The Boy from Rabat and His Ramblings

As we left the beach
abandoned stone wall seats
where we watched the surf and sat
we walked past a large cemetery
upon a hill

Two local boys walked ahead in front
one broke off
to meet me
to shake my hand and greet me
“Welcome to my country”
he chirped in Pidgin English

I spoke some shattered French
and we both observed
a funeral gathering
robes stood side by side
a colourful heap of sorrow
“...you see” he grinned
pointing back to the beach
waving his arms
in sign language sweeps
“...the girls with no tops,
the ones who are bare,
they end up... “
pointing, pointing, pointing
“...they end up in there”
“But?...” I winced
he chuckled having given me a glimpse
“Muhammad said” he exclaimed
pointing to the sky with smiles
repeating his actions again
unsure whether I’d understood

“In Spain, in France, in Europe
no tops
not here
not in my country
if so
Allah put them to sleep”
pointing again to the cemetery

We walked ten more steps together
in silence
me, unsure what to add to his speech
him, proud
enjoying the full stop silence
a moment fiercely profound

He shook my hand again
“welcome to Morocco my friend”
and he ran ahead to rejoin

I felt the heat on my shoulders
looked out at the Atlantic
and once more
back
at the now dispersing
funereal crowd

The boy looked back at me
and smiled
making a sleeping gesture with his hands
against his face

I crossed the street
and disappeared amongst the souqs