Blue Death: Egypt Under Attack

Heart of the Penguin

We call them the Aliens. Dad insists they are Invaders.

All their fault was not answering our messages. What if we were calling the wrong number?

Ten days ago, we watched their mothership show its big fat ass to satellites. The world was in utter excitement and panic on Arrival Day-as called by the media. In Egypt, we spent the first two days following Arrival Day in curfew. On day three, we made jokes about those Aliens. It's an Egyptian tradition. We have been mocking ourselves, our rulers and our miserable lives since the age of Pharaohs.

Starting from day six, life has been back to normal; crowded streets, increasing prices and arguments with Dad. Aliens' jokes are not funny anymore, and new theories regarding them arise every hour. Our neighbor, Mr. Fekry, who always promotes for conspiracy theory, believes that the Russians-and maybe the Chinese-are behind the whole thing to bring down the American and European stock markets.

I'm really disappointed.

I've expected a more exciting entrance for the Aliens. Something like the sci-fi stuff I wasted most of my last sixteen years-my entire life-watching and reading. A huge cloud like the one in Independence Day. Or the Alien's commander, with his green, oval face and long ears, sending his greetings on TV to all earthlings, saying we come in peace.

But nothing has happened. Boring, you Aliens!

Mostafa was right when he advised me to stop watching the sky, hoping I might spot a flying saucer. Maybe it's about time to seriously reconsider resuming my life as a nerd and try something different. Something cooler. While I'm still afraid it's too late to join the party, Mostafa insists there's always a chance to start fresh in the first year of college. "Meet new guys who have no idea who the hell you were before college, and avoid old acquaintances who know too much," he advised me once. Though he is an old acquaintance himself, I can't avoid him. He's my best and only buddy. Sometimes I wonder why he's still sticking with me.

"And get rid of your Zouba," Mostafa told me. "Even if your father doesn't get you a new ride, never ever take Zouba to campus."

Mostafa is not exaggerating, I believe. My Zouba is a 1984 Fiat 128-it's older than me-and its condition is really pathetic. Yesterday it broke down for the millionth time, and the mechanic told me it needed a new radiator. Dammit. I can never pick up girls with that piece of junk.

But my chances should be better with the 2005 Honda Civic I'm driving right now.

I don't know what I was thinking the moment I snatched Dad's keys from the console table. Maybe I've lost my mind since I received that phone call from Mostafa.

"I'm hanging out with Yara today, and she told me she would bring a friend of hers," he said. "Why don't you come, champ, to practice?"

"Practice?" I echoed like an idiot.

"Yeah, practice. Like studying, you nerd. Have you ever gone to an exam without studying?"

"Yeah. I mean no, but..."

"There's no buts," he insisted. "You should never hesitate when you find a chance."

I never went out with girls before, except my 9-year-old sister. "But I don't know what we should talk about."

"And that's the point, Mr. Goodie Goodie. After two weeks, you will meet a herd of girls in college. You must start your lessons now!"

"My lessons," I mused. "What's her name?"