Novembre, amour éternel.

Travels

"We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls." Anaïs Nin.

Meknes, October 3rd 1997.

It was a sunny Friday in the old medina, that big old side of the historical city and the main one which is designed like a labyrinth so invaders would get lost in and only natives could remember the corners. Probably, the designer of that side had an insight that it'll become a touristic attraction, so he designed it in order to make everyone get lost purposely, so when you'd wander it, you'd get lost in its lanes and alleys, its mint and bread smells from every house's door by the morning. The native population of that street got adapted to that design as well, so they all got complicated well-constructed families that dig in the deepest points of history, and like the family trees in each house, every family got a story. Every day, you'd hear cries of joy, or tears of sadness and mourning, people who are getting married, who are dying, who are getting divorced, who are getting born, who are succeeding in life, or who are being a total burden on their families.

Between all these stories, ours happen in a well-hidden yet a well-known house in the Touta's quartet who has been called that name for an old berry tree that existed there on the 17th century, more specifically, in house number 6, Derb Lalami, where a young adult and his mother are leaving the house to travel.

-May God bless you son! After 21 years of living here, you're finally leaving this house to pursue your dream career! You'll get our heads up high out of pride like your uncles and aunts, although you're too young baby boy to let you live on your own!

Lalla Rabiaa was hugging her grandchild Rachid really tight and kissing his cheeks some salty kisses who became salty off her tears, her tears of joy, pride, yet yearning as she finally witnesses her baby growing enough to be an independent man. Rachid, hardening his heart as much possible so he wouldn't shade a single tear was kissing his grandmother's hands and forehead seeking a rain of blessings and then looked at her.

- Mommy, don't you worry anymore I'm fucking 21 years old! I'm no longer a kid! Don't you worry, I'll be coming over every single break, and when I'll succeed I'll be coming back home with a diploma!

-And a wife!

Said his grandma while laughing.

Rachid grinned, and then said:

-Alright, and a wife! Didn't you just say I'm too young tho?

-Not for that!

Lalla Rabiaa kissed her grandchild once again and handed her daughter a pile of 10 brown banknotes, thus a thousand dirhams, and started to command her.

-Listen, Nezha, this amount of money will be enough for the three days you'll stay in El Jadida with your son, it includes the money for transport, paperwork for Rachid's teaching school and you stay in the hotel. Book the closest hotel to the bus station, wear your blue wide Djellaba whenever you're out with him because you know them Doukkali men get attracted so easily to white women from the north! And remember, don't you leave your son until you make sure he's registered on the campus, staying in a dorm with no smokers, communists, Salafists, or alcoholics. Understood!

Lalla Nezha was hearing the commandments and taking them seriously, it was the first time she leaves the city since she came back from her ex-husband's house in Casablanca, and replied:

-Don't you worry, Hajja, I wouldn't come back until I do all that you commanded.

Lalla Rabiaa sighed, smiled, and then told both of them as she was carrying them through the corridor to the door:

-Well then, have a safe road, don't forget to call me when you'll be there! And Rachid, avoid smokers and junkies!

Rachid burst into laughter on his way out, then replied:

- I'm no longer a kid!

Lalla Rabiaa replied:

-Fuck off! you'll always be a little kid!

They hugged, then Lalla Nezha and her son carried on to the bus station.

**

Kenitra, October 3rd, 1997.

It was 10 AM, the sun was shining and soft winds were hitting that empty villas neighborhood from the Atlantic.

Kenitra, by then, was still a small city that only few people knew about. It was known as that old American military base surrounded by peasants who wanted to live in the city and the capital's working-class refuge since real estate there was cheaper and that small city was closer to Rabat and calmer. Before it got its name, Kenitra was called Port Lyautey after the name of Hubert Lyautey, Morocco's Resident-General when it was a French protectorate. Hubert built a port in the shores of the Sebou river for goods coming from and to Fez before he turned Rabat into a capital, and it was a part of his plan to make this city a bit similar to Cairo with its Nile, but Morocco gained independence before that idea left papers.

Kenitra then had a pretty obvious territorial repartition based on social classes. The richest population and the few Americans and French that stayed in the city were living in huge villas and apartments in the Higher City street or Eastern Bir Rami, the bourgeoisie of the working-class was having small villas in Ouled Oujih, the less wealthy were living in downtown's blocks as the proletariat was living in the suburbs of Khebbazat and Ain Sbaâ.

At that time of the morning, buses and taxis were actively working although it was a Friday, scholars were having their lunch breaks in the nearest dairy shops to their schools, the train station was kinda full of employees who work in Rabat, mothers were making couscous for their families, and one family was packing its bags to travel.

-Boutaina, are you sure you took everything you need?

-Yes mom, you know I never forget anything! I mean c'mon I'm the one who packs for our summer holidays and who did for your trip to Turkey with dad!

Lalla Malika looked at her daughter with a proud eye and hugged her. Boutaina did tighter and smiled, then told her mom:

-Thanks for convincing dad to let me live in the campus dorm instead of with my uncle in his apartment, I wouldn't make you regret that decision!

Lalla Malika smiled, then replied:

-Baby, I want you to live your life to the fullest and enjoy making friends! It could've been a safer option to leave you with your uncle in Sidi Bennour since we know he'll take you to the teaching school on his way to work especially that you're still 19, but we don't wanna put a heavyweight on his shoulders and we want you to discover life a bit.

Imane, Boutaina's sister, was standing beside the car listening to the conversation and said:

-Or because Sidi Bennour is underdeveloped and my uncle is a cringy peasant?

-Imane, that's rude!

-Oops, tea spilled.

Lalla Malika pinched her daughter, then they had a laugh, and finally, Imane hugged her sister warm.

-Take care of yourself, nerd! and don't you fall for someone from there!

-Girl, if there's someone I'd fall for in this earth it would be Najib Mahfoudh, you're the one who should watch out from having a ride with someone in your college punk! I'll miss you so bad.

Hajj Ibrahim started already hitting the car's horn as his buttocks got tired of sitting for so long, Boutaina hugged her sister one last time before she rode the car until a voice came from inside the house. It was her little brother running downstairs.

-Boutaina Boutaina Boutaina Boutaina Boutaina! You forgot your novel and teddy bear! Also, I did write you a letter to read whenever you'll feel sad, I love you!

-Awwww thank you Haitam! That's so sweet and don't forget you're the one I'll miss the most in this house!

She gave him a little kiss, and then she rode the car with her mom as she was telling goodbye to her siblings from the car's mirror that went on its way to El Jadida.