A Riffians Tune (47 page)

We arrived all together and poured into Mrs Malani's kitchen where she was lying. ‘What have you done to deserve that?' shouted Mimount, tears pouring down.

Mrs Malani was just the same as I had found her, but sweating heavily from every part of her body. Mimount grabbed a ball of wool from Mrs Malani's bedroom, soaked it in water, and squeezed it into her mouth. A sign of hope, she blinked.

‘To the hospital! To the hospital!' I shouted to Uncle Mimoun.

‘Right!' he retorted. I unshackled Mrs Malani's donkey. We tried to get her on the donkey and failed. A big yell was heard from Mrs Malani's bedroom.

‘Snake! Snake!
Kattala!
' shouted Mimount, shaking Mrs Malani's bedcovers. The snake had jumped at her, but she had swerved and the snake took refuge in a corner where there was a little hole, but it couldn't get through. I took off one of my shoes and hurled it at the snake, hitting it squarely.
Kattala
was killed and put in a basket to take along to the hospital.

All three of us struggled to put Mrs Malani on the donkey, but it was a Herculean task to keep her on. I jumped up behind her to keep her from teetering.

Mrs Malani ran out of luck. Twenty minutes later, she began vomiting and died. The speed of the donkey was no match for the venom of
kattala
.

Dead, Mrs Malani got heavier and heavier, impossible for me to hold on the donkey. ‘When a man gets ill, his weight doubles, and when dead, it triples,' said Uncle Mimoun, tears on his chin, looking at me, miserably sad, tears running hopelessly.

We stood still in the road waiting for any help that would pass. Mr Isa and his wife Nonut, on their way to visit their daughter, stopped to help. Other passers-by stopped and offered as well.

With the help of the generous crowd, Mrs Malani was taken back to her home – dead. From mouth to ears, news of her death spread like a wild wind. From near and far, burly farmers and neighbours flocked to the cemetery to help dig the grave. Some had pickaxes, others hoes or shovels. The crowd swelled as the day went on. Everyone in the community had been touched by Mrs Malani at some point.

Burial had to be quick, but couldn't be after one o'clock in the afternoon. Mrs Malani, lying dead in her home, was not yet ready. The long white cloth to wrap her after the ritual washing needed to be bought, and it was already three o'clock.

‘It's up to me now to take care of my mother,' I said to Uncle Mimoun. ‘She took care of me. When I was alone on the mountain in the hand of snakes and foxes, she was there watching over me, albeit from far away,' I declared with a quivering voice.

Listening to me, Mimount dropped her face into her hands and sobbed. Unexpectedly, so did Uncle Mimoun. Leaving him to talk to the mourners, I went to the village to purchase the white cloth. Sadly, no shop stocked such cloth. Nador was the closest city where it could be found, so I hired a taxi. There, I bought the material and didn't come home until two o'clock in the morning. Uncle Mimoun and Mimount were there waiting for me.

That morning, I asked Rabbia to perform the ritual diligence of washing Mrs Malani. She refused so Mimount did it. Hundreds of mourners, shocked by the news, turned out to offer their last respects to Mrs Malani when she was buried in the local cemetery, Thahamrit.

Devastated and emotionally paralysed, I couldn't handle the loss of my mother so soon after discovering her. When I awakened the following day, I wondered if it had been real or a dream. I didn't open my café for three days.

The next day, Uncle Mimoun came with a subpoena from the police.
I must be a suspect
, I assumed. Feeling like a criminal, I went to the police station to find out why I had been called.

The station was full of bustling people, and I waited my turn. I was called in and sat on a small chair. An officer came and handed me a letter.

‘Your sister has been here, and this is her confession,' he told me.

With a shattered heart, I read Rabbia's confession:

I
arrived late, guided only by starlight, but Mrs Malani was delighted to see me.

‘May I take this basket from you?' she asked.

‘No, thanks,' I answered. ‘I have a bad cold. I need the towel.'

Though Mrs Malani realised I was very late, she made nothing of it and probably thought I had had words with my husband, as I was tense.

Mrs Malani disappeared into her kitchen, broke sticks, struggled to light a fire. I went to her bed, the basket under my arm. I picked up the bag and spun it over my head for most of the time Mrs Malani was busy boiling the kettle and making tea. The snake was disoriented, not willing or able to move. With extreme care, I freed the snake and tucked it into the foot of Mrs Malani's bed.

It was a quick visit with pleasant conversation. I left, and Mrs Malani said she felt sorry for me. She was convinced something had happened between me and my husband. This was not unusual; she had seen it happen again and again.

‘That was a quick visit,' my husband said when I returned home. ‘I thought I would go to bed on my own, like a widower,' he told me.

I knew when Mrs Malani jumped into her bed and stretched her feet, the snake would be waiting. It would take revenge for being disturbed and bite more than once. She would have had only enough time to put on her dressing gown and hobble to the kitchen before collapsing into a heap on the floor.

I gasped and put my head in my hands. I had always known Rabbia was tough, cruel and audacious, but never to the point of murdering Mrs Malani and depriving me of my only source of love.

Feeling like a stranger in my own life, I now knew why I had never fit into my family, why I had always felt alone even though surrounded by people, and why I must leave.

Then I prayed.
Lord, take me from this fearful pit and this miry mud. Put a sweet song in my mouth and lay a solid path for my life.

Joseph M Labaki was born in the Rif region of Morocco in 1950. After obtaining PhDs from the University of Louvain and the University of Southampton, he subsequently became the Professor du Chair at the University of Rabat. Upon moving to Scotland, he gained a BD from Edinburgh University, where he still lives in the city with his wife and two daughters.

His first book,
Inconscient et Sexualite
, was in the field of phenomenology, in which he continues to teach and research.
A Riffian's Tune
is his first novel.