PART ONE
Chapter One
I closed my eyes and savored the cool, refreshing breeze as it rustled the fabric of my shirt, which had become as tattered as a cocoa sheet. The sky showed no signs of imminent danger, but the absence of heat, thanks to the evening breeze, was accompanied by something even more delightful—the scent of moisture carried by the wind, a promising sign of impending rain.
I had been perched on the parliament bench for about half an hour, and it had been an hour since the parliament session was supposed to have begun. Restlessness began to set in, and I stood up. It was evident that no one had any intentions of commencing the parliamentary session anytime soon. I found it perplexing that despite the scheduled time for the meeting having long passed, not a single person had bothered to switch my account from one to two.
With a leisurely pace, I stood and turned around, examining my attire. My shirt, pants, and shoes were all the same, but my shirt had gradually changed in color from its original shade to a honey-blue hue. I couldn’t recall its exact age, for only God knew the number of children it had raised in its lifetime. All I knew was that it would be quite a challenge for an eight- or nine-year-old boy to fill out the shirt, and that’s precisely why my fellow council members often teased me about it. Sometimes they would even jestingly claim that the shirt belonged to my sister.
As for the black pants I wore, they were threadbare and had started to tear at the knee. They were about five years old, and I had been with them through thick and thin due to my circumstances of poverty.
If you were to look at me now, you’d hardly recognize me unless you’d known me for a long time. Sam, or whoever you knew as “Persian,” looked entirely different from what you might remember. I was never one of the wealthy individuals, but life was simpler back then, and my life was on a different trajectory. Poverty had left its mark on me. I wasn’t living large, but I had a life.
When I used to reside in the house of men, it was akin to wearing a badge of shame. Everywhere I went, I felt like a walking target, and even the neighborhood watchmen would single me out whenever anything happened. What was truly astounding, though, was that both those who knew me and those who didn’t would pass judgment in the same way based on their opinions of me. No matter where I went, I was dragged down by people’s perception of me. It wasn’t their fault; hating someone who had committed the crime of murder was only natural. There was one person, however, who surprised me: my friend Sagir.
When I returned from prison, I heard that he had found employment on a farm and had attained a significant position. Yet, since my release, he hadn’t reached out to me, and I hadn’t sought him out either. You might think that everything I’ve shared with you unfolded within a week, a month, or even half a year after my release from prison. If you think that, it’s time to reconsider. What I’ve recounted to you spans fifteen months, two months of which have passed since I left prison.
Many things have happened to me during these months, and none of them have brought happiness, despite their ease of occurrence. How could you sympathize with me when you hear the tragic events that have unfolded since my release? How could you accuse me of stubbornness and avarice for worldly possessions…
But the most surprising thing that has occurred in the past fifteen months is Salma.
Indeed, it was baffling to me that Salma, who had been visiting our neighborhood regularly since she had driven by our house, had suddenly vanished. It had been almost three months since I had last seen Salma, and she was constantly on my mind. I couldn’t forget the day we first met, her fingers gently brushing against mine as she inquired, “Won’t you tell me your name?”
In my desperate search for her after her abrupt disappearance, I came up empty-handed. The final piece of information I gathered was that Salma had embarked on a journey to Europe nearly three months ago, coinciding with the day my father passed away. The confluence of these events left me reeling, as I grappled with the loss of my father and the lack of employment to support my mother and younger siblings.
Ever since my father’s death, Salma had faded from my thoughts, except for the day the bakwa was sacrificed…