...Do I
drive like Egyptian? Like I’m crazy? Like a step in front of me is a one-hit
death? Mashallah, (God has willed it) we speak collision. There is always
smoke curling from our engines, see the Souk? You call it market? Our
spices are the colours of eruption. That’s why Soldiers impose curfews from
streets, and we keep our fires in, house parties held behind every door, these were
nights of hashish and tipsy-talk, but my friend, no Champagne leaves our
shelves with the military barb wiring our roads, you’d have to load your tongue
with Arabic to skin scrape our red African revolution. Change is the slowest
train you can catch in Egypt, we’ve lost blood and patience waiting for it...
