing me.Ahem, ahem, one of my published stories was chosen to be taught at a university! Holy Zemita, I can not believe it. I am bursting with joy. Burst, burst, burst.

Now I just can not stop thinking of when my book comes out, of the book tours, of the signing parties, of the interviews, of all the shoes and hats Im going to buy, just kidding, hehe. Oh well, just don’t ask me for an autograph, hee-hee.

Someone very funny suggested that I should wear a Farashiya , sherghawi style, for my first book tour and have temporary facial tattoos, ha-ha. Any more suggestions?Oh well, the enchanted Sereeb is not over yet, watch this space.

Amor Senza Baruffa!

A while ago I wrote a story and the main character in the story is a short dark woman who has a huge nose and almost no lips. She keeps shouting in Italian: Amor senza baruffa fa venire la muffa. Which roughly translates as: Love without scuffle is like mould on the wall! This crazy woman is haunting me and keeps popping up in each story I write but I’m fighting her off, suppressing her, as I don't want her to take hold of my stories. I liked her the first time I created her but now she is becoming a nightmare. Anyway, here is an extract from another story I wrote in the same cafe, but not haunted by the crazy woman:

((The Egyptian wife Laila, now no longer young or petrified, fitted nicely among the large family, like a pair of old comfortable slippers. She spoke fluently the North-eastern Libyan dialect, only few lapses gave in her Egyptian root, and excelled at all sorts of North-eastern cuisine. She also became a great flogger of her children, like her sisters-in-law: Nuria, Mbarka, Aisha, Salma, and Salha. The sisters-in-law would pounce on their children at any sign of wrongdoing or misbehaviour, thrashing them with great energy and zeal. Olive tree branches, carefully selected and trimmed into perfection, were used during the flogging sessions. The flogger often spoke while performing:
“I will mince you up if you ever do it again.”

“I will crush your skull if you touch things that don't belong to you.”

Abusive remarks for the child’s paternal grandmother, aunts, and uncles were also used with great enthusiasm:

“You are just as wicked and mischievous as your paternal grandmother, the witch.”

“You and your paternal aunt Fawzia, the scorpion, are like two peas in a pod, both ugly and useless.”

During each flogging session the other sisters would come out into the courtyard to watch, rocking ugly crying babies in their jewellery-laden arms or patting their swelled up bellies and say without sincerity:

“Stop it woman, you are killing the child.”

“Yea, stop it, you will damage the child.”

The flogged child’s screams would fill the inner courtyard and travel to the men’s quarter, summoning Hajj Salim, who would knock at the door of the women’s quarter and shout:

“Ya Allah. Hajja Halima! Tell the women to stop it or by Allah Almighty I will come in and beat the hell out of them.”

The flogger, now tired and satisfied, would stop. The small crowd of sisters and their children would disperse, unsatisfied. The flogged boy or girl would seek comfort from Grandma Halima, smearing her immaculate Reda in tears and snots.

But Laila the legendary flogger did not hurl abuse at the child’s paternal lineage or used a carefully selected and trimmed olive tree branch. She rather used a thick medium-sized piece of rubber water hose locally known as Tubo. The Tubo left an intricate chequered design of various hues on the child’s skin: black, dark purple, sallow, and green, speckled with yellow, just like mignonette flowers. ))

When I finished this part, I burst laughing, people in the cafe ogling me, as if I was a mad woman!

“Amor senza baruffa!” Oh God, no, she is haunting me again. Better go and throttle her.

Cascading

Recently the creative juices have been flowing, cascading like a stream in the Swiss mountains.

Here is a teeny-weeny extract from a story I wrote a while ago.

"Fawzia moved gingerly towards the shop; she stood against the wall and approached the door. She poked her head through the door, then retreated quickly, her heart pounding inside her chest like a trapped bird, perspiration trickling on her forehead and making its way towards her mouth, warm and salty. Inside Salama’s shop she saw Mustafa, the butcher, wearing a bloodstained apron and holding a huge cleaver in his hand. Mustafa owned and ran the only butchery in the village. He was tall and very fat, swelled up like the Michelin Man. Young boys in the village were always on the look for a chance to poke the rolls of white fat that bulged from beneath his shirt, exposing his gargantuan navel. He swore a lot and cheated all the time. Old sheep’s meat was sold as young sheep’s meat, imported Argentinean meat, locally known as Mazigri, was sold as local fresh meat. Mincemeat was mixed with fat, intestine and scraps of meat scavenged from the sheep’s heads and legs. And rumours had it that he was once caught slaughtering a donkey. Mustafa the butcher was locally known as Mr. Mazigri.

Next to Mustafa sat Mahdi, the coal and Kerosene seller. A small, dark, and insignificant man. Mahdi’s fingernails were always caked with soot and dirt from handling the coal. He lived with is crippled mother in a shack situated at the edge of the village not far from the railroad station that was built by the Italians.

“I’m going to chop his scabby cock off with my cleaver, the bastard Eye-talian soldier. I won’t give him a chance to enjoy his bride,” said Mustafa.

“Ha-ha,” laughed Mahdi, sounding like a distraught chicken about to be slaughtered by Mustafa.

“These are a hell of slippers,” interrupted Salama, Mr Sad Sheen. “I wish I could put them on a woman after a fucking session."

Fawzia fled the Souq."

Well, if you want to know what the belligerent butcher Mustafa did with his cleaver and what had happened to the eavesdropping girl, buy the book when it come out,haha.

My First Reading

Last week, 4th of June, I had my first reading with some other writers. The reading was announced here and here, and here. According to the organizer I had only 20 minutes to do the reading . Well, it turned out to be a different story. I did the first reading and it went very well after I managed to overcome the first few nerve-racking minutes. The audience loved the story and their boisterous laughter filled the crowded room.

Sereeb

To read my stories visit my sereeb.