Business is Business

Part 2

“Wasakh,” mumbles Saeed, under the coffee stench of his rancid breath. He slaps the wet khat leaves at his side, again and again, fewer droplets of water permeating the patterned fabric of his macawis each time. Animated from his conversation with Natasha and the heightened political microcosm that arose in his taxi after her departure, Saeed was eager to release an unfiltered train of thoughts in the safety of Rasheed’s living room. However, the moment he rested against his favourite cushion, he was determined to find and cite the information Natasha revealed to him, scrolling on the bright display of his smartphone, angered to find article after article confirming her revelations, cursing Putin because every word she said was true.

“He’s taking it too far!” snaps Saeed, locking his phone screen and tossing it aside. He fidgets anxiously, moving his foot back and forth against the carpet, his striped socks invading the corner of Rasheed’s eye. “He has to be stopped. We must do something.” Rasheed lowers his phone and watches Saeed, agreeing apathetically, hoping his good friend’s bickering changes naturally to something less tiresome. Fatima enters the living room with a plate of baklawa and places it on the tray where the two men keep returning to for milk tea, coffee, and pistachios. Rasheed wishes she could sense that he wants her to change the topic, but their chemistry isn’t as good as it used to be. Besides, she rarely entertains their conversations, deeming their dialogue to have no substance, but the abundance of news on war and political discourse combined with the paranoia of who she can confidently divulge her views to has made her frustrated and yearning to be part of the conversation.

“Why are you so upset? Are you finally starting to feel sorry for your wife?” teases Fatima. Rasheed turns to her abruptly, bemused that of all the small talk she could make, this is what she chose.

Jelena was Saeed’s first and only wife. She birthed and raised two children with him before his beginning determination to overcome their cultural differences turned into tiredness trying to mend every problem that arose. Rasheed warned him that he lacked experience, that he would regret marrying a woman of a different culture and faith. The moment his love for her lost its spark, Jelena held out as long as she could before she revoked the Shahadah he asked her to take and left with their two kids one night while he drove his taxi around Moscow without a care in the world. She returned to her family’s farm in Opishnya, west of the Vorska River. He couldn’t believe she would actually leave. More so, he couldn’t believe she would go as far as returning home to Ukraine. Once his family heard of the news, they called every day asking for updates on the recovery of his two children, worried that they too would soon be turned into non-believers, but overtime his family grew tired of begging him to fulfil his duty as their father. The countless frustrating phone calls with poor reception, and the busyness of everyday life induced upon them the same tiredness with which he couldn’t be bothered holding onto Jelena no more, the same reality that doing the right thing can be a lot more work than one is willing to do.

“My wife?” exclaims Saeed. He stares at Fatima, nodding to himself as the long-forgotten empathy for his wife creeps into his heart. “Why would I feel sorry for her? I feel sorry for my kids because they are with her. But they have my blood so they will be fine.” He reaches for the phone he tossed aside. Rasheed doesn’t say anything. All he can imagine is those two babies that would run around his living room now waiting eagerly to be served bacon on their eggs and toast. Fatima gets up to leave the room, wary of her blunder. Before she can, Saeed reminds her as he did when he entered the house, “Make sure you come tomorrow. Tell your friends too. 11am. We have to do what we can.” He passes her the pamphlet Natasha placed on the centre console of his taxi. She raises the pamphlet to her eyes and reads the same bold letters he was instantly drawn to.

“Is this it?” asks Fatima. Saeed stops a few paces in front of her and Rasheed, taking a moment to recalibrate his sureness before turning to them. The scene in front of him different to what he expected.

“Doesn’t it look like the right place.”

“I’m just asking.” The muscles in his cheekbone tense with each step, the sight of brawny men wearing heels bewilders him. He doesn’t understand why there’s such an abundance of flamboyant outfits, corsets, and other impractical attire at a protest to save cinema. He can tell Rasheed and Fatima shared the same sentiment. Nonetheless, this protest was important for him.

“Saeed?” A pleasant voice comes from the crowd.

“Natasha.” He tries to hold back his smile, but it stretches from one ear to the other as she gets closer. Her slim black pantsuit more professional than the rest of the audience, her appearance that of someone truly invested in the cause.

“I can’t believe you made it. Thanks for coming.” She introduces herself to Rasheed and Fatima, both inspecting her from head to toe, Rasheed reflecting on her introduction as an adult filmmaker, then glancing at Saeed and his reformed demeanour. “Is there anyone else with you?” she adds.

“My wife is actually in Ukraine. Fighting.” Natasha gasps. Rasheed turns his head. He does not know this man before him. Fatima’s screwface takes a while to return to normal.

“God, is she okay?” 

“I don’t know.”

The protest bored Saeed. No matter how attracted he was to Natasha, and no matter how much he convinced himself that it would benefit his side hustle, he was bored. A lot of speeches that neither of them cared about. Saeed was so disconnected he did not realise that the nature of the protest was being explained before him, every speaker making it evidently clear about the kind of films that this audience was involved in making. He was adrift. The seed Fatima planted in his mind, drowning out every other sound in the world.

“Saeed,” whispers Rasheed. “Do you know what films they make? You idiot!”

He stares at Rasheed distantly. “It’s not about the films. Putin cannot do whatever he wants. It’s wrong.”

“Let’s leave,” demands Rasheed, but Saeed returns to his daydream. He thinks about his two children, what they could be up to, if they still remember the Quran he taught them. He thinks about the last photo Jelena sent him before he’s interrupted. A broad fellow brushes past him and bumps into Rasheed.

“Can’t you see?” snaps Rasheed. 

“Please excuse me. I didn’t mean to bump you. You came with Natasha’s friend?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Do you work in adult films too?”

“Do I look like stupid to you?”

“What? Then what are you doing here?”

“This idiot told us to come!” Rasheed points his finger at Saeed’s shocked face. “He doesn’t want to lose money selling movies, so he brings us here. Normal movies. Not what you’re making.”

“Pirated films!” the broad fellow is stunned. He looks around the crowd, assessing other people’s reactions.

“What else is there?”

“Rasheed. Stop it,” warns Fatima but Rasheed is too uncomfortable and too agitated to care about anyone else.

The news spreads through the crowd like wildfire. People whisper about a small African man who sells pirated films. No more details are required for people to know who that man is. Rasheed is grateful for his height. Natasha gets wind of what has happened and rushes off the stage. Saeed can see her headed straight to him and the fantasy relationship he imagined with her shatters instantly. The broad fellow tries to grab him, Rasheed moving out of his way to help, but Saeed slips out of his grasp, speeding through the remainder of the crowd before the mass discerns the situation. He rushes down the street and hides, far enough that nobody will follow him anymore. His phone starts to ring. The chime of a WhatsApp call tells him it’s international. He rolls his eyes, expecting yet another request from family overseas.

“Hello. Dad?”

“Sami?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Mum got me a phone. This is my number now.”

“Oh, habibi. That’s great. How are you? How’s your sister?”

“We’re good. Alhamdulillah. How are you?”

Saeed can’t respond.

“Hello? Dad?” Saeed can hear Jelena worrying in the background.

“I’m here. I’m here. Tell your mum to stop worrying. I’m just very happy to hear your voice. Why’d you call? Is something wrong? Is your mum okay.” 

“Everyone’s okay. I wanted to tell you I have a new phone.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at a protest. This guy Putin. He has made me very angry.”

Jelena takes the phone from Sami. “Are you really?”

“Of course! I love my kids. And I love you.”

Fin