Mummy Issues - Part 2

If you haven't PLEASE READ PART 1 first. Otherwise it won't make any sense :) CHAPTER ONE - part 1 The Arrest “It was the summer of 1991. I had turned thirteen. My mother had been dead for about three years back then; killed by a reckless motorist whilst on her way to the supermarket along the chaotic roads that run out by Al Azhar University, so me and my father were living alone. We lived in a small house but the neighborhood was pleasant enough, even if we all lived so tightly packed together as neighbors that everyone knew everyone else’s business. My father, Ibrahim, while a decent enough man, made his living from dealing in black market goods— historical artifacts. Rarely were they authentic, usually they were very good duplicates of the real thing, false items. His work didn’t bring lot of money —we were not rich by any definition of that word. It brought us more trouble than money, in fact. That day the police turned up. My father was outside, watering the many plants that my mother had left behind. It was one thing that he was taking good care of. I was inside the house, just beside the window, busy doing my homework. “You have to finish this, before going to play soccer with your friends” - he said before going out to water the plants.. I never got around to playing soccer that evening. Or for many days thereafter. “Ya, Ibrahim Yousef! You have done it now!” I looked through the window to see what is going on. I had a clear view of the scene. There were three police officers dressed in customary khakis. One of the them, Abdul Rahman his name was, well known in our neighborhood, addressed my father who looked up at him, surprised. ‘What are you talking about, Abdul Rahman?’ My father asked, incredulous and confused all at once. ‘Don’t bother to play pretend with us, Ibrahim. We know what game you have been running. We had some people from museums you know, big people, ask about you. You have stepped upon some powerful toes, Ibrahim. You have to come with us, now.’ Abdul Rahman replied coolly. This was an officer who would barely break into a jog if a man, woman, or child stole in front of his face! So, you must understand, that for him to care about my father’s thieving ways, he must have been under some external pressure or had been bribed into action by someone. Truly, my father had some audacity and sheer nerve when it came to selling artifacts that he ‘encountered’. He never told me how he came by them but even I knew at that tender age, that he was dealing in goods that he came by dishonestly. Abdul Rahman and the fellow officers had likely known this for a long time too; perhaps they pitied us. We all were just trying to get by. They knew how hard it was and still is, to eke out a living in Cairo. "You say I have to come with you? But who are these people at the museum that you are talking about? How do you take their word, brother? I have no idea what is going on here! Why do I have to go with you?’ My father sputtered with feigned indignation. Maybe they had proof too; maybe somebody  have  supplied some proof. But you know how it is not the case nor has it ever been the case that the police in Egypt have to rely on sure-fire evidence for them to proceed with charging somebody, anybody, of a crime, whether genuine or false. ‘I say that you are to come with us now, don’t give me any trouble, Ibrahim!’ Abdul Rahman bellowed, I even now see his dark mustache bristling and the way his eyes flashed with anger toward my father. My father shook his head and made to put his hand in his pocket. ‘I don’t have much on me but…what I do have, you can take, ya Abdul Rahman!’ My father pleaded, trying to extract a crumpled note therein although perhaps we all knew, even the police did, that he had no money. ‘Stop that! Put your hands out in front of you, Ibrahim Yousef.”- one of the other officers joined - “We have to take you to the station. You are going to jail this time. Perhaps for a while” ‘Wait! I can find more to give you—and my son—’ My father started to call out but they moved forward on the signal of Abdul Rahman. Abdul had no trouble twisting and pulling my father’s skinny arms out in front of him as the two other officers flanked my father now and pushed him forward toward. ‘My son!’ My father cried out, ‘Wait! Ya, akhwan! Let go of me!’ He shouted. I had completely frozen still. I was sitting there watching, my eyes as wide as saucers. Here was my father being arrested before my very eyes—and what could I do? What should I do? I sat as if stuck in my chair, glued to my seat. Helplessly watching this all unfold. The police officers could not see me inside. Nor would they care to. They were not the kind to care or be concerned about someone’s scrawny child. Or maybe they believed the neighbors will take care of me. It was reasonable of them to think that, but they couldn’t know how shy and timid as a young boy I was! ‘My son, wait!’ My father cried, twisting and trying to look toward my direction. I kept watching as they led my father away. He turned, he pulled, he struggled—and as he caught my eye, one of the officers hit him harshly with his baton. ‘Stop struggling, ya Ibrahim!’ - The other officer, a dull-looking man with empty eyes snapped at my father as they led him away - ‘Your son is old enough to look after himself! Some of these brats are working since the age of five, your son is not special, he will figure out a way to live, without your haram ways!’. My father kept glancing back, looking distraught and guilty all in one. It's a look that still haunts me.” Sami paused and took a sip of his mint tea, his gaze clouded and his eyes cast toward the floor as if in bitter remembrance. Ahmed and Rameez stayed silent, not even puffing on their hookah pipes as Sami gathered his thoughts and strayed back into recounting his strange tale. “The days that followed were hard. I kept myself to myself and didn’t leave the house.” “You should’ve asked help from neighbours.” - Ahmed said. “Ask for help from neighbours? The fact that my father had been arrested so publicly? And that they all had likely witnessed or heard about it? Well, my embarrassment was painfully vivid. I did not want to see or talk to anyone. And besides, I knew some of the neighbors already treated my father like a leper, avoiding him when possible. They called his work ‘haram’, that he fed me with ill-gotten money, that he was no good, a sariq—a thief. Perhaps someone of the neighbours had called the police himself. So, I stayed alone in the house.