Chaste As It Was! (Short Story)

[Abtigiis]

Chaste As It was

Part One

 

Whoever was occupying the solitary toilet, I thought, must be dead or obnoxiously insensitive. For how else could I explain a man sitting in a desolate toilet for over fifteen minutes now? As if he was reading my mind, a man way back in the slowly forming queue grumbled, ‘Is this cursed creature inside, mistaking this stinking toilet for a sauna room adorned with gold moldings, silk drapes and crystal chandeliers?’ the impatient man rubbed his stubble for a moment, and wagged his finger, admonishingly, at the mysterious occupant of the small pit latrine. ‘He must come out in the next thirty seconds or else, I am going to throw him out!’ he yelled. Giggles were traded.

 

For all that time, I stood in front of the toilet in that dusty airport, waiting for my turn to come. The pain in my bladder was excruciating. But I kept reminding myself of the virtues of patience and empathy. Empathy to the man inside, who I had no idea what he was going through? I knew it was at such testing moments that temper is never allowed to reign.

 

‘Seriously, this man is (miraculously) giving birth to twins and is not relieving himself’, said a cheeky man, munching green leafs of Qat as he aimlessly strode past me. Subconsciously gazing at the handwritten sign that read ‘Toilet, no use of stones permitted’, I saw my old school in it. Twenty two years ago, we were the graduating class.

 

Tales abounded, in the school, why Haybe was getting so many love missives lately, all of a sudden. For three years, he was the man every one of us pulled his leg. We knew he was at his wits end when it comes to finding a caring lover. As we dash to the post office to collect love letters from our ‘fiancés’, he was the lone member of the contingent who had naught to attend to. And God, what a hard time we gave him! He was the man all of us recited our valor to, and who listened to it patiently as Quresh, Ruqiya, Asli, Dulmar and many more girl’s secrets spurted to the floor.

 

Nevertheless, that final year of our study, started off with many surprises. Of which, the deluge of Haybe’s serene life with letters was the most astonishing. Not only was he receiving a notice of a newly arrived letter (week in week out), but the names and locations on the ‘from’ side of the envelopes -plaid with red and blue on the corners- were equally startling. Unlike the old and boring names which we used to brag about, his were newer and fancier. And not all from the rural homes we came from. Ibtisam from Liboye (Kenya), Hani from Mogdisho, Taslim from Hargeisa, Ugbaad from Galcayo etc, etc. ‘Where the hell did you meet all these girls? And how do you rate them?’ we implored him for explanation, green with envy. For it was always more appetizing to be in touch with Hani than Quresh, we thought.

 

They were not in short supply. Yes, tales were coming in multitude. Some said, he has been going around all these places during the school vacation; while others insisted many of these girls are pen-pals whom he never met. In fact, the girl from Liboye refuge camp was said to be his niece who fled the war in Somalia with her family. But that must be the chatter of disgruntled peers amongst us. I saw one letter from her, and I think it contained ‘macaane Haykal’. Now, we all knew there was no way Haybe would render his correct name to the girls. It sounded so frightening, and symbolized charcoal. So Haykal is the ‘nom de amour’ we understood.

 

What was most infuriating for us was the content of the letters. Contrary to the ‘how is your health? Here I and everybody else is fine, and wishes you good health’ cliché-filled white papers from Dulmar’s and Canbaro’s (as if they were our family-doctor’s painstakingly checking on our sugar levels); his were embellished with pictures of hearts and scents of rose, with mellow and sublime ‘side tahay, qalbiga? Waxa aan xassuustaa…’ type uplifting passages.

 

It was by accident that one of us found out that Haybe himself actually drafts the letters purported to have been sent by the girls and then sends to his address from another post office. He caught him red-handed while doing it. It was painful to learn the extent our reckless scoff impacted on his self-esteem. He finally confessed, tearfully. ‘I was sick and tired of being the deuteragonist all these years’ he sobbed. That closed the curtain on his luscious sources of self-worth. We vowed never to dishearten him again.

[Abtigiis]

For MMA's Appraisal. i thought you said you like funny stories. or was that my imagination. Anyway,,,

[Abtigiis]

For MMA's Appraisal. I thought you said you like funny stories. or was that my imagination. Anyway,,,

[Kool_Kat]

we implored him for explanation, green with envy.

I guess all of his hard work @ {pictures of hearts and scents of rose, with mellow and sublime ‘side tahay, qalbiga? Waxa aan xassuustaa…’ type uplifting passages.} was all worth it...

 

Don't mind me, nacnacees lee iga tahay...

[Abtigiis]

It is a true story.

[Jacaylbaro]

what is this story doing in the politics ??

[Abtigiis]

War anigu meel ma kala lehi ee bal wareeji dee! dadkaad nagu soo jeedinaysaa? waa ku sidee!

[Kool_Kat]

Originally posted by J.a.c.a.y.l.b.a.r.o:

what is this story doing in the politics ??

And here I thought there was a political message behind the story... :mad:

 

Don't mind me, still nacnacees lee iga tahay...

[Miskiin-Macruuf-Aqiyaar]

Abtiga, adiga maa qortay sheekada, masii socotaana? It is an interesting one waaye.

 

I'd have liked if magacyo unique Soomaali names ku dari lahayd, though, instead of "Ibtisaam, Tasliin..." Magacyadaan qaabka daran cusub ee Carbeed aniga allergy ayaan ku qaadaa, LoL.

 

Nice story again, and I hope you wouldn't mind if I move it to General section, where it is more appropriate.