Straight From the Horse's Mouth

When I was born, my mother rubbed a chicken liver in my palms so that I would know how to cook.

Not to mention the wife of the caretaker of the building opposite that opens onto Avenue Hassan II. She missed her true calling. She should have been a muezzin, her voice is so loud. They fight so much, she and her husband, that in the neighborhood, we follow their drama the same way we followed Guadalupe when that soap had just aired.

But once he’s ejected his sticky glory into you, the illusion transforms into hatred. So he hits you, because he is only himself. Tortured, drunk, and alone.

In Casablanca and in all of Morocco, chaos broke out when that Tunisian guy poured gasoline over his head. It’s been two Sundays since then and downtown still hasn’t emptied. Everyone who’s in want of something, everyone who has nothing to put in their mouths, everyone who’s at war with their wives, everyone who isn’t happy with their circumcision,

We had a beautiful celebration. We slaughtered a sheep, the family came, the neighbors came. The family of the groom sent a cow! Big, hefty, black and white. I saw it arrive from a distance through the window of the bedroom where they had put me to get ready. It took up the entire street. And you should have seen how they decorated its forehead: th