The Sunday Mail
Kok’s Tales with Robert Mshengu Kavanagh
(This is the fourth of six fictional episodes describing Adam Kok’s experiences in Egypt. They do not necessarily depict exactly what goes on in Egypt. Adam Kok had been sent to Cairo by his newspaper to report on the Warriors versus Egypt game and also to bring back some human interest stories. In the process, being the ladies’ man he is, he meets an Egyptian beauty. Unwittingly, he is trapped into a marriage.)
THE tasselled and richly decorated white tent soared above them as Adam and his bride sat together on a raised area covered in plush Persian carpets, woven with the thread of sumptuous dyes, intricate patterns and depictions of the famous love scenes of legend. Before them, were baskets of fruit, dates, pomegranates, figs and grapes. They drank perfumed rose wine from skilfully wrought golden goblets.
More at home guzzling in a Harare watering-hole, Adam was dressed like a Prince – one who, though only descended from the Emir named Adam Al-Kok, now seemed to have stepped out of the pages of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam or the tales of the Arabian nights.
On his head was a great turban and from his ears hung two large golden ear-rings. On his feet were soft velvet slippers with toes that curled upwards, sewn with gold ornaments. His robes were long, flowing and luxurious while at his side was strapped a vicious but resplendent golden scimitar, the curved sword with which the Muslims conquered the Middle East, North Africa, most of Spain, Greece and much of south eastern Europe.
Like Adam’s, Nourhan’s robes were rich and lush. His bride was totally covered. She wore the burqa, which, unlike the nikab, covers the eyes with a light veil, anda delicate golden headband. Only after the Imam had said the sacred words from the Koran, which would make them man and wife, would Adam be able to drink again from the beautiful pools which were his wife’s eyes.
Musicians played the traditional instruments of the desert tribes and dancing girls, veiled but with bellies and hips bare above long swirling skirts, danced their desert dances. Slowly they trod to the rhythm of the drum until, as the instruments came in and the music swelled, bodies and music fused. Wilder and wilder they danced until the breathless climax and a sudden stillness – when they would start all over again.
Between dances, a sheikh intoned with a deep voice the words of the Holy Koran, a strange but compelling cross between chanting and singing. The tribe of Abdullah Omar al-Islam had turned out in their numbers to celebrate the marriage of their daughter, the beautiful Nourhan, with this romantic and intriguing prince from the ancient island of Zimbawi off the coast of Africa – they from the North, he from the South – straddling two cultures, bringing two ancient African peoples together.
The wedding guests, too sat on costly carpets. Some were dressed in their traditional garb, others came in jeans, T-shirts, boots and slicked back black hair. One look at them made Adam shiver. He imagined that in their back pockets or somewhere there lurked menacing flick knives or the dull barrels of guns.
Adam and Nourhan’s wedding took place in the narrow, crowded streets of old Cairo. Although, surrounded by modern traffic jams, slummy tenement blocks and flyovers, in this part of the city are to be found ancient mosques, marketplaces and the souks that sell traditional crafts and commodities – carpets, jewellery, Egyptian gold, perfumes, brass ornaments and intricately-framed mirrors.
But how had Rudo’s husband and my old comrade from Harare come to be in such a situation? What had happened after Adam had desperately covered his nakedness with the duvet as the two aunties entered to inspect the sheet and then unleashed the shrillest mhururu Adam had ever heard when they saw the tell-tale drops of blood?
There had been great rejoicing on the hotel landing at the sight of the sheet. Nourhan, they told each other with pride, had held the reputation of her people and her family high. Their honour, for which they were prepared to kill and die, was safe.
Nourhan was then whisked away by the women. Adam was told to wash and then likewise whisked off – to someone’s flat, where an older man, assisted by two young men, dressed him up for his wedding.
“Comrade, when I saw myself in the mirror, I nearly died,” said Adam, when he told me the story.
“First with shock and then with laughter. Me, Adam Kok, the Griqua, in all that stuff. I was never one for dressing up or taking part in plays, Jack. These guys were trying to make a fool of me, I thought.”
But Adam had no say in the matter. And that is how he found himself sitting next to Nourhan, sipping watery rose wine when he would much rather have had a good single malt whiskey – and he was beginning to need it. Because he began to realise that the few words he had uttered to unlock the door to the pleasures of Nourhan’s body, had landed him in deep trouble.
How was he going to find a way out of this mess before it was too late? If he didn’t think of something pretty soon he would be trapped forever in Egypt, married to a desert princess, who in real life served customers in a Cairo restaurant. Goodbye Rudo – and what about Nesta, Ngulube, his editor, his job, his life? I cannot say I am glad to relate that he even thought of me – his comrade – as by this time I was appalled by my friend’s behaviour.
More of that later.
All this talk of family honour and killing and dying for it had made Adam distinctly nervous. He knew he was going to have to make a getaway sooner or later and, when he did, there were a lot of people who were not going to be at all happy about what he had done to their daughter – won her heart, stole her maiden head and then dumped her on her wedding day!
No family honour could survive that. And when it came to killing and dying he knew exactly who was going to do the killing and who the dying. A lot of these guys looked like they killed for breakfast. Adam had seen the scimitars – and what about the knives and maybe even guns?
Somehow he had to find a way to get out of the tent, dash over to the hotel, pick up his stuff and get to the airport in time to catch his plane back to Harare without being caught. It was already getting late.
Now was the time because he could see the guy in a long robe and a big beard, most likely the Imam, kind of warming up to enter the arena and he suspected this was going to be the man who would pronounce the fatal words from the Koran which would make him and Nourhan man and wife – finish!
There was an uncle sitting just behind his right shoulder to explain what was going on and what the bridegroom was supposed to do. So Adam asked him where the toilet was. The uncle looked a bit browned off. For the mukuwasha to go off to the toilet just before the vows was pretty bad form – but what could he do?
He showed Adam out of the tent into some rooms at the back of the hall – the tent had been pitched inside a hall, the kind of hall we have weddings in here in Zimbabwe. Adam waited till his escort had left him and scampered – turban, robes, pointed slippers and all – out into the street. There he jettisoned the turban and the scimitar he wore round his waist and set off to find a taxi.
That is not difficult to do in Cairo and soon he was on his way to the hotel.
He was sure that it would not be long before they found out that the bird had flown and then all hell was going to break loose! So he wasted no time at all in the hotel. A quick change, throwing his things into his suitcase and he was in the lift going down to Reception to check out.
Lifts can give you ulcers when you are in a hurry – but when you know you have killers on your trail ulcers are your least worry. He had no sooner begun to settle his bill when he heard two motor cars pull up in front of the hotel with a screech of brakes and their hooters shrieking.
The doors flew open and there were the wedding guests, the ones in jeans and T-shirts, about to burst into the hotel lobby.
To access previous Kok Tales, go to https://rmshengukavanagh.wordpress.com
