Where is Manar?
Book One: The Twin Star
Chapter 7: The Weight of Ordinary Days
—
Should I be angry? Or happy that he launched a counterattack? And how did he figure out the password?
Better not to open that can of worms. If he asks, I'll say I knew all along — changed the ringtone myself ages ago. That way, he doesn't get to celebrate his tiny victory.
BRRRING BRRRING. Click.
"Hey, Saloom. How's it going, man?" I answered.
"Hey, Sami. Thank God. Listen, I need a haircut today. Got any openings?"
"Yeah, I have a slot at 9:30. Works for you?"
"Perfect, bro. I'll be there at nine."
"All yours. Later." Click.
Oof. I exhaled smoke.
After hanging up, I decided to head to work — almost time. Seven people today. Gotta cut some hair.
Went home. Handed the game console to Mom. Explained the situation. Finished my lunch.
"Great job, Mom. Lunch was really good today." I carried my dishes to the sink.
"Glad you liked it. Learned it from Hind yesterday — she suggested I try it. Seems it worked — your father loved it too."
Hind. Jawad's mother. The one whose console I just confiscated.
"Dad loved it? What a surprise!"
"Yeah, that's what made me happy. You know your father — doesn't like trying new dishes. Sticks to traditional food."
"Yeah, he's complicated when it comes to foo — OW."
I didn't finish. A smack landed on the back of my head.
"You don't get to talk about your father like that." Mom went back to washing dishes.
At least wipe the dish soap off your glove before hitting me.
"Okay, okay. You know I didn't mean anything bad." I tried to wipe the soap off my head. Damn. Now I need another shower.
"Doesn't matter. You crossed the line. Using words I don't like to describe your father."
"Fine. Whatever you say. I know I'll lose this argument anyway." I walked toward the stairs and started climbing.
"Have you ever seen me be wrong about you?" Mom's voice followed me. She kept washing dishes.
Does she ever give anyone room to say she's wrong?
"Okay, bye Mom." I tried to end the discussion. I'm a... busy man. Yes. Busy. No time for this.
—
Upstairs. Down the hallway. Carried my slippers until I reached my room. Crept inside.
Then — jumped forward. Spun around. Checked if Lonely was there. Gotta greet him properly.
As I turned, I saw him 🦎 — racing across the wall toward the gap in the false ceiling.
I threw my weapon instantly. It whistled through the air, closing in.
But the guy has eyes in the back of his head. Swerved suddenly. Changed trajectory like a Formula 1 pro. The slipper missed by a hair. He didn't care. Kept going. Slipped through the gap. Gone.
Fifth mark on the wall now. The collateral damage of our ongoing war — a conflict no less intense than Russia and Ukraine's. Or the other way around?
Doesn't matter. One of us is a gecko. The other... never mind. The slipper is a strategic weapon. Lonely can attest to that.
—
Showered quickly. Dried my hair. Chose a loose olive-green t-shirt, black jeans, black shoes. Didn't forget the cigarettes or my phone this time. Checked everything. Said goodbye to Lonely. Headed out.
—
"Thami... come back... sweeties." Manar waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, near Wolf.
She wanted sweets — condition: Mom approves. I picked her up, kissed her, continued down.
"Okay, sweetheart. Where's my goodbye kiss?" I offered my cheek. Payment upfront.
"Mwah... don't... forget."
"As the moon commands." With some appetizers I never tire of.
"Okay, Manar. Bedtime." Mom appeared and took her from my arms.
"Mom, need anything from the market on my way back?"
"No, son. Your father got everything."
"Alright. Bye." I put on my shoes at the door.
"Bye bye... don't forget... sweeties."
"Won't forget, my cupcake."
"Go with God." Mom closed the door behind me.
—
Walking to work. Greeted everyone I knew. Most of the neighborhood knows me or my family.
Saw an old man struggling to open his small grocery store. Approached to help.
"Hello, Grandpa Mujahid. How are you today?" I lifted the shutter.
"Hey, Sami, my boy. Thank you. I've gotten old — can't bend as easily as before."
This man is like a grandfather to me. To all the neighborhood kids. Watched over us when we were young — always there when we played outside.
We'd gather at his shop. Buy things. Try to steal sweets with his grandson. He'd just laugh, hand us the candy for free, and say: if you want something, just ask. No need to steal.
Wise. Responsible. Loved by everyone in the neighborhood.
"Nonsense, Grandpa. Still young in my book." I helped arrange things, pulled out the cardboard boxes.
"Dad! I told you to wait for me! Why are you always in such a hurry?" A woman's voice from outside. Shaima. I stepped out to greet her.
"Hey, Auntie Shaima. How are you?" I carried the boxes.
"Hey, Sami. Thank God. Thanks as always — we're always troubling you." She smiled.
"What trouble? Just some boxes. How's Ali — back from his trip?"
"He'll arrive this evening, God willing. Took the 9 AM train. Told me when I called." She carried the last two boxes out.
"I'll stop by later then, God willing."
"You're always welcome."
"Alright, Grandpa, Auntie — take care. Bye." I started walking.
"Wait, Sami — take this juice." Grandpa Mujahid hurried after me with a bottle.
"No need, Grandpa. I drank before leaving."
"Take it, Sami. You know my father." Auntie Shaima came out with a broom, ready to sweep the street.
"Okay. Thanks, Grandpa." I took it and said goodbye.
Ali's coming back tonight. He traveled to Baghdad for the national boxing championship. Professional boxer. Strongest in our group. Most reliable too.
He's been working since he was young — after his father was killed during the previous regime. Never dropped out of school. Finished his studies. Graduated. Works now as a coach at Al-Ittihad Club.
He tried multiple times to close Grandpa Mujahid's shop — wanted the old man to rest. But Grandpa won't stay home. Ali eventually gave up.
—
"Hey, Sami!" A familiar voice from the end of the street. I raised my hand to three faces I knew well.
"Hey, you lot. How's it going?"
"Hey, Sami. We're meeting at Salah's tonight — me and Karrar. You coming?" Amer. Salah. Karrar. Neighborhood guys. Professional headaches.
"Not sure. I'm busy until evening. I'll see. Call Ali — he's back tonight. Sameh might come too."
"Sami — seen the news?" Salah extended his phone.
I took it. A face I recognized — not personally, but from around the neighborhood. Below his photo: "Al-Fatiha.*"
"Ahmed?" My voice came out quieter than intended.
"Today. Hit-and-run. Speeding car."
"They say it was over a girl. Argued with some other guy. Met up after connecting through some app. Other guy ran him over and fled."
Hit-and-runs are normal here. Happened before. Dirty times. People will do anything if they think they'll get away with it. Things are out of the government's hands — actually, we don't really have a government. Not since 2003. Now it's just parties and gangs.
—
"Hear about Ahmed dying?" I said to Ahmed the photographer later — and around here, half the neighborhood answers to Ahmed.
"Yeah, bro. God rest his soul. Poor guy — run over without mercy." A tone wrapped in passing sadness.
"Damn. Not a single peaceful day without news that ruins your mood." I pushed the door.
"Alright, guys. I gotta go — appointments waiting." My mood had soured. I said goodbye and headed toward work.
Reached the main street. The pedestrian bridge loomed overhead — that gloomy structure. I didn't use it, of course. Crossed underneath. Call me reckless if you want. I have my reasons.
First: that bridge is a monument to public theft. Built by a contractor — absolute Koon — who pocketed most of the budget. Instead of two staircases per side, he built one. Climbing it means walking an extra two hundred meters for no reason. Like a marathon just to cross the street.
Second: it hasn't been for pedestrians in ages. Turned into a floating bar. Drunks celebrate finishing their bottles by smashing them on the walkway. The path has become a garden of broken glass — little mines sparkling under the light, waiting for our shoes. As if shattering glass is the official stamp these intellectuals leave behind after every party.
Third: I'm in the middle of a crowded market. Cars crawl at sleep-inducing speeds. Speed bumps force even the most reckless drivers to bow before the asphalt. Crossing between the cars is easier — and safer — than climbing that iron monstrosity.
—
I crossed. Greeted all the shop owners — friends, regulars, customers. Finally reached my workplace.
"Hey, Ahmed. How's it going?" I greeted Ahmed the photographer, my neighbor, as I unlocked the salon.
Ahmed stood in his studio, wiping his camera lens with the hem of his shirt. The look of a man thinking about lighting even when he's not shooting.
"Hey, Sami. What's the news?" He stepped out, pocketing his phone.
"Hear about Ahmed dying?" I said — and around here, half the neighborhood answers to Ahmed.
"Yeah, bro. God rest his soul. Poor guy — run over without mercy." A tone wrapped in passing sadness.
"Damn. Not a single peaceful day without news that ruins your mood." I pushed the door.
Creeeeak.
Might sound strange to someone outside Iraq. But here? Someone you know dying has become ordinary news. Like we live on the peaceful streets of New York. People aren't surprised anymore. Death doesn't need an appointment here.
People die often. The reason is always the same: no law. Nothing protects us except God's mercy. Without it, we'd have been lost — or dead — long ago.
— End of Chapter 7 —
—
Author's Notes:
* Al-Fatiha:
The opening chapter of the Quran, recited as a prayer for the deceased. Seeing it written beneath someone's photo means they have died. It is the Iraqi — and broader Arab — equivalent of R.I.P.