We cross the street. Dido points to a small square in the newspaper and tells me that our first president is sick. He has been living in isolation for thirty years. Why? Because life is unfair. We walk past the fruit shop where Mama buys our fruits. She calls by phone. They bring the fruit home in brown paper bags that tear at the bottom. The price is on the bag written with Biro. Today there are bananas, tangerines, watermelons, and melons, the green kind that Baba likes. They are piled like pyramids on the pavement. The fruit man holds up one side of his galabia. In the same hand he has a black bag with his money. He smiles and gives me a banana. He asks if Baba is back. He calls him Bey. I shake my head. He points to Dido’s newspaper. Anything new? There is a picture of the president on the front page at the top. It is the same picture every day. On the front page at the bottom there is a picture of the president’s wife. Everyone calls her Mama Suzanne. It’s what they tell us on television. A girl in school said she wanted to be like Mama Suzanne. I told Mama. She told me to wash my mouth with soap. I got up. I started to walk slowly towards the bathroom. Mama shouted that she never wanted to hear me say Mama Suzanne again. All my cousins call her Mama Suzanne. Nobody tells them anything. Every morning at assembly they sing the national anthem and then say, We love Baba and Mama Suzanne. At our assembly we only sing hymns. Dido is the only one who doesn’t call her Mama Suzanne. Uncle says he is rebellious and doesn’t understand how he turned out that way. Dido looks at the paper. He whispers but I hear him. He says a bad word. I eat my banana.
Dido takes the peel. He tells me that his life is politics and he hopes mine will be too. I look at him. We start walking. He takes a deep breath and says no one will ever compare to Nasser. He was a real man and one of the people. Baba also likes Nasser even though he made mistakes. Mama doesn’t. She and Baba would sometimes fight. They would only ever fight about Nasser and money. Mama would scream about all the things that Nasser took from Grandpa. Baba shouted back that he gave his father his whole life. Mama would say Uncle’s name and that it was all about wasta. Connections. When I asked Mama why she was upset she took me to the window and told me to look out. Our street is long and filled with flame trees. Only one tree has purple flowers but only a few. The jacaranda. At school we learn that the British brought it to Egypt to make the country more beautiful. At night people paint bad words on the walls of buildings. In the afternoon men come and paint over them with black. Mama pointed to the red villa and asked me if I saw it. Yes. The white villa on the corner. Yes. The villa across the street that’s a school. Yes. Her friends used to live in those villas, then Nasser took them and they had to leave. Where did they go? They left the country. They packed their bags and left at dawn. They didn’t even say goodbye. Was she sad? Very. Mama lost many friends because of Nasser. Her best friend was the daughter of the king and had to leave. Her other best friend was Jewish and also had to leave. Why did Nasser make them leave? Because life is unfair and it was something I would have to learn. I looked at her. Mama had green eyes that changed color sometimes. I always looked to see what color they were. Baba told me once that if they were brown I should keep away. I asked her who would teach me about life being unfair. She said time.
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We stop at the ful shop on the corner. The walls are tiled white like our bathroom. Dido lifts me onto a stool. There is a thin wooden counter to eat on. I put my hand on it. It sticks. I ask for a tissue. The man gives me a piece of newspaper. I wipe the paper on the counter. The sticky part turns black. Dido shakes his head. He turns back and asks the man for three sandwiches. And two bottles of Sinalco. Mama never lets me drink Sinalco. It is bad for my insides. It will turn them orange. Dido says Mama is too strict. But without discipline I would become listless like the others. He gives me a sandwich and sits next to me. Discipline can go either way, he says. It’s the country that makes us listless. I ask him what listless means. It means to wake up every day and not know what to do. It means to feel there is nothing to look forward to in life. He laughs. Except football. I watch him. He takes a bite of his sandwich and stuffs a pickled carrot in his mouth after it. He looks at the street. There is a small blue pickup truck with policemen on it. They are dressed in white. In winter they wear black. They jump off the truck outside the ful shop. A woman is sitting on the pavement with two baskets in front of her. One basket has tomatoes. The other cucumbers and lettuce. She tries to get up quickly but trips. She is wearing a colored galabia and has a large scarf around her head. One policeman takes her elbow. He pulls. The other takes her two baskets. He throws them onto the truck. She screams. What is she saying? Dido is staring at them and doesn’t answer. People in the street stop and watch. Two cars stop. Four. Five. The traffic stops and cars behind start honking. There is shouting. One policeman pushes her into the truck. She screams, Yalahwee. He gets in after her and slams the door. The other policeman puts one hand on the back of the truck and jumps onto it. There is more shouting. More. They drive away. Dido shakes his head. The people who were watching walk away. The stopped cars go. Dido says a bad word. I ask him why they took her. He says the system is wrecked. And she doesn’t have a permit. They don’t give people a chance at an honest living. Why didn’t he help her? He doesn’t say anything for a long time then shakes his head. He takes another bite of his sandwich. I watch him. He chews slowly, still shaking his head. After a while he asks if I remember what he taught me about the waves. I nod. If it’s going to hit me in the face I have to dive under it. He raises one eyebrow and tells me to remember that in life too. He takes our sandwich wrappers and scrunches them into a ball. He puts the empty bottles on the counter. He gives the man five piastres. The man puts his hand to his head and salutes him. He calls him Basha.
I ask if we can get mango ice cream from El-Abd. Baba used to take me every Friday after school. He pats my head and takes the purple backpack from my shoulder. We walk to the curb. Three cucumbers are squashed on the pavement. I press on one with the tip of my shoe. Cucumber seeds squirt from one side. Dido raises his hand. A black-and-white taxi stops. Downtown. He opens the back door. I slide across the leather chair. It’s boiling and I sit on my hands. Dido gets in the front next to the driver. He puts my bag between his legs and rests his elbow on the window. His arm hangs out. The driver has his arm the same way. Their arms might get cut off by a speeding car, but I don’t say anything. The driver has a long nail on his little finger. Our driver also has a long nail on his little finger. So does the man who sells fruits. Their nails are even longer than Mama’s. I imagine taking scissors and cutting them off. Dido talks to the driver. I move closer to the window and stick my head out. The taxi goes towards the bridge where the billboards are. Two men on ladders are carrying buckets of paint. Two other men are dipping their paintbrushes into the buckets. One of them is painting the head of a woman. Her dress is blue with white dots and the tops of her breasts show in the way Mama says is not for my age. He paints yellow streaks onto her brown hair. The other man is painting a word. The taxi driver slows down. He shakes his head. When are they ever going to finish? They have been painting the billboard for three weeks now. Dido tells him it’s an art. The poster will be up for years. The driver flicks his head. They talk about time moving at a pace of its own.