Eternal Journey by Ben Dosso

Author:Ben Dosso
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
Published: 2019-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

Morocco

A new sun was rising at the horizon above the buildings with red facades of Morocco, seaside cities of many wild cats. The generosity was over there. Samba Diallo and Little Boy and other travelers in their journeys couldn’t die from hunger thanks to bread donations. Despite the poverty and the mixture of the hypocrisy, some people could give a hand to others for the respect of their tradition. But some people were making donations because of the pressure of the cultural myths. Others, by contrast, did so by generosity. The population was charitable despite an exaggerated racism. The journey could be finished there. Because the two boys, Samba Diallo and Little Boy, were immediately fascinated by the architectures with red facades and the traditional potteries unique in its kind. The cultural landscape of Berber sounds and dances was some spectacle, rich in poetry colors. The folklore stories across the whole country and its famous riads, traditional Moroccan house or palace with an interior garden or courtyard. The relieving heat of the Turkish bath. The beautiful beaches with fine sands, the beauty of the landscape and the blue color of the Mediterranean Sea. As for the cuisine, it was a Mediterranean cuisine characterized by the variety of dishes, mainly Arab and Berber origin with a Jewish influence. It was also reflecting the history of the country and its people who settle there: orange salad scented with cinnamon, the spicy tajine, and the unforgettable appetizing savor of couscous shared every Friday after the prayer of Jummah (Friday prayer). Furthermore, Samba Diallo was passionate about the kisses on the forehead of old people for the cultural respect of elder people and the kisses on the king’s hand for the majestic respect for all symbols that represent the kingdom, but he was suddenly upset by the young girls left behind after a sexual aggression. This category of young girls marginalized who no longer belonged to the society because they were no longer virgin and these many elderly people left behind because they were no longer useful to the society. And he wanted to settle, hoping to go back to school with Little Boy if his own decisions were his. In his backpack of a beggar, there were some scattered dreams, some melancholy poetic phrases, and rhymes filled with misspellings that he thought to take care of it.

But Samba Diallo’s dirty mouth of a negro and his faded eyes that were making him want to dream were not welcomed. The fresh wind was poisoned of a huge wave of discrimination. Samba Diallo’s color had a meaning. The masculine name given to people of his color was Azi. The feminine of Azi was Azia and the docile synonym of all these names was “mon ami” and “mon amia,” all derogatory terms. In the street, everyone used to hold their noses not to breathe the wind around him, believing he did not know the cost of a water drop from the pump. Yet he wasn’t stinking like the infamous perfume of mongoose.

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