The Facilitator (Fiction)

Organized crime is just like every other organization, some small scale and some large scale. Business is business.

She smiled as she parked her car; if this had been anywhere other than Sudan, she would have had to take precautions against being recognized or photographed. Home, sweet home; no worries.

She walked up the stairs to an office, noting that the building was identical to dozens of others in downtown Khartoum. Nondescript can be a good thing, she thought. She pushed open the partially opened door and found herself in a miniature lobby. The kind that should act as a reception but oftentimes didn’t, an administrative wasteland.

A man got up from his desk in an inner office, indicating the direction she should take.

She walked in and without further ado, she said, “Her name is Arwa Ahmed, she lives in Al Manshia”, as she sat down in front of the desk.

“I’ll find her”, he replied.

“How much?” she asked, clutching her purse.

“No charge, a little treat for the boys, they won't want any money”, he smirked.

“And you?” she asked, “What's your charge?”

He looked at her and she could see him lick his lips for a moment, as he pretended to wipe his brow.

“This heat!” He exclaimed, deciding against making any remarks that would get him in trouble with the Doc. “You come from the Doc and you want to pay me? I am honored to be of service.” His intense stare indicated that this quote was to be conveyed verbatim.

Back to business, he asked, “Any special requests, a video perhaps?”

“You know what to do,” she said, “I won't tell you how to do your job.”

She stood up and stuck her hand out matter-of-factly, not flinching as he gave her a firm yet gentle handshake, gauging her reaction. She looked him in the eye, “I'll know when it's done, you don't have to call me. Good bye.”

She allowed herself to sweat as she walked back to her car. She turned on the air conditioning and locked the doors, then pulled out an antiseptic wipe and disinfected her hands, then her face, neck and arms for good measure. As she wiped off the encounter, she couldn't help wondering if she would have found the Facilitator attractive in another setting. Dark, big, burly but she quickly dismissed the notion. His round shoulders were a turn off.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and in no way refers to real characters in Sudan, Khartoum or Manshia. Get over yourself.

What No One Told Me About Having Kids

1. The moment you hold your child you know with all of your being, that you will kill anyone and anything to protect your baby.
2. You will be periodically covered in spit-up.
3. There will come a day when every family member is sleeping in the same bed.
4. You will touch poop with your bare hands.
5. Children can go without food for days.
6. Constipation, constipation, constipation.
7. Their pain physically hurts you more than your own.
8. A smile will turn your heart to jelly.
9. Innocuous objects take on horrifying "potential hazard" status.
10. There is no “off” button for mommyhood.
11. You pray for your children’s health and safety with every breath you take.
12. You do not comprehend how other people do not find your child enchanting.
13. The sight of children in their pajamas never gets old.
14. You develop a supersonic sense of hearing.
15. You can identify individual potty requirements via smell.
16. Tantrums pass.
17. Neither Dr. Phil nor Supernanny will always approve of your parenting methods.
18. You will translate for your spouse and other people what your child said, puzzling at the fact that they did not understand it in the first place.
19. You will kiss your children till they squeal or cry.
20. Children can and will cause you considerable bodily harm but you will sit patiently as they try to gouge your eyes out, tear off your ears, bite your nose and jaw, stamp your feet and dislocate your fingers.
21. You will never be able to tell your children how much you love them.
22. Your children will think you are ridiculous very early in their lives; it is not an adolescent thing.
23. Your heart will stop when you look into your child’s eyes.
24. Nothing is more fun than the games we make up with our children.
25. The only thing more beautiful than a sleeping baby is a baby waking up smiling.

Things you will be thankful for:
1. These tiny personal miracles.
2. Pampers.
3. The fact that children are 100% washable.
4. Unsolicited hugs and kisses.
5. Your parents.
6. Barney.
7. Spacetoon.
8. French fries and chicken nuggets.
9. Naps
10. Daycare.
11. Doors.
12. Time out.
13. Laughter.
14. Help.

At least once a day, you will…
1. Only pretend to listen to your spouse and/or children.
2. Hide from your children in undignified ways.
3. Wonder how on earth you got here.
4. Tell yourself you never signed on for this.
5. Do a double take in front of the mirror.
6. Think about death
7. Experience a moment of pure happiness and love, like no other.
8. Cry for no apparent reason.
9. Doubt yourself.
10. Know with absolute conviction that you have made the right decision, contrary to popular belief, expert opinion, textbooks or Google.
11. Take photographs with your mind.
12. Throw your head back and laugh.
13. Rack your brains to answer a simple question posed by your child (“Why” and “What is that?” are the original pitfalls).
14. Observe your child in complete awe.
15. Think of your parents with newfound love and respect.

We hope we have been of service. Send us some of your own Marriage and Motherhood Facts.

This too was written in June 2010. Also never published, and I will sue your rear end if you try to plagiarize this or any of my work. Thank you:-)

What No One Told Me About Marriage.

You Are Not Alone:

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage.

So, goes the saying. But they left a large chunk out.

Marriage; there’s a reason it’s called an institution.

I will not say I walked into this institution bright-eyed and naïve. I like to think I kind of knew what to expect. I was so wrong. The following is what I did not know, which is surprisingly everything. I have been blessed, I know, and I am thankful for my husband and children. No harm in some humorous analysis of the situation. Wives and mothers may relate to some points and not others. Husbands, this is how it looks like from where we’re sitting. You’ll get your chance to state your perspective too. As for those on the verge of beginning this venture, please take the time to educate yourselves.

If you think that getting married means living a continuous whirlwind romance, with a boyfriend for life, you are wrong. I will outline many of the misconceptions that strike a newly married woman. Some she comprehends immediately, while others take a while. Some days, some of these realities are more relevant than others, so, in no particular order, here we go…

A husband does not catch his breath and tell you how beautiful you are every time you dress up. He will probably just nod his head, and ask, “Can we go now?”

When you sit in the dark crying, your husband does not wipe away your tears. Contrary to our Hollywood/Bollywood expectations, he will not wipe away the tears gently with the back of his hand, cup your face, gaze deeply in your eyes and tell you, with absolute conviction, that everything is going to work out, just let him handle it. He may ask (with a touch of exasperation), “What’s wrong now?”(Sometimes the ‘now’ is silent).

A husband is very different from a boyfriend. A husband may spend an entire day thinking of you, but not in a good way.

Listening to Freddie Jackson over the years, may cause you, very very early on in your marriage, to wake your husband up in the middle of the night, to tell him that you can’t sleep. Don’t. He will not think it is charming, he will not ask you why nor will he try to talk it through with you, as you drink the glass of warm cocoa he got up and prepared.

As a modern woman, in modern times, you probably had lengthy discussions prior to marriage, broadly outlining each spouse’s “responsibilities”. He will have stated various preferences, with varying emphases. You will have stated specific chores that you are not comfortable with, or delightfully ignorant of. Some days, these “discussions” are light-hearted, pedantic and specific. Other days, they became heated; phones were shut, doors were slammed, and text exchanges ranged from pointed comments to, eventually, conciliatory text messages.

When you move into your love nest, you will congratulate yourself on having “agreed” on all the important issues. Too soon. You will then find yourself in a situation where you soon discover: your home, your responsibility. However much you may enjoy the initial bickering and loving banter, you will wise up to the fact that if something is not done it’s your fault (“You didn’t remind me” is a phrase men actually use with a straight face) and if you want something done, it is easier or more effectively accomplished when you take the reins. (The term passive-aggressive comes to mind, but let’s not start labeling the menfolk just yet).

Having your kingdom “just so” is nice. However, there are some days when your house is not picture perfect, and that is just fine.

Contrary to popular belief, modern science has approved the following: you will go to bed angry. You do not have to resolve each and every issue just in time for everyone involved to get a good night’s sleep. Recent studies reveal that it is alright to sleep on it, and thank heaven for that, because good luck finding a man who wants to talk about your relationship issues late into the night.

You may be blessed with the best husband in the world, and some of the above statements will still be applicable. Marriage is a two-way street, and we are only human, regardless of our husbands’ insistence that we are angels:-|, this fact we must concede. Unlike many of our regional sisters, women in Sudan are blessed with a voice we are not afraid to use, loud and often. I like to think that our men do not consider us inferior, and treat us with respect.

The reality of marriage is vastly different from our original expectations. The sooner you realize the existence of differences, embrace the changes and implement them into your life, the happier you will be. Celebrate the differences.

I believe that the most important aspect of any venture is a positive attitude. Laugh more. It will lower your blood pressure, and draw positive people to you. Put your family first in your priority list. Take the time, make the effort. I guarantee this is one venture where you will be generously rewarded.

And, finally, when it comes to marriage, there are no guarantees.

I wrote this article June 2010 but it was never published.

Severance Pay in Sudan - or Lack Thereof

Severance Pay in Sudan – or Lack Thereof

We live in a society where people think they are terribly clever for withholding monies due. This can be a buyer defaulting on a final payment, someone who “borrowed” money, or an employer delaying employee salaries and payments, in addition to various people from various walks of life who owe each other money for one reason or another. This has become an acceptable form of petty entertainment and self congratulation.

It is an indicator of a man, the manner he treats people he perceives as inferior to him, in status, grade or organizational hierarchy. It is the mark of a great man, who can deal fairly and even-handedly with all people, regardless of standings he knows does not exist. Such is my father. May Allah bless him and my mother with good health and prosperity.

“Would you laugh if I told you I forgot?” says the former Employer, laughing all by himself. A deadpan reaction prompted a switch to defensive mode, “People forget you know. Don’t BE like that” and then, a fallback on an old favorite, disputing the basis for payment in the first place. Sadly predictable, you clever clever, petty man. And, later defending the dispute, as a “response” to a remark I made.

AFTER PAYMENT – Which happened to be the next day after sitting myself on a prayer rug, and submitting my fate to my Creator (SWT). My livelihood is in His hands, and He granted me, what was mine. In spite of, in this case literally, Man’s best efforts.

Only a bad person would make you wait six months for monies due, after “asking” you to sign a legal waiver, and two months after a texted “promise” to resolve things within “a week”. Then, try and make YOU feel bad about it, saying that you “forced” him to “borrow it”, with the “so you get out of my face, you money-grabbing, gold-digger” thinly veiled. He goes on to tell you that you’re a “disappointment” when it “comes to money”. Well, right back at you, ya Mowlaana, right back at you. Hope your VIP Hajj isn’t too much of a hassle this year.

Also stated, among my many failings, was my attitude and tone of voice. Excuse me if I let out a yelp as the repo men, or their Sudanese equivalent, swagger up my virtual driveway. It’s like dialing 911, and the operator says, “Don’t you take that tone of voice with me. You want help, you better change your attitude, and speak respectfully” or some such crap. Which is all it is. Crap. The refuge of the cornered tyrant.

He went on to explain that he had found my request for a post-dated check “offensive” because he doesn’t “have a checkbook”. He finds checkbooks offensive, but has no problem with credit cards, and if you are a casual observer of Islamic banking, you will know what is wrong with his declaration. So, the devout believer is selective in his applications. Surprise, surprise. Needless to say, the golden directive in Islam regarding the Employer, is the Prophet’s (PBUH) instruction to pay the employee, “before the sweat dries on his brow”. That is another peace of Islamica, like taxation and severance pay, our hero chose to disregard.

Nothing is more admirable than the fortitude with which millionaires tolerate the disadvantages of their wealth.

- Rex Stout

SCENES FROM KHARTOUM - I

SCENES FROM KHARTOUM
Part I

THE HOSPITAL:
This is a glimpse of the things I’ve seen in the past 24 hours. And when I say “glimpse” I mean that literally because most of it was through my peripheral vision to avoid eye contact.

Yesterday, I went to the hospital. Generally, when you’re not sick, a visit to the hospital can be extremely annoying or highly amusing, I chose amusing.

Being in what I have estimated as the middle of my third pregnancy, I judged the time adequate to visit the doctor. Since beggars can’t be choosers[1], I drove to the nearest hospital and registered with the available OB/GYN.

If you know me, you will know that I’m not the type to chat people up in the waiting room. Being forced to wait my turn in a hot corridor, I thanked God and my husband for my iPhone which came equipped with an unlimited number of time killers. So, between various games of Domino and Chuzzle, in addition to texting an old friend, I sat – leaving only to complain to the desk about people cutting lines. The man assured me that the two offenders were the doctor’s cousins (welcome to Sudan) but he placed one firmly after me on the virtual list.

After about 45 minutes, which I considered reasonable by local standards, I entered the[2] treatment/consultation room. The doctor got up, but only to usher in the rejected cousin.
As the cousin explained that she got an unexplainable fever at night, as an avid fan of “The Doctors”, I was thinking “hot flashes?” “Pre-menopausal?” but in simple terms, the doctor told the blushing[3] bride that her body was getting ready to have babies “ovulating!” I agreed, but I’d never associated that with a fever. After discussing this fever at length, suspicions, times, intensity, locations, etc. and as the patient was getting ready to walk out, she added, “oh and there are these” showing the doctor her arm, “Herpes!” she exclaimed, “WHAT?!! WHAT?!!” went the silent me. “What’s that?” asked the innocent bride from behind her veil[4], “A type of virus,” was the calm reply from the doctor who had managed to collect herself”. She wrote out a blood screen for the lady and turned to me. I actually managed to avoid comment, and proceed with my exam. And to answer the implied question, I really don’t think she washed her hands but I didn’t see her touch the lesions either, but what do I know?

A few hours later, I found myself in another corridor equipped with powerful fans that were uniformly distributing the heat so no one felt left out. This time around, the virtual list had a myriad of people with one very vocal lady who had taken on the role of patient advocate/hospital watchdog/nagging whiner.

She explained to the world at large that she’d passed her due date by 2 days, and the doctor wasn’t doing anything about it. In her opinion, the doctor should induce labor, like the other doctors in Jordan did, when she had her first child. She wanted to know why the ultrasounds were taking so long. She wanted to know why there was only one machine in the hospital. She wanted to know why there were men waiting for the ultrasound. She wanted to know why there were old women who were clearly not pregnant waiting. She wanted to know the “month” and order of pregnancy of all the women in line.
She wanted to know when the doctor had started his shift and what he’d been doing before that. She wanted to know why the power extension cord went out of order, and, I quote, “what kind of doctor short-circuits an extension cord[5]?” when she heard the reason.
She wanted to know when everyone before her in line came to the hospital and where they’d been before they came to the waiting corridor, and why they were watching TV in the reception while others waited in front of the examination room.
After all the above, she would go back to her main theme that she was two days, TWO DAYS, past her due date, and the hospital wasn’t doing anything about it.

I was replying, mentally, up to a certain point that it got too much and I made the colossal mistake of speaking out loud. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a mistake, just me thinking I could entertain myself and kill the time since I wasn’t going anywhere in the foreseeable future.

I started by telling the lady that two days after the due date is perfectly normal, and the doctors will wait up to 2 weeks, “10 days, she tells me” not sure whether to brand the doctor or myself with ignorance. “10 days is reasonable, the main thing is to make sure that the baby is safe and not in any form of distress”. In Jordan (the equivalent of medical heaven in Sudanese culture), they found my water was 1cm less and they induced labor”. I am no doctor, but 1 centimeter? Where did that come from? “The doctors check the water[6] to make sure that the baby is getting nourishment, so if it’s good, the baby’s fed, if it’s not, the baby needs to come out”.

To emphasize my credibility and add a personal touch to my rhetoric, I also delved into my personal experience with the first two pregnancies, answering her queries about how late the deliveries were, who my attending doctor was, and what prompted induced labor.

“So, it’s all about the water?” she asked. “Well, your health, the health of the baby, pulse, etc.” I said. “What if the water is good and the baby comes out?” I actually managed to not scream. “When you’re ready to have the baby, your water breaks that means the baby is ready to come out”. At this point, the woman lost interest in the conversation, she was running out of comebacks and she wasn’t looking good to her audience of choice, so fell silent for a millisecond.

“I want this baby out!”
“Why?” I chided to everyone’s amusement, “It’s hot, there are daily blackouts, and the baby’s comfortable where he is.”
“I want to get this over with”

Any woman past her due date knows exactly how this feels but I wasn’t in the mood to sympathize, I was enjoying my unofficial role as medical expert and devil’s advocate – besides the woman had annoyed the crap out of everyone (meaning me). However, I understood that her anxiety stemmed not from the fact that she was desperate to see her unborn child or had grown tired from carrying the extra weight around but because she had a whole production in place that she wanted to get started.
Sudanese culture encourages birthing mothers to plan and execute an extensive presentation for the new arrival. This ranges from changing the furniture, curtains and flooring, buying a new wardrobe of lingerie to present herself in, changing all the gold accessories that she will wear 24/7, regardless of how painful they are and the potential harm they will cause the baby (in my humble opinion, rings and bracelets constitute the equivalent of razors waiting to slice), perfumes galore, ending this saga with the confectionary that will have been baked or purchased to celebrate this long-awaited event.
Please note that all of the above has absolutely nothing to do with the baby. The child will be lucky if he/she finds a crib in all these purchases. It’s absolutely ridiculous, and in this country, a game I refuse to play, another round of ammunition to those that accuse me of being “anti-social”.

Back to our veiled (hospital was full of them yesterday) patient advocate.

Now, she also imparted wisdom, let’s give her that. Some of my critics might argue that I can’t be in the same place as someone else imparting knowledge, but my response to this criticism is that there would be no problem if the woman wasn’t misinforming these poor defenseless people who had to sit through her tirade.

One patient asked if the machine was 3-dimensional, “Yes”, she replied, “it says ‘فوق الصوتية’” she explained, “that means, ‘three dimensional’[7]”.
“Actually, it means ‘ultra-sound’”, I interjected.
“No, it doesn’t”
Before this promising dialogue could go any further, my turn came up, and we will leave it there.

[1] Having missed three reservations with my specialist of preference since my mob frowns on my leaving the house in the evenings when they’re awake, and leave me too exhausted to go when they’re in bed.
[2] Wandered off googling the name of the check-up room, the architect in me took over, started downloading design briefs for reference.
[3] I use the term loosely, since we’re black here.
[4] Please note that in our part of the world, this is a personal choice and not mandatory.
[5] دة دكتور شنو بتضرب ليهو وصلة؟
[6] Amniotic fluid if you want to be technical, but don’t count on this conversation making sense anyway.
[7] To any reader that is not familiar with the language, she was saying “ultra-sound” in Arabic.

American Television in the Middle East

• "The Biggest Loser" version for arabs is called "The Biggest Winner" because the two words are apparently interchangeable to soothe arab egos.


• Rachael Ray has hosted "how to be tacky on a budget" too many times for it to be amusing anymore, let alone endearing.


• Why do we have "So You Think You Can Dance"?


• HATE soap operas, and now programming has devoted HOURS to Turkish(!) soap operas in addition to the american ones.


• We get ET & The Insider, CBS The Early Show & Good Morning America one day late. Letterman fluctuates between a couple of days and re-runs. The View (when it was on) was a month late (Elisabeth Hasselbeck looking angelical and spouting hatred of just about anything except her children).


• Oprah, of course, has a devoted following that will watch her regardless of when the show was taped, or if they're going to implement the fashion tips. Ditto for Dr. Phil, although what was that whole bit about the American girl that ran off with an Arab guy? "Her life in danger" blah blah? Are we all terrorists now? Love the show but actually didn't watch that episode(s).


• CSI's - gotta love 'em. With their intricate stories that include the ability to track shoe prints and t-shirts. I told myself the other day that they solve normal crimes with plausible plots and straightforward evidence and database-d fingerprints but those cases lacked the drama & flair to make it to tv.