Read Online A Riffians Tune by Joseph M Labaki - Free Book Online

twice my size, whom I had helped during my Koranic days. Like a singer who could only sing with a group, he could only remember when reciting with me. Amazed and puzzled, my cousin’s mouth opened and his lips trembled. ‘I am engaged,’ he said.
    â€˜I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘To whom?’
    â€˜My cousin, Boshra.’
    Boshra was a little girl, not yet ten years old. Confused by my suggestion about school, he suddenly started to describe how beautiful she was.
    â€˜Wouldn’t it be better for you to wait until she is grown up to see what she will be like?’ I asked. ‘Her beauty might change,’ I added, thinking of my sisters.
    â€˜No,’ he said. ‘My mother advised me to grab the opportunity. The engagement itself was expensive: a big crowd was invited and many chickens and eggs were needed to feed them all.’
    That week, I went to the village, Arkmane, and shopped in
Sidi
Moha’s. The shop was built in a Spanish style with double doors, and very large.
Sidi
Moha was an old man: tall, pale, bald and always smiling. The shop was basic. He sold sugar, olive oil, salt and matches. I bought sugar and olive oil as my mother had instructed me.
    â€˜What else have you to do in the village today?’
Sidi
Moha asked me. ‘Why are you looking so anxious?’ he added.
    â€˜I am hoping to find company to go to Fez,’ I told him.
    To my surprise and delight, he mentioned
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout. Bahbout was a known figure in the village, rich and a person of influence. He had a big shop, twice the size of
Sidi
Moha’s. He had many children, both boys and girls, and wanted to give some education to his favourite son, Maroine, who was good-looking, articulate, and the most intelligent.
    Wasting no time, I stepped into
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout’s shop and came upon two men who looked alike, big and well-fed. The only difference between them was one looked younger than the other.
    â€˜May I speak to
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout?’ I asked.
    â€˜He is not here!’ shouted the tall one.
    In fact,
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout was sitting far back in the shop, drinking tea with some men. ‘If
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout is here, I would like to speak with him,’ I shouted loudly.
    Hearing me, he stepped forward. His long black-and-white beard impressed me. He was wearing white clothes and a brown turban. As I inched closer to him and shook his hand, everybody stopped talking to watch, as though I were about to commit a murder. I knew I had to be quick and precise and said, ‘
Sidi
Hadj, my name is Jusef.
Sidi
Moha told me that your son, Maroine, wants to go to Fez. I am going if he wants to go with me.’
    He shook my hand again, firmly this time, and all the other men clambered to follow suit. He asked me to take a seat in an old chair that could have fallen apart at any time and ordered three pots of tea from the coffee shop next door.
It is a good start
, I thought to myself, but I was afraid that he might ask some details, such as how I was going to finance the trip and the schooling, but he didn’t. He asked me to come back next week, and his son, Maroine, would be with him.
    It was getting late in the afternoon, the sun was setting and the temperature was falling. It had been an extremely hot day and it was past time to go home. It had taken five hours of walking to get to Arkmane from home, crossing several valleys and mountains, and it would take more than five hours to reach home, as I was tired and hungry.
    Along the way, I passed two important shrines where men and women went to spend days and nights seeking help.
Sidi
Yahia was a shrine for those who had sight trouble. People sat inside the shrine, close to the grave of
Sidi
Yahia, and shouted for help. They dug the soil from the tomb and sprinkled it around their necks and chests.
    The
Sidi
Mimoun shrine was famous as it was believed to be the more potent. People, rich and poor, came from all regions,