Lightness of Being…

He opened his eyes to a deep death-like darkness. A slumbering feeling of dread slowly began uncoiling itself in the pit of his gut.

"Where am I?" Zack tried to look around in confusion. Sharp pangs of pain seared across his neck and shoulders. His arms were tied behind him by a rough consortium of duct tape and ropes. His legs were spread out. He distastefully noted that he had soiled himself.

A pungent taste of blood clung desperately to his tongue.

"Hulloo?" the hoarseness of his own voice startled him. His throat was parched.

"Some water, please" he called out weakly to no one in particular.

How long have I been here?

He looked around dazedly trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness.

The room was very small, dirty and plain. Aside from the chair he was bound to, there were a long square table and two other chairs facing him. From the corner of his eyes, Zack noted a faint light streaming under the door. There were no windows. He could smell the dankness and feel the dust, mingled with sweat layering his face.

What time is it? 

His temples throbbed, and he was pretty sure his face was swollen and bruised.

Fuzzy details of his nightmare came floating back in disjointed pieces waking him up to the full realization of his impending doom. The dread within deepened to horror.

Are they going to kill me?

{-}

Zackariyya bin (son of) Salim Al-Amoody was born in an idyllic remote fishing village off the East coast of Kenya. The official maps carry no traces of his origins. They were about 30 Kilometers away from a bustling island called Mombasa, referred to by the locals as simply "the town" or more accurately towny. The Kiswahili language he grew up speaking, had a stubborn insistence on adding the suffix "y" or "u" to both English and Arabic words and  thus "Africanizing" them. Words like "Book" became "booku" and school was baptized "Schooly", while abbreviations like UK were to be transformed into "Yu Keii". His village in contrast to the Island was on mainland. So they referred to themselves as living in "Landini" (on the land).

He grew up understanding Kidigo too, which is one of the local tribal languages that fed into the formation of Kiswahili, a trade language made up of a mixture of Arabic, English, Portuguese, and Bantu.

His father, an entrepreneurial Yemeni spirit from the deep valleys of Hadhramout, had made his way further than his compatriots who decided to settle in Mombasa. The peaceful rhythm of the village calmed him. He also noted that while Mombasa was already thriving with businesses, this village did not boast a single store. For their daily rations, locals would take turns going to towny to buy the necessities. The trip was long and one had to change buses twice to get there and back.

With a sound business sense, Salim Al-Amoody relocated his family and opened the first supplies store on the soils of Landini. His store instantly became the life of the village. The fishermen came back at dawn, to lay their best catches right outside his veranda. People milled around, haggling over fish prices, supplies from the store, trading stories and morning inquiries. In the evening, young men and women hung out to pass the long evening hours on the front porch of the store, surreptitiously flirting and exchanging witty banter. 

Salim's wife, Maryam,  made little cakes, breads, and fried potato snacks, sold alongside the staple fishing supplies, sugar, milk, sodas, and an assortment of daily needs sold at their humble store front.  A makeshift prayer place was built right next to their house. It was a simple courtyard, where five times a day, Salim would close his store and make adhan to pray. He was soon joined by quite a few of his neighbors and friends.

Maryam (referred to as Maryamu by her neighbors), soon learned kidigo, and was the unofficial arbiter, counselor, and soul of the community. Her doors were always open to her neighbors. At every meal, she made sure to make extra food, for the occasional surprise guest, and always found pretexts to employ people who were down on their luck as an excuse to give them money.

Salimu insisted on speaking Swahili with his thick Arabic accent, and refused to learn Kidigo. He worked hard to maintain his identity as an Arab; not out of any ethnic superiority complex he insisted, but simply because it was his sole connection to his homeland. Although he was over his initial homesickness, there was still a side of him that would never feel completely at home in that foreign soil. He spoke distantly of going back to Yemen, building a home there, and resting his old bones where they belong. Maryamu, knew instinctively what Salimu did not want to accept, they would both live and die in Landini. She went about living her life, and focused on building relationships that she knew would last her lifetime. She felt no sentimental qualms about it, for escaping the narrowness of Hadhramout's life had been both their dreams. The fact that they exchanged one narrow lifestyle for another, did not strike her as ironic, simply pragmatic, they knew no better.

Maryamu took great care in naming her children. Zackariyya and Samaha. She did not want a name that would be Suffixed into something else. Muhammad, her favorite name was out, since it would inevitably become Mwamadi, and other variations like Ahmed became Amedi or worse Babadi. So thus her children were named, carefully, after much thought and playing around with different variations to make sure that no improper nickname could be formed out of them. How was she to know that her only son would willfully change his name later?

While Samaha grew up helping her mother with chores, or under the careful scrutiny of her father, who let her watch the store only when he was around: Zackariyya was allowed unfettered freedom. He had the best childhood ever; invariably spent exploring, swimming, playing soccer, or joining the fishermen on their daily run. With his small tight group of friends they strutted around like they owned the place. They bullied little kids, fanned open fires to smoke fish, or went off into the bushes to bring home mangroves, cashews, mangoes, and delectable berries sometimes selling or bartering them for a pittance.  He never had a moment of boredom, that is until he neared his teens and the normal teenage angst drove him to near madness in that little place. He couldn’t wait to discover the world and leave the sleepy little village behind him, forever.

{-}

“I am Zack… Zachary Moody actually, but you can call me Zack” Zack offered his hand with a confident smile. He had long shed his boyish gangly awkwardness to morph into a stunning young man. Wearing a sharp suit and fresh from Graduate school, he was attending his first job interview. Zack recited his usual mantra with booming eloquence. He described the lack of opportunities in his homeland, his subsequent hard work, and how all his sweat paid off when he was offered the priceless opportunity to come to the US on a student visa by a benevolent distant uncle. He talked about how his impoverished past fueled his desire to make the most out of the opportunities life granted him, and how his diligence was but a product of necessity not virtue. His employers naturally loved him, as he had been admired everywhere he went.

“Something about the American psyche always makes them root for the poor-boy-sweating -to-make-his-way-in-this-society story”  He had joked with his friends once.

His mantra was more or less true, with the exception of the fact that although he grew up with relatively less material wealth, he never felt poor. Their house was the largest in the surrounding area, and by local standards he was always the best dressed boy around. Even while his friends were running around barefoot, his mom had always insisted he wear a tucked in shirt, shorts, socks and shoes. She would also apply copious amounts of coconut oil in his hair, and comb it neatly sideways before he left the house. Little did she know, he would wait until he was out of sight before ruffling his hair, taking off his shirt, shoes, and socks and joining his friends wearing nothing but his shorts. He fit in a lot better that way; and Zackariyya was born with a magical knack of making his differences disappear or appear at will (depending on the convenience).

Making it in the US was almost too easy for Zack. He could not believe the opulence that characterized life in these lands. His uncle sponsored him right when he finished high school. As he was processing his paperwork, Zackariyya solemnly asked him to change his name. He wanted to fit in to America, and with a name like Zackarriyya bin Salim Al Amoody he would not get far. His uncle was amused by his nephew’s forthright request, but went ahead and forged his name neatly as “Zachary Moody”. His parents who could not read English anyway, were none the wiser. Zack and his uncle tacitly decided to keep that significantly distressing move from the rest of the family.

Zachary Moody discarded his old self without much ado. He walked into JFK airport scarcely believing his luck. Who would have thought this little village boy would one day step foot on the great expanse of America? He was going to get his fair share of the American pie, and he would spare no effort in the process, he vowed to himself that day, and never looked back.

{to be continued}

{-}