Ode to the Old Man Certainty

My dear Bedouin Uncle, I never knew your name.

You made sure that I was always welcome in your little room and squinted at my pudgy fingers through your leather creased skin every time I tried to reach out to grab hold of your cigarettes. "These battas don't do you any good" you would say as you pushed the packet further. You would take my hand and lead me through the streets whenever I wanted to buy some liban or karate. You had such bulbous finger tips atop those slender used fingers - darkened to perfection by years of hard labour in a scorching sun. A time you rarely spoke about. And why should you. I was only 3. I could always come down to play and you would pick me up under my arms and swing me round like those rides at the fare I saw from the car. You would set me down, pat my head and point to the house. And I would run to my mom. You would bring the paper, ward off the dog snatchers and keep the roudy youths at bay. You cared for our home as though it were a temple. One we suddenly left. And you waved us off when we did. I was then just 5.

Every year upon our return the only certainty I had was your presence. The house may have suffered the ills of time, the family may have crumbled, friends may have gone, even the country may have lost its charm but you were always there. When I stepped out of the car from the airport ride the first thing I looked for was you dear Uncle. You would shake my hand with both your rugged and tar baked hands and welcome me and tell me how the country had lit up due to our arrival. You would ask about the family and every year I asked you the same two questions about your age and if you still smoked those bata cigarettes. And every year you would reply the same -- well beyond your years and that battas were the only kind to smoke. You must have been 75 then.

I will never forget the kindest words that you passed on to me when I returned after having been gone for many years. You took my hand and raising one hand up and allowing one tear to trail down you told me 'By God, I live to see you grow up little one'. I wanted to hug you but formality and foolish rules kept me at bay and instead I put my hand on yours and said 'and I keep returning to one day see you quit those battas!'. He laughed a hearty laugh through his toothless mouth and with that I ran up to the house.

I still have the picture you allowed me to take of you in your pristine white turban - face as proud as your Bedouin ancestry and eyes that revealed the strength with which you faced all that life threw at you. But in them hid that twinkle you only allowed some to see, a hidden twinkle alluding to the cheekiness within as you shared anecdotes and told allegoric stories to a little girl to make sure she heeded life's warnings...

time will tell.

May God rest your soul, widen your grave and bless your family for giving certainty to those around you Uncle.

Inna li ILah wa inna li Ilahi raje3oun :)

Cat's Cradle

Cats have a funny way of welcoming you back into their lives and their environment. They adorn you with their lingering pong smells, bestow upon you the gift of shed fur and above all else share with your their best of friends-- the flea.

Ah yes, the majestic flea. Here today, bringing the family tomorrow. It travels through your trousers, through your vest and into your head peeking every now and again to check for more fertile breeding ground. I sprayed myself with enough citronelle to deter an entire ark of mosquito species but that irrational reckless flea and the idea of an itch.. well that never sprays away easy.

In fact I sincerely feel like spraying every inch of my habitat but since I also plan to sleep there I reckon a nose is more precious than the presence of a few strategically detonated red spots here and there. Strategic in that they will ofcourse reflect my constellation. Do not underestimate the artistic flair and ingenuity of fleas. They get around.

Thing is, even if I get rid of the fleas, the cat's still around. And when it starts to purr and growl and curl up by my feet well.. its a free blanket. And since when do free blankets come free of fleas?