The following morning, after a leisurely breakfast, we all showered, dressed and got into the family car. The next hour was total chaos. The noise of the traffic was insane. A consistent beep. There was just a persistent hum with sudden bangs to the side for the entire journey. Sometimes it was my mother beeping or my father stretching his hand from the passenger seat to partake in the conversation.
The car horn in Cairo is not used only to alert people to danger. It is a language. The beep can mean: go; stop; come; hello; goodbye; watch-out; you donkey; amongst other things. It is a vocabulary and therefore a permanent presence on any car journey in Cairo.
By the time we all got to my uncle’s we were frazzled. The airconditioning in the car meant we still looked decent. Make-up still in place, no sweat patches on the back. But, we did have to compose ourselves before stepping into their block.
Uncle Ali is so different to my father. Though brothers, their personalities are wide apart. They are both doctors and in that respect have a lot in common. But, if my father gets a joke, my uncle looks puzzled; if my uncle takes offence, my father is the last to notice. They do both have moustaches though.
Regardless, everyone is happy to see each other and there are hugs and kisses at the door. By getting there early we can spend the entire day with them, leaving just after dinner. A long dragged out visit with time for a host of conversations.
It makes me laugh how my father always calls the household Uncle Ali’s. It is also Aunt Nora’s.
As soon as the hellos and kissing are done my mother and father switch what we usually hear them call each other. They go from ‘your mother’, ‘your father’ to ‘your brother’, ‘your sister’.
My father started, ‘Nora, your sister here, she almost killed us on the road,’ pointing to my mother. Aunt Nora laughed, because my mother is actually her sister. She continued the joke, turning to her husband and saying, ‘Tell your brother he says that every time,’ now pointing to my father. My uncle then turns to my mother, passing on the banter like a sprinter in a relay, ‘Tell your sister …’
They could go round and round like this forever it seemed to me. This family ritual of theirs was so old to me now. It bored me to tears and as a younger grumpier teenager I often prayed they would try to be original for once when they saw each other. I remember standing in their corridor once screaming at them, ‘We get it, get over it.’ They all looked at me as though I had finally lost my teenage mind, as expected.
But having a paternal uncle and a maternal aunt married to each other has its advantages. When they were all together, the four of them, they seemed happy. My mother and father would laugh and joke. Later they would splinter off into sibling pairs, brother with brother, sister with sister.
I could hang out with my cousin, with whom, though a year younger than me, I got on well. And Salem kept himself occupied with whatever game or music entertainment he brought with him. Sometimes he would hang out with us in Bushra’s room, but rarely spoke.
The day progressed and my father and uncle went for a walk, to talk protests no doubt, and my mother and aunt settled on the sofa with coffee, also to talk protests and family. Salem, my cousin and I hung out in her bedroom.
I asked her how her last year of high school was going and whether she was looking forward to going to university. She was going to King’s College in London the following academic year to study Economics, if she got the right mark on her IELTS. I wondered what her chances were of being able to take the test any time soon. We chatted like that for a while and caught up on various things. I told her how university was, my friends and studies.
We talked about the coming Day of Rage. She talked with excitement. She intended to go. In her description it sounded more like a festival. She almost infected me with her enthusiasm. I asked her how she could be so positive about a day named after a destructive, violent emotion. She just shrugged her shoulders.
‘You two need to wake up,’ my brother said while continuing to play on his gadget. We looked at him in surprise that he had even spoken. Only later did I remember his rudeness. He took our shocked silence as a sign to continue. ‘This Day of Rage that you are soooo excited about, Bushra and that has you fearing for your life, Sophia,’ – he was being so cruel – ‘everyone is going. It’s an organised protest. Unions are striking, there are marches and sit-ins planned, civil disobedience. This is legit.’
‘How the hell do you know all these words?’ I ask, stunned.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Sophia. I may be a kid, but I’m not an idiot. You’re the one who goes around with your head up your ass.’
‘Excuse me?’ I blurt, hurt now.
‘You seem so shocked by everything. You need to get your face out of your fictional books and start looking up at the world.’
‘And another thing,’ he continued ‘people have been talking about this for a long time. The only reason you are not talking about it is because you are too busy matching your nail polish to your shoes.’
‘That’s not true,’ I reply, feeling the salt.
He ended the conversation by returning to his console.
I was speechless anyway.
Later, after the fuss of getting dinner ready, eating and clearing up, and mother and aunt dedicating ten minutes to argue over who should do the washing up (‘I will do it,’ ‘No, I will do it’), we said our goodbyes. I waved to Bushra and felt envious that she would be getting a taste of freedom soon, not just at the protests but also as a university student.
We drove home in silence. Salem fell asleep, his console just slipping from his hand. I sat in the back and watched Cairo go by. I drowned out the noise and just looked up at what passed my window with curiosity. I wondered if I even knew the city at all. This city that I was born and raised in, did I really know it? Oh sure, I knew how to get around it, I knew the best hang-out spots, but did I really know what it was feeling in that moment? While I sat in the car, it refused to tell me. I needed to get out and feel its breath on my skin if I really wanted to know.
I turned to my father and I asked him a question. A question that had been bubbling for a long time. One that his reactions to what was happening fed. I asked him; ‘Baba,’ he looked at me through the rear mirror, ‘do you support Hosni Mubarak?’