It was fun

Two days ago I went out half an hour before Maghrib to buy fresh chicken. I chose the bird and waited outside the shop as the guy cleaned up and cut the bird. The grocer opposite was open and people came and went (eh is this right?) and there were two elders sitting in front of the closed fish shop beside it.

I just stood there, a girl standing alone amidst puddles of suspicious origin (chicken water perhaps, urgh) with her hands in her grey sweater pocket. I still needed to buy pasta and vegetables from the same alley, but I only had LE100 with me and they probably had no change, so it was wiser to pay for the chicken first. It was awkward with a total of nearly seven Arab guys around me, but what else to do but wait for my chicken?

I noticed a girl, about five years old wearing pink-grey sweater suit, playing football by herself in the same alley. She kicked the ball slowly and talked loudly to herself. The ball got away, she walked down to the ball passing behind me, and while still talking to herself, she steadied the ball where it was and kicked it away.

She walked back to the ball and kicked it again in my direction. It stopped near me and my right foot automatically recognised a ball as what it is; something legit to be kicked. I myself was wearing jeans and my Arsenal jersey, black headscarf and maroon Converse. Football appropriate. I steadied the ball with my right foot and the girl stood where she was, waiting expectantly. My hands still in my pocket and I coolly kicked the ball towards her. Then I turned back to face the chicken shop, but I was still eying her from the corner of my eyes.

The ball reached her. She looked up at me briefly and kicked the ball. I took the cue and catched the pass. Steadied the ball and waited as the girl walked farther away. She turned around to face me and said something, more to herself than to me. I kicked the ball back to her and wondered what kind of picture this made; a self-minding little girl (I had a good mind to go full-blown Child Psychiatry on her) and an awkward foreigner in a narrow puddled alley, kicking a tattered ball back and forth.

The uncle who usually work the meat slicer smiled at me approvingly.

Oh what the hell, let's forget the chicken and just play ball in this alley. They'll call me when it's done.

We passed the ball back and forth and the girl kept going farther and farther away, forcing me to kick the ball harder to make the long pass. Once I missed and hit the chair the elder was sitting on with a bang. "Aaah ma3alish!" I automatically bowed and my hands shot out from my pockets in an apology gesture. The other elder laughed at me, but he simply pushed the ball with his leg back at me and the game continued. Another time I kicked the ball underneath one of the veggie crates, and the girl had to reach down to retrieve it.

Urgh, I'm out of practice. The last time we played futsal properly was Paediatric!

The meat-slicing uncle stood near me as I waited for the girl to pass me the ball. "Here we call it qurrah," he said. "What do you call it?"

"We call it bola, sir." I answered, playing the diplomatic Malaysian.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw that my chicken was done. I went back inside the store and paid for it. I stepped back out and customarily thanked the uncle.

"What's your name?" He asked kindly.

I frequented the shop a lot of times in my six years here (my previous apartment, the one that caught fire, was in fact above the grocer opposite this chicken shop), but only now did I make an impression enough to be asked by name from this local. I grinned proudly.

"My name is Hana," I pronounced it with the proper Tajwid instead of giving out the easier Nur, a name I find too Malay-generic and reserved for the random Arabs. "What's your name sir?"

"My name is Zenhoum," he smiled back.

"Nice to meet you Amm Zenhoum. See you around."

And I went to buy my pasta and vegetables, leaving the girl to play by herself.