A story from the collection Graduation Project recently published by Waziz House.
Hussein Fawzy
Translated from Arabic by Rana Asfour
He spoke his final words at the Armed Forces Veterinary Hospital: “Change the world. While tension sensors are beneficial, they alone aren’t sufficient. My last will and testament, may peace be upon you.” With that, he took his last breath. I wiped away two tears: And may God’s peace, mercy, and blessings be upon you. I will truly miss you, Professor Batawi. It felt like a scene from a classic film, where a heartfelt sermon is delivered in the form of a Qur’anic verse just before the credits roll, marking the end of the film.
The hum of the car’s air conditioning split my brain in half. I plugged my mobile phone into the music player, and the lively Mahraganat tunes drowned out the ever-present AC buzz with vibrant sound.
The male duck sitting beside me as I drove had a green head that tended to shimmer in the daylight, while his frail wings were bordered with tattered brown feathers. Given his ragged appearance, I figured the mating season must have come to an end. I attempted to strike up a conversation from behind my face mask. “A while back I got my results and passed with flying colors,” I said. “Still, I can’t shake the thought that they might have let everyone slide through, realizing we hadn’t really grasped much during the second term. Our exams were basically just research papers, considering the restrictions imposed by the coronavirus and all that.”
He turned his head toward me, now exposing a bare yellow beak — after all, they hadn’t yet designed masks that fit duck beaks. I continued: “But I’m also feeling quite flummoxed and unsure about what I’m doing in engineering. But what’s the alternative? Yasser Abdel Latif mentioned the Arts department has been reduced to beards and brooms. Reflecting on his words, I found the conversation to be quite enlightening. Professor Batawi, can you imagine me delving, for example, into the Arabic language and jurisprudence?”
“Why should I waste four years studying something like philosophy when Wikipedia exists at my fingertips? I considered pursuing politics and economics and continuing to earn a doctorate, but I just wasn’t feeling it. It seems like an enormous amount of work just so people can say, ‘Here comes the doctor, and there goes the doctor,’ when they can just as easily refer to me as the bashmuhandess.”
As we drove along the road, the scent of shit rose and permeated the car, gradually intensifying until it became almost overwhelming. I quickly raised the car windows to keep the aroma at bay. After ensuring the road was clear, I turned to my companion and teased: “I hope you didn’t do a stinker in my car, Mr. Batawi.” In response, he quacked in embarrassment. I reached over to the drawer in front of him, pulled out some lavender-scented perfume, spritzed it a couple of times, and then returned it to its spot. The spray did nothing to mask the foul odor; it merely blended with it, creating a compounded scent that filled the air.
I turned back to apologize to Batawi for my insensitive joke, assuring him that I understood he wasn’t the source of the smell. It was, understandably, the persistent odor lingering on the road, which refused to fade despite ongoing renovation efforts and construction work. I knew this because…
… I had journeyed down the familiar road to Farsis, as I had done countless times before, when making my way to Rinda who lived in Mansoura.
I connected with her through the “Foreign Language Films Fan Club” on Facebook, where I shared my thoughts on the cinematic waves from Eastern Europe. The cinephiles, especially Rinda, really appreciated my insights.
She sent me a message request on Facebook expressing admiration for my piece on “The Poetics of Cinema: Sergei Parajanov as a Model.” Our conversation blossomed for quite some time, and she enthusiastically admired the depth of my cultural understanding, particularly given my young age. At that time, I was in my first year of high school, while she was in her Freshman year in college at the Fine Arts Department, focusing on Interior Design.
Our friendship deepened as we started to joke around more frequently. We bonded over our shared taste in music and swapped book recommendations, particularly from the Seventh Art series, from where I copied and pasted my posts on cinema. She invited me to visit her in Mansoura for a fun day together. I promised her I’d add it to my priority list for the summer vacation.
With the exams finally behind me, I set off to see her in a seven-seater Peugeot. After covering the cost of two seats, I settled in next to the driver. As we drove along, the scent of fertilizer from the nearby farms filled the air, mingling with the unpleasant stench of decay from the canals, while the new bridges gave off a slight whiff of charred wood. After about an hour on the road, I arrived at the new bus stop, made possible by the efforts of the Armed Forces Engineering Authority, particularly in constructing the Sandoub Bridge, which had truly made our lives much easier.
She greeted me in the parking lot with a warm smile, her dark charcoal hair gathered neatly into a bun. I slid into the back seat of the taxi next to her as she promised to take me to her favorite spot in all of Mansoura. Once we hopped out near the Security Directorate, I discovered that her beloved hideaway was a café, charmingly named Andrea, its name displayed on a glass panel above the entrance.
She was wearing a black, short-sleeved T-shirt, that featured a triangle with a question mark inside it. I told her about the latest movies I’d seen and the new bands I’d recently discovered, while she told me about her fashion preferences. Soon though, the well of topics ran dry. I was distracted by the sounds of servers outside and the rhythmic clattering of dominoes on the wood planks inside. The overhead fan hummed lazily against the backdrop of the warm afternoon.
She eventually broke the silence by asking, “Why do you live with your uncle?”
Shortly after I was born, my mother left my father and set off to Morocco. It is said that she took her own life. She was plagued by envy and lived fleeing from every responsibility and seeking a fresh start. I was often told that hers was the inevitable outcome for those who disregard the Sharia Ruqyah or remedial invocation and dismiss the impact of the envious gaze, neglecting the importance of praying upon the Prophet. There are even one hundred and sixty-seven books dedicated to the significance of these remedial invocations, along with numerous others that delve into this topic.
My father quit his job as a police officer and worked as a program presenter on a sports channel. He was a goalkeeper coach at various clubs and currently serves as the coach for Al-Dakhiliya Club. He’s had a string of marriages, and my relationship with him has never been great. After a particularly intense argument with his last wife, which occurred while I was living with him, he sent me to live with my uncle.
My uncle, the governor of Sharqia, has navigated three government transitions, yet his position has consistently remained stable. Once he confidently secured his position, he and his wife moved permanently to Zagazig, especially as she had grown increasingly wary of his extended stays at the governorate rest house.
“The house feels like a literal maze to me,” I confessed to Rinda, who rested her chin on the back of her hand, her gaze fixed intently on me.
They were denied the gift of parenthood. My uncle’s wife cherished me deeply as she embraced motherhood for the first time in her mid-fifties. While my uncle — the Turbo Governor, as they called him on the Al-Sharqiya Today page — was busy working long hours and endless days, I gave her peace. Their home, a cozy and warm space, comprised an entire floor of the Gholmi building, featuring two apartments that opened onto one another.
I carry the weight of that extreme loneliness with me to this day. My attempts to forge friendships at school were in vain, as everyone was aware of my background and connection to the governor. All the teachers, psychologists, social workers, school principals, building coordinators, and the director of educational authority went above and beyond to shield me from any trouble or even the slightest scratch that a troublesome classmate might inflict.
“Thank goodness for the French New Wave. Without it, I might have lost hope and given up on life long ago,” I told Rinda.
With her gentle touch, she took my sweaty hands in hers. She offered me a Kent cigarette — the very first one I’d ever smoked. She showed me how to draw the smoke deep into my lungs for a few seconds before exhaling, explaining that releasing it right away would be like throwing money down the drain.
I knew her father had built a two-story house for their family of three. The upper floor was designed to be the home where she would marry, ensuring that her father’s only daughter would always be close to him.
Since she had mentioned this in a previous conversation on Facebook, she took a more direct approach now and asked, “Why don’t you come to the basement? The house is empty.”
We tried nearly everything except full penetration. It was my first time. A shiver ran through my body, and a heat spread within me. The apartment was completely bare, devoid of any furniture. The walls were painted yellow, and the floor was adorned with mosaic tiles.
She left the apartment before me to ensure no one outside would see me exiting. Afterward, she sent me a WhatsApp message confirming the coast was clear. She drove me to the bus stop, and while the minibus drivers were oblivious, she leaned in and kissed my cheek, whispering, “Goodbye, let’s do this again.”
For the next few days, I stuck to wearing polo shirts with collars, hoping to hide the tell-tale pink love bites she had left on my neck.
In time, our connection deepened beyond our interests in film schools and my “borrowed” articles. I found myself frequenting Café Andrea two or three times a week, often spending hours there. Under her patronage, I was occasionally granted access to the Greek Club. During our time together, she also introduced me to a small circle within her social network.
I’ll highlight three of the people I met, starting with Al-‘Ars Al-Tikhin. Besides being an undeniably hefty guy, he was a genuine fucker with a unique knack for captivating the fiery, rebellious tigresses drawn to the bass guitar in his room; Modi Dodi, the rapper struggling with a Pregabalin addiction who’s garnered a following of two thousand listeners on SoundCloud with his breakout track titled “ekt2ab”; And there’s the well-known Speedrunner who set records by completing “Super Mario” in just four minutes and forty-one seconds, and “Dark Souls” in an impressive twenty minutes and twenty seconds — titles that remain unbeaten to this day. He’s proudly represented Egypt in various international competitions, from the Emirates to Japan, and regularly hosts a live broadcast on Twitch every week.
During this round of introductions, I met seven others — a lively cluster of personalities all wrapped up in their unique nicknames. I stole a quick glance and noticed they were all dressed in black, with kohl-lined eyes and sooty, scruffy nails. Their noses were embellished with piercings, and they sported two earrings, each adorned with sparkling plastic shapes. They only greeted one another with “Hey, bro.” I couldn’t quite make out their faces, as I found it hard to lift my gaze from the ground.
Still avoiding eye contact, I introduced myself. “Hey guys, I’m Bahaa,” after which a gentle voice asked me: “Hey Bahaa, what’s your nickname?” to which I asked: “Neek what?” They burst into laughter, and I could feel my face flush at the unintentional sexual innuendo I’d walked myself into. After that, they bypassed me altogether and moved on to topics I knew nothing about.
Even though I struggled to match names to faces, over time, people began to recognize me as Rinda’s young lad. Most had already finished their studies, while a few were in their final year at university.
I felt unwell, so she leaned in and whispered, “Are you okay?” I replied, “I’m not used to being around so many people”. She nodded, then after assessing my situation she remarked, “It sounds like you’ve got anxiety. Next time we meet, remind me — I have something that can help with that.”
Xanax proved to be a game-changer for my condition. It boosted my self-confidence and made social interactions much smoother. I racked up social experiences under the sway of a drug that dulled my emotions, allowing me to view my daily life as if through a glass panel, coldly detached.
I recall a moment when I was comfortably settled in my seat, feeling completely at ease and liberated, even though I wore a slightly bored expression from the effects of the drug. She pulled me away from the crowd, and we left the café. She told me the house would be empty for two hours. This time, the apartment had an unmistakable smell of mothballs, and in one corner of one of its five rooms, there was an air mattress laid out on the floor.
She let her hair down so that it cascaded halfway down her back, releasing a milky fragrance that filled the air. I lay on the mattress, and she rode me, dry-humping the length of her body along my slightly flaccid, given the tranquilizer, hose, until I finally managed to squirt out four white Lego-shaped cubes that clung to my pubes. It hurt to peel them off.
She recomposed her clothes, straightened her hair, and told me I had to leave quickly.
“To this day, nothing makes me hornier than the smell of mothballs, which often puts me in some rather awkward situations,” I told Batawi as we traversed the new bridge.
I was just about to share a few examples with him when he suddenly burst out with a ducky squawk: Quack!
It seemed like the bridge was unfinished, abruptly cut in half, transformed into a springboard. I slammed on the brakes, and we were thrust forward by inertia. The car came to a halt just inches from the edge. I exited the car and stared into the abyss —a scrapyard of crowded transport trucks lay below. I carefully reversed the car until I reached the first turn. Shifting gears, I eased off the bridge and continued driving along the slow-moving road below, feeling a little shaky. As I drove on, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the Maghrib prayer’s call was noticeably absent, marking the end of the day.
I came across another community on Facebook besides Rinda’s. I knew that the era of rage comics had faded away, giving way to the rise of memes.
I decided to join up. I posted philosophical memes on the philosophy threads and took jabs at the underground music that I was tired of on the “Your Music Tastes Are Shit” page. Kevin Kunafa utilized memes to tackle the intriguing question: Are humans like meat or chicken? Meanwhile, Yan Yang shared his views through a meme that conveyed his disdain for suicides and highlighted his anxieties about neoliberalism, which fragmented sexual attraction into two hundred categories.
Then, one day, by chance, I stumbled upon a news article about a young man who took his own life by jumping in front of a metro train at Sadat Station. Scrolling through the obituaries that filled my newsfeed, I realized that the young man in question was none other than Yan Yang. Despite my limited knowledge of him, I was shocked by this unexpected twist; Someone who wasted their energy dancing by the graves of those who had ended their own lives decides to end his own in a manner that severs his head from his body on the rails.
The issue didn’t end there, as the number of metro commuters experiencing suicidal tendencies rose drastically. At least two cases were recorded per day. The videos, which turned the country upside down, were leaked and shared on Live Leak. This prompted the Minister of Solidarity to issue a statement affirming the metro company’s right to file legal cases against the families of those who committed suicide and seek compensation for the disruption caused to traffic lines and for the impact on the citizens’ interests.
Some enthusiastic rebels decided to stick one to the government by issuing a call for mass suicide at Sadat Station, specifying the day and the hour. However, the police stepped in and apprehended the individuals responsible for the call, effectively bringing the attempt to a halt. So, people reverted to taking their own lives through conventional means that wouldn’t disturb the public peace: by hanging themselves or slicing their arteries.
While we were at the café, Rinda confided in me, saying, “I feel so guilty because he sent me a friend request on Facebook, and I didn’t accept it.”
That day, a girl appeared among us, looking like little more than a mere shadow of a person. She was incredibly thin, her hair frail and brittle, and a prominent vein bulged on her forehead as though it were ready to burst. She filled Rinda in on the latest developments in her crisis. Her parents had turned their backs on her following an unwanted pregnancy, and after the baby was born, her boyfriend refused to acknowledge him. So, she had entrusted her son to some trustworthy people and now spent her days drifting between cafés that had become a sort of make-shift home.
I was disgusted by the whole sordid story. In a dramatic gesture, I left my bill on the table and walked out without saying a word. Rinda followed behind me, and I told her to stay back. I strolled along the river for a while until my legs gave out, and I rearranged the map of the city in my mind, bringing Stadium Street closer to me. I imagined a deserted alley with a café devoid of customers, run by a coffee server of my own creation, blind to both sight and insight. There, I sat down to smoke shisha and weep.
I sulked for a few days, completely ignoring her messages and calls, until I eventually grew weary of my little charade. I reached out to her and wrote: I was upset that when I needed psychological support, I wasn’t the focus of your attention; instead, you were more interested in a kitchen whore. She soothed my ego across cyberspace, replying: “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this topic was so sensitive, but you said he wasn’t your friend.”
I went to see her after we’d made up, especially since I’d exhausted my cache of Xanax. The seating was packed with new faces. We joined hands; her left fingers weaving together with my right. I withdrew my hand. I traced the laddered threads along her jeans under the table, all the way to her exposed knee. I inserted one finger, then a second and a third, until my entire fist was through the shredded cloth grabbing the fleshy part of her thigh. She laughed. She playfully stuck her tongue to my ear and whispered, “Don’t get into the habit of messing with the map’s coordinates whenever you’re upset. Many accidents have occurred because of what you did last time.”
At the time, I realized I still knew very little of Mansoura apart from a couple of places, a few main streets, and the empty side streets she pulled me into for quick fumble and dry-humping escapades. As for Zagazig, my only familiarity lay in the routes to my school and the bus stop to Mansoura, where I would head to meet her. Aside from a few mundane details, my understanding of the world was largely shaped by what she shared with me. I picked up the rest from exploring 4chan and Reddit.
I heard from Rinda that the kitchen whore, who had a child outside of marriage, also took her own life.
She had shared a post on Facebook inquiring about the least painful methods for ending one’s life. The suggestions in the comments were very varied, and no one cared or tried to discourage her from going ahead with her decision. News of her suicide went viral. Some perceived her tragedy as fodder for new memes and crass jokes circulated along the lines of: I need a fuck … fuck the corpse.
I explained to Batawi, whose attention I fully had, that back in those days, all you really needed was a mobile phone with a camera and a reliable Internet connection to livestream yourself dangling from a ceiling wire or blood gushing from your innards.
On Discord servers, competitions sprang up focusing on a challenge where two participants faced off against each other by “consuming” fictional quantities of the stage drugs Lyroline and Percocet. The objective was to see who would “die” first while spectators placed bets on the outcome of the match.
Other activities involved racing along newly constructed roads, slamming the car into roadblocks after botched drift attempts, or leaping from the tops of unfinished bridges to the ground below.
She kept supplying me with Xanax. She handed them to me effortlessly and without charge, sourced from her extensive web of connections that seemed countless and untraceable.
“Your network of acquaintances is vast and full of potheads,” I said.
“That term is repulsive,” she said.
When I asked her why certain words affected her, she explained how words like “penetration,” “bud,” and “moist” and the noises of chewing and swallowing were cringey.
High school classes started up again, and our get-togethers became less frequent. Then, out of the blue, she texted me about the awkward tension that had crept into our relationship. “What tension?” I texted back. She didn’t respond and instead requested a month-long break from our relationship to test whether the love between us was, in fact, genuine.
A month passed, and I messaged her, but she didn’t respond. One week and then two went by with still no answer. I skipped classes and headed to Café Andrea, hoping to meet her. I found Fat Fucker sitting with a girl wearing a half-veil.
“ ‘Arss, have you seen Rinda?” I asked.
“No, Bro, I haven’t seen her in a while. Is there something you need?” he replied.
“It’s cool. Nothing to stress about.”
I sat away from them, facing the door, waiting for her. Hours passed before I eventually gave up. I paid for my coffee and shisha before bidding farewell to the place.
I happened to discover that Rahaf’s mother owned a well-known pharmacy. Finding courage, I approached her and shared my struggles with my illness, expressing my need for Xanax. Even without a formal verbal or written contract, she started supplying me with the drug in return for my explanations of the organic chemical formulas I had learned in my chemistry classes. We met at Kepler Café, the first suspension café accessed by climbing the stairs directly from the street in Zagazig.
Throughout that time, I was propelled along by the flow of air, the throngs of people, the ebb and tide of lesson schedules, physics, grammar, and rhetoric assignments, along with practice exams— everything, that is, except for my own legs.
I couldn’t get over Rinda’s sudden abandonment of me without explanation after two full years of investing in our relationship. Ghosting truly is the lowest blow. Then, one day, I sat down to send her another of my daily pathetic WhatsApp messages, ranging from “I miss you” to “Can I understand what I did wrong?” and discovered she had destroyed any remaining hope by blocking me.
Because of my drug habit, my complexion became ghostly pale. My skin lost its characteristic bronze glow, and dark purple crescents formed under my eyes. Neither my uncle nor his wife suspected anything, chalking everything up to the stress of studying.
My drug abuse peaked after my uncle’s wife traveled for Umrah, leaving my uncle to spend all his days at the governorate’s rest house. I went live on Instagram, taking seven pills, one by one, with a purple drink —a blend of codeine and promethazine cough syrup mixed with pomegranate-flavored Schweppes.
I woke up to a violent knocking on the door, which seemed to be part of a dream that had not completely dissipated. My mouth felt dry, and it hurt to dislodge my tongue from the roof of my mouth. The broadcast was still airing, running for an hour and a half at that point. I cast a cursory glimpse at one of the comments that ran along the lines of: “Hey everyone, someone should really check in on him.”
The pounding grew louder and felt more tangible. I stepped towards the door as if walking on a bed of nails. I opened it and came face to face with a classmate and his mother. I briefly shut my eyes, and when I opened them again, I found myself in the emergency room at Al-Tayseer Hospital. They made me vomit and prescribed diuretics to help flush out the toxins. The doctor poured into my ears his profound insights about the importance of cultivating a passion for life.
I was in bed for a week. Hydrating and peeing. I looked at the ceiling, wondering when the torment would end. On the eighth day, my uncle’s wife returned, and a wave of energy rushed through me once more, ensuring she didn’t sense anything unusual. I resumed my lessons and studies.
I felt as if I’d been reborn after my pathetic attempt at dying. I flushed all my medications down the toilet. Realizing the need to overcome this situation, I searched on wikiHow to find reliable and proven methods for self-love and breaking free from toxic relationships. In conclusion, I stood in front of the mirror every morning and repeated: “I love you!” before kissing my reflection. Later that day, I went to the chemistry department and asked the secretary to switch my group, using the excuse of conflicting class schedules to avoid running into Rahaf again.
My anxiety eased and became much more manageable, especially after I quit caffeine and smoking. I dealt with the lingering effects through various coping mechanisms, with writing being the most significant.
After finishing high school with a grade that surpassed everyone’s expectations, my uncle gifted me a second-hand Chevrolet Lanos, the very car we now use to drive toward Farsis. He’d tried to enroll me in the Military Technical College, but his wife wasn’t on board with that idea. She wanted me close by as her only source of entertainment, so they reached a compromise: I would attend the College of Engineering at Zagazig University instead.
A term passed. The onset of the second brought in curfews, the shutting down of mosques, and the constant smell of ethylene lingering in the air. The culprit was revealed to be a deadly virus that appeared crown-shaped under a microscope, transmitted through inhalation. Rumors spread that the vaccine was laced with electronic chips linked to the fifth generation of cellular networks.
The leader of the Copts in the diaspora announced that we were witnessing the rise of a monstrous being from the sea, with seven heads and ten horns. Salafist leaders claimed that Gog and Magog were on the verge of breaching the dam, prompting the Assistant Minister of Defense to visit the dam-blowing sector alongside journalist “Sawt al-Ghalaba” to dispel the rumors. So far, satellites have not detected any evidence to support their claims.
They moved the lectures online, and most of my classmates passed their research.
During the lockdown, I entertained myself by following Cairo Confessions’ posts on Facebook and watching motivational videos on YouTube that focused on the key elements of success and building self-confidence. An advertisement for the Randonatica app popped up during a break in one of the clips. The idea was to generate random coordinates nearby, motivating users to step out and discover new places in their vicinity.
I found the idea intriguing, so I decided to download it. After entering my information, I pinpointed my location on the map, and it recognized the village of Farsis as my customized adventure.
I slipped into a loose white Timberland T-shirt, khaki shorts, and a purple mask. I informed my uncle’s wife that I was stepping out for a brief drive to get some fresh air. She agreed to let me go but reminded me to call my uncle if I found myself in a tricky situation after the curfew kicked in.
I set out on the road alongside a talking male duck.
Batawi took a moment to reflect on the notion of relationships ending. He mused, “What if there were a way for everyone to sense when a disagreement was about to start? If that were the case, many relationships could be saved.”
And that’s how the idea came to me.
During my fifth and final year at the College of Engineering, my uncle’s head exploded without warning while in a meeting with the heads of various centers and cities to discuss the progress of the new tariff implementation. Fragments of his brain dissipated onto faces and uniforms. I didn’t take my exams that year or register for graduation projects. I retreated to my room. At the funeral, I met my father and broke down.
In my sixth year, after piecing together the remnants of my life, my uncle’s wife passed away peacefully in her sleep, prompting me to withdraw into solitude.
After enduring seven long years of challenges, I finally reached the finish line and graduated two years behind my classmates. For my graduation project, I borrowed an idea from a little-known story I stumbled upon online: a maquette featuring a three-way love story with three robots as the central characters.
The house seemed too spacious when it was empty, so I decided to kick off my first project in it: refrigerators for storing pussies. If a jealous husband felt the need to protect his wife from temptation while he was away, he would entrust her pussy to me for safekeeping. That way, she would uphold the sanctity of her vagina and her virtue.
It was a straightforward idea that had never been implemented before, and it proved successful. After Masrawy published an extensive feature about me, the demand soared.
As my wealth grew, I took inspiration from Jay-Z’s lyrics: Financial freedom my only hope. Fuck livin’ rich and dyin’ broke. I invested my surplus funds in NFTs and antiques.
I was browsing OnlyFans when I came across her photo. She had a buzz cut, a pierced tongue, and her eyes resembled those of a lizard, completely lacking any trace of white. I purchased all her videos, masturbated, and fell asleep. She came to me in a dream with flowing black hair and a healed tongue. I embraced her and gently stroked her back.
The success of the place and the rising number of employees allowed me to focus on my primary dream. I deepened my exploration of smart materials and made significant strides in studying logic gates and programming languages. During exploratory trips, I visited sensor factories in diverse locations worldwide. Once I gained the necessary experience, I teamed up with a group of medical engineers to further my work.
We tested the prototypes on a group of volunteers but faced setbacks. We went back to the drawing board, diving deep into research and refining the scientific principles behind our invention until we ironed out most of our issues.
The tension sensory factory was established with Egyptian and Gulf funding. On opening day, I hired a DJ to play the “Most Beautiful Names of God” as a blessing for our venture. A dwarf entertained guests at the entrance, surrounded by bouquets of flowers and cards filled with well wishes and blessings, all set against a floor blanketed in sawdust.
We provided a limited number of samples for market experimentation. We implanted the sensors into our clients’ shoulders, where they stayed under specialized care until the sensors successfully connected to their nervous systems and the body accepted them. As demand surged, we ramped up the distribution rate to ensure it reached across the globe. However, as the expiration date drew nearer, the mounting pressure and tension once again strained relationships, prompting clients to flock back to us in droves.
The tension sensors kept me more than satisfied. I consistently engaged in my five daily prayers and contributed zakat from my earnings. To avoid attracting envy, I turned to Sharia Ruqyah, which my mother had dismissed, leading to her suicide.
I was included in Forbes Middle East’s 30 Under 30 list in 2030. These endeavors culminated in my recognition at the World Youth Forum held in Sharm El Sheikh.
I stood on the podium, sharing my journey while slides and images flashed behind me. Throughout my presentation, there were several interruptions from His Excellency the President, who sat at the front, engaging with the audience behind him. The official channel gathered and uploaded his contributions on YouTube, titled Best of Al-Rayyess.
His Excellency placed a medal around my neck, and I seized the opportunity to request his permission to invite the wife of the late Professor Batawi, who had been my inspiration for this entire project, to join me on stage for this meaningful occasion. He graciously granted her permission to join. He squatted down so that they were at eye level, asking if she needed anything and if she felt comfortable in her living situation. The widowed duck was overwhelmed by a whirlwind of new emotions, and in her moment of excitement, she couldn’t help but relieve herself on the platform. Fortunately, the distance masked both the sight and smell of the incident, leaving the audience blissfully unaware of the transgression as applause echoed throughout the hall.
I resumed driving on rough sand. Gravel hitting the underside of the car. All traces of life vanished from the road, swallowed by the vast desert that had overtaken the houses. When I arrived at the village of Farsis, I was greeted by a man with the head of a ram.
*The story is available in Arabic on TMR’s Bil Arabi Page, here.
