adminKok’s Tales with Robert Mshengu Kavanagh
(This is the third part 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. She takes him to meet her family and the family wants him for a mukuwasha.)
“Nourhan, my child, at last you are happy. All these years you have turned men down. What do you say to Adam al-Kok? He is a Prince. Did you not hear him mention his illustrious ancestor, the Emir, of the same name? What is more he is a journalist. You know, my daughter, that I read the newspapers everyday. For you to marry one who writes for such august publications will be an honour to the family. What do you say, my child?”
“But he has not yet proposed, father. I only met him yesterday.”
“Then you must tell him to inform his family to come and see us without delay so that we do not lose this illustrious suitor,” said the father.
“His family are all deceased, abi, and he himself lives in exile in a country called Zimbawi,” Nourhan explained.
The ladies looked at each other in confusion. Where is this ‘Zimbawi’?
The father, who reads the newspaper every day and therefore keeps abreast of contemporary developments, pronounced with authority that Zimbawi is an island off the coast of Africa, once ruled by the Sultan of Oman! I think he confused it with Zanzibar.
The ladies all nodded their heads. Nourhan blushed. She knew no better where the home of her husband-to-be was.
“What is more, abi, he is flying back to his country in three days’ time,” Nourhan informed her family anxiously.
One of the tetes immediately exclaimed: “Then we must catch the bird before it has flown!”
There was general agreement on this and much discussion as to how this might be done.
Next day, Adam again met Nourhan and to his surprise and delight she agreed to accompany him to his hotel.
Adam entertained her with a description of his meeting with the family the previous evening and after eating and drinking and some delightful moments of laughter, Adam moved to take her in his arms. For a moment she allowed him to hold her and then she drew away.
“Habibi, I am longing to be in your arms but I am not yet knowing your true intentions. I am a Muslim woman. As much as I love you, I cannot give myself to you unless I am knowing.”
Adam had encountered countless women who, on the brink of taking the plunge, suddenly become coy.
Dying to get into bed, she is ashamed to show it. She wants her rosebud plucked but without breaking the branch. Or perhaps she really hopes for marriage. Either way, before giving him what he asks, she wants to hear him say he will marry her.
Adam, like his disgraceful predecessors – Don Juan and Casanova – had no problem with that. If a few empty words will unlock the door to ecstasy, why not?
“Nourhan, my darling, you know I am mad for you. I love you,” said Adam passionately.
“Say you will marry me, habibi.”
“Yes, yes, I want nothing more than to be your loving husband.”
“O, Adam, and I want to be your loving wife,” sighed Nourhan, and fell into his arms. He picked Nourhan up and carried her to the soft, luxurious queen-sized bed. Made it, thought Adam.
However, many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.
“Wait, habibi, wait,” cried Nourhan. She broke out of his arms and came back carrying her cell phone. Adam secretly cursed cell phones. Nesta’s sister was right – they were a menace.
“What are you doing, darling?” asked Adam a little peevishly.
“I am checking to see if urfi vows clearly recorded. In Islam religion, a Nikah Urfi marriage must be recorded. I am wanting to make sure our marriage is proper before we . . . how you say? Consummate it.”
It was recorded!
“Take me home now, habibi. Tomorrow I knock off a little earlier. We spend our marriage night together before you are flying off home. I already give you my heart, habibi. Tomorrow night I give you my body, my everything, my Adam. I love you, my husband.”
“O, no-o-o!” moaned Adam to himself. “The Egyptians may have thrown away democracy easily but not so other things.” Then, aloud, “O, Nourhan, my darling, my life, I shall spend all tomorrow just lying in this bed dreaming of our first night in each other’s arms as man and wife.”
Nourhan, her heart quite melted, almost gave up there and then what she had determined to save for the morrow.
But the next day Adam spent thinking of quite different things, namely the hot soup he was getting into. Adam had one fixed rule – never to think of Rudo, his wife in Zimbabwe, when he was betraying her.
However, on this occasion how could he help it? Was he not a bigamist? According to Nourhan, they were married. That was certainly not the idea. Ladies’ men like Adam seduce, enjoy and move on, leaving in their wake either a memory of pleasure or tears and heartbreak.
Should he just cut and run, before he was trapped? Or should he do as he always did, go for the prize, win it and somehow get away with it? The prize was Nourhan’s body. She had promised to spend the night with him.
He was mad with desire. How could a man like Adam give up now? He was leaving the day after tomorrow. All he had to do was find another hotel and gap it to Harare.
No turning back, said Adam. The decision made, he fell to planning his night of bliss with Cleopatra. Adam adored women.
He wanted all his encounters to be as beautiful and satisfying to his lover as they were to himself. So when Nourhan arrived in the late afternoon Adam took her up to his room and waited while she freshened up for him.
She emerged from the bathroom, resplendent and sweet-smelling, in highly polished black boots under a long dress of purple satin, caught at the waist with a cumber band and black leather belt clasped by a large golden buckle.
On her head was a shiny silk duku, reflecting all the richest hues of the rainbow. No longer Cleopatra but a desert chieftainess.
And this, it turned out, is exactly what her ancestors had been. Out on the terrazzo of the hotel, sipping iced drinks and gazing over the Nile as the shadows lengthened and the moon rose a deep orange over the desert, Nourhan told Adam of her great-grandfather, a nomad sheikh, who ranged with his tents and camels from the Negev Desert in Palestineto the Sahara.
She told him of herclan’s customs – how personal and family honour was everything and how they would kill to defend that honour.
A chill slowly descended Adam’s spine. “Kill to defend their honour”? O, my God, he thought. But that was a long time ago and, besides, having enjoyed his night of love, he was going to make a smart exit to the airport.
Despite all the warnings, which a less confident man might have heeded, Adam pressed on – sure that whatever happened he would always find a way out.
After drinks,the restaurant on the top floor, where, looking out over Cairo at night, they ate, they drank and, at last, it was time to repair to the soft and luxurious queen-size bed that awaited them.
There Nourhan gave herself body and soul to Adam. In the beginning she was nervous. But Adam with his vast experience and genuine passion for her achieved his never-changing goal, namely to create for his woman the night of her life.
In the early hours of the morning they slept, tired, contented and satiated – only to be woken up a little later by a considerable noise in the passage outside their door – voices, singing, even a drum, the likes of which Adam had never heard before.
Then there was a knock and women chanting something Adam did not understand.
Nourhan laughed. “My dear husband, we must be letting in my aunts. This our wedding morning and they come in to inspect sheets.”
Adam’s jaw dropped.
Then in the morning light he saw the little drops of red. Nourhan had been a virgin and, as he had no relatives in Egypt, Nourhan’s aunties had come to demonstrate that their bride had upheld the family honour by displaying the little red drops on the sheet to the world.
To access previous Kok Tales go to https://rmshengukavanagh.wordpress.com
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