Majlis Coffee / ريح السموم
by Fatema Al Darii
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
“Did you ever?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to.”
I shake my finjan to force eye contact between us. He notices the shaking cup, then tilts the dallah for a refill without meeting my eyes. Darn it.
Our relationship has always hung by a flimsy thread and, for the longest time, I avoided doing anything to strain it. Staring at the steam rising from my finjan, I feel a strong urge to ignore the fragility of this thread and tug at it harshly. I hear the sound of my sip against the silence of the majlis.
Seemingly restless, he switches from his usual cross-legged posture to stretching one leg ahead of him, then bending the leg closest to me upwards. He rests his free hand on the upright leg, and sips his coffee while maintaining eye contact with the rug below us. He scrunches his toes into it. I sip more coffee. Grainy sand scratches the windows and walls outside. It’s accompanied by the occasional rattling metal. The simoom winds are as harsh as I remember them to be — they make the silence between us even more tangible.
I scan his aging face, and I'm jarred by the deep lines on his puffy face. I don’t remember when his slim young frame puffed up.
“I guess I should start calling you old man Abood. Even your weight gain can’t hide those deep lines.”
“You were a fat kid, have some humility.”
“I was… in a very far and gone past. I don’t need humility.”
“Is that so? Be careful, that tongue of yours will get you into a lot of trouble in your life.”
“I’m 35 and doing just fine, thank you very much.”
His mouth swiftly drops from a laugh to a small pout. Finally looking up at me, he mirrors what I think my face looks like: sad, sagged, and surprised. His eyes glisten with the obvious but jarring realization that I have aged too.
I always got irritated with my brother for forgetting how old I am. He’d always tell people that I'm “maybe 25?” even though I’m turning 36 soon. When I was in my 20s, he playfully insisted to people that I was “maybe 15?” He did this so often I worried he genuinely believed what he was saying. I never asked him if he feigns forgetfulness or not, but I would mention my age on purpose at every given chance to remind him. Just in case.
I remember when Salim came to ask for my hand in marriage; Abdullah confided in his wife that he was against it because I’m too young for Salim and marriage in general. She told him that he must’ve lost his mind, reminding him that I’m much older than he was when he got married and that I’m, in fact, three years older than Salim.
The surprise kept him thrashing and turning in bed that night. According to her, she got so annoyed by his constant movement that she kicked him out of her bedside. He spent his sleepless night alone in the outer yard drinking coffee absentmindedly till sunrise. After a long busy morning selling his groceries at the Friday market, he finally slept later that afternoon. I stopped growing in his memory, and I didn’t realize that he stopped growing in mine too.
When I rang the bell to their house, my niece opened the door and it took her longer than it took me to realize who we were.
“Amo?” she asked, reaching out hesitantly.
“Yes, Hannan, it’s your Amo,” I confirmed in response and took her in a hug.
Last time I saw her she barely reached my waist. Now, she’s towering over me with her parents’ mixed features. The only thing that didn’t change are her monolids; those eyes are distinctly from her mom and one of the few things she shares with her brother. We can hear her muffled quarrel with him outside the majlis. We both let out a light chuckle.
“I was so worried about having a girl when she’d have a problematic aunt like you,” he playfully comments.
“I know. That’s why I’m so glad you eventually had one,” I respond sarcastically.
“Me, too.”
“You’re glad that you had her or that I am her problematic aunt?”
He lets out another chuckle and looks back into his finjan. I whirl my finjan and follow the swiveling steam floating from the dark coffee. This is stronger than your average Omani coffee. I’m sure he made it, not his wife. His breathing is suddenly audible and exhausted. He lets out a sigh.
“I didn’t think you’d ever come back. I thought our humble house wasn’t good enough for you.”
“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?” I snap back sharply.
I tense up ready for another response, but I relax when I hear him laugh. He raises his free hand in playful surrender. His crow lines deepen, and his beard fails to hide the lines that etch themselves around his mouth and extend to his nose.
“Ya Allah, how does your husband bear with you? I was just joking.”
“I wish you were. We both know you’re not.”
Another sigh. He pours another cup of coffee, and I think I see his eyes glisten with tears? The crow lines distract me for a moment. There was a time when they’d disappear into his resting neutral or stern face. His voice breaks my meditation.
“Why are you here?”
I furrow my eyebrows and frown in confusion before I respond.
“Um, the funeral. Why else? And in case you didn’t notice, the simoom is still blowing,” I wave my hand sarcastically.
“No, why are you here? You could’ve left immediately after the funeral.”
“We both know it’s not over; they would sooner strip her house naked and take everything before burying her if we weren’t around. Now that she’s actually buried, I’m…”
Sensing that he doesn’t want to hear what I have to say, I stop talking, put down my finjan, and cross my arms. He looks towards the closed door.
“I may not be as educated as you are, but I am your older brother. Can you at least respect that?”
“How am I being disrespectful right now?”
“I don’t need your help with this.”
“We both know that you do. We don’t need your pride to pull you and your family to destitution again.”
Familiar tension and rage fill the air. My deafening heartbeat rushes warm blood to my neck, slowly burning its way through my cheeks, ears, and concentrates in my forehead where it throbs. I consciously lock my jaws to prevent my rage from seeping out in wicked, hurtful words.
“I never understood where you got the audacity to speak like that in our family,” he finally says with surender in his voice.
Something replaces my rage. I’m not sure what it is, but I go limp with it. I’m tired.
“Why did you stay?” I ask with a hoarse voice that takes me by surprise.
“I don’t know. But I couldn’t hate you when you left, if that’s what you want to know.”
I lock my jaw again, and my neck aches from the muscle strain. He fishes a clean finjan from the water bowl, pours some more coffee, and gives it to me.
“You know I used to change your diapers? One time you did it on my shoulders at Mohammed Marhon’s dukan and they gave me diapers for free. Mostly because they adored you and felt bad for me.”
He makes me laugh despite me not wanting to. Overtaken by his sneaky humor, the laughing hurts my strained neck. I uncross my arms and take the cup he’s offering.
“Why don’t you send a newsletter to the entire country? Don’t forget to mention every other embarrassing thing you know about me.”
Our laughter made me realize the simoom wind stopped; the sand outside is still. I can visualize the yellow film of sand covering everything. Our mumble floods the majlis with a past we only know, and we laugh some more. The thread holding us together lies in front of me: it’s old, tired, and worn out — but somehow still intact.
Fatema Al Darii is a storyteller based in Muscat, Oman. She spends much of her time writing and reading, hiking outside the city, or traveling whenever she can. Her love for storytelling leads her to experiment with different genres, like the fictional story you just read. Fatema would love to hear your comments and feedback on Instagram @fatemaseyes!
Artist Bio: Jamila Mohammed is an Omani multidisciplinary artist with experience in drawing, calligraphy, and graphic design. She loves all things related to art, and you can connect with her via Instagram: @j6milart.