2.1 Hot Fiesta

He woke up to hear a loud noise as if a helicopter hovering over the roof. It went on for some time while he tried to calculate in his mind how far that tractor was to his door. He failed to judge it. Then the deafening noise went out. It was silent again for a moment. Muaz checked the clock on the table. It was eight-thirty. On this holy day he missed the prayer. His grandmother didn’t call him or Aunt Nabila didn’t. Then there came a tap on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Multi-Ibre,” called the guy at the door, “we have to catch some chicks.” And when Muaz came out, he said, “Didn’t you go to pray?” Often on these islands folks who omit prayers would be deftly noticed.

“I missed it.”

There stood a gold-plated Triumph motorcycle by the steps outside the glass-fitted French windows. Ibre climbed on and kicked the engine. That loud noise broke the silence. An oval-shaped licence plate with digits ‘96’ on it and many valves to pull.

“Go to hell!” yelled out an old woman under the gooseberry tree, her voice louder than the motor, “Go to hell! You pooped to the toilet! All that poop is swimming in a flooded whirlpool in the gifili! You should have gone to athiri to do your privy!”

“What is she going mad about?” asked Ibre.

“I bogged in the toilet last night,” replied Muaz.

“Oh shit!” he cried, “You can’t flush it in a flood! Don’t you know?”

“I made a mess,” confessed Muaz.

“Get on!”

He climbed on its backseat and they kicked off. It did not go very fast despite its loud noise.

It was amazingly bright and cool after the rainclouds blew away. Leaves and branches dripping wet and deep tones painted the foliage. Flash flood disappeared to an extent and wet soil making a crunchy noise as folks walked in flip-flops splashing their bottoms with specks of dirt.

It was Eid and the island crowd were in their best clothes, even kids. Time now to catch some chicks. They ran after the chicks, over the fences, through the gates, in the brushwood, gardens and gifili, across the lanes and through the houses, chasing the livestock. They did it this way – threw the wild fowl wild.

Mutli-Ibre was a dark chap with a lean figure, not so tall, in late thirties. They called him Multi-Ibre because he was versatile. He did repairs on his bike, ran a dancing class, a musician, a teacher and a practitioner.

Island houses called passers-by to come in and lunch on to extend their generosity. Anybody on the road would be summoned to have a taste of their feast. Every household cooked chicken and recipes of sweet and spicy side dishes. All those plates arranged on a table called a sufra draped in white and in the local custom; they fill a plate with all kinds on the table, squash with their hands and eat with the fingers. Perhaps, the only house that did not cook food was Donveli mostly because his aunts and uncles lived elsewhere. His grandma alone stayed here.

As the afternoon gloom set in, reflected on the green leaves and the thatched roofs, spreading a carroty haze into the narrow lanes, a procession to mark this Eid began from Giruva Magu. Folk dance and drums paraded in a display to drag the big fish. An enormous fish spun of palm leaves and fronds. Folks in traditional costumes and some covered in leaves demonstrated the labour in disabling the big fish by dancing in a zigzag motion down the roads, ending the procession at the playground after taking a short route around the village settlement on the island. Folks gathered by the gates and corners, little kids running around and all wet in their best clothes.

Muaz pulled on a denim pair of bell-bottoms and a little white shirt with only four buttons. He avoided the water play by entering the narrow lanes aligned with tiny thatched houses, some incomplete stone houses, covered of vegetation around and above. Those narrow lanes still contained puddles of water on white sandy soil and the reflection of green mirrored in his eye. He climbed Miskii Magu beside the cemetery and reached the playground in a minute. There he saw the big house of Kimbili standing on the opposite side of the playground as he stepped on Sirat Magu. Everyone was there watching the procession reach its climax on the playground. Men and women folk dancing and rather in their traditional clothes. He caught a glimpse of those girls from the capital but no sign of a band member. He saw three youthful island girls wearing big smiles carrying little babies and breastfeeding them. In a moment, he was splashed with water.

Island folks loved to wear glittery costumes and most of their dresses donated by someone in the capital. So limited to have two or three evening dresses in their clobbers. And those thatched houses on the narrow lanes belonged to poor dwellers. Meanwhile those whitewashed houses aligned on Sirat Magu in the mid-section belonged to wealthy people. There were other stone houses facing other roads. If compared to other islands, Thora could be said to earn a good income and this was not a very poor community.