A LOVE LETTER TO CAIRO

You're sitting at home, you hear the songs of the street thrum, penetrating the bones of your building: the honks of the cars, the yells of the streetgoers, the marketing strategies of side street sellers, and the laughter of the bawab’s children as they play with Kohl, the local balady dog. You're alone, but around you the song of Cairo saturates the streets and plays a tune of love that now flows through your ears. It's noon and business men on their lunch break are smoking a cigarette that you smell through the window, you're only on the second floor. You hear them chit chat about where they should go grab their meal. They settle on Abo Tarek’s koshary, a good 30 minute ride away, presumably cutting into their work hours, but if you know anything about Abo Tarek’s koshary, it's that every mile is worth it. Your stomach soon grumbles, so you put on your shoes and grab your keys and head out the door. You're now wandering the streets of Maadi, passing the remains of what once was Kimo market, you cross the mazlaa’an and hail a taxi. The driver is nonchalant, his windows are rolled down and Om Kalthum plays through the radio. You tell him the destination, and he nods his head as he rests his arm out the window and lays his hand on the roof of the cab and taps along to the beat. He's smiling as he stares at the road ahead, swerving and speeding down the highway, surpassing the speed limit with ease. You strap the seatbelt tighter but you are confident in his driving skills, because to drive in Cairo is to drive anywhere. You are now cruising down the Korneich, the Nile flows next to you, carrying the legacy of 120 million Egyptians and their Ancestors through its waters. You quietly ponder how many stories the Nile harbors, and if it could speak what it would choose to say. On the horizon, Cairo tower looms large, and you snap a picture, capturing the Cairo skyline in all its glory. The taxi stops, stuck in traffic, still on the bridge. A motorcycle stops next to you, with an entire family riding atop it. The father is driving, his two young sons are in the middle, and in the back is their mother, with her baby strapped to her back. You wonder how they all fit, how they defy the laws of physics and you also worry for their wellbeing. You judge the parents for putting their children in such a dangerous position but you quickly scold yourself, because you know that if they could afford better, they would. You watch their faces, and as the road clears, they zoom past you leaving behind the lingering smiles of the two young boys. Despite hurdles and tough situations, they embody the spirit of the Egyptians, smiling despite life. You sit in the cab as you impend on your destination, and sadness and anger takes over. You are angry at what life in Cairo has become, how people are struggling to get by. You are frustrated at your country’s waning potential, its untapped potential. This anger and sadness subsides as you get a call from your favorite tailor in Maadi Grand Mall. He has finished your dress for your friend's wedding next week, and quickly excitement replaces any ill feelings. You close with the promise of picking it up later in the day. You start chatting with the driver. He has 4 kids, and 7 grandchildren. He describes them as the soul of his soul, a phrase you’ve heard recently through your phone. It was from a Palestinian man who was grieving his granddaughter, who was killed by an Israeli airstrike: “She was the soul of my soul”. It is then that you notice the sticker on the driver's dashboard. It was one of the Palestinian flag, so you start speaking about your neighbors, and you bond over your anger and fury for the Palestinians, for the injustice, the hypocrisy of international media and your anger at foreign and national governments. He tells you of his son who drove one of the aid trucks to Gaza, of how proud he is of him and how he wishes they could do more. You finally arrive at your destination: Zooba in Zamalek and you bid the driver adieu. You pay him 30 pounds and head out. You order foul and taameya as you wait for your friends to arrive. Outside, the song of Cairo is louder, more frantic, and more demanding. Yells are exchanged between drivers who both broke the laws of the road, yet are both steadfast in their relinquishing of any wrongdoings. They both feign innocence. Across the road, a child wails as he looks at his ice cream that now paints the sidewalk. His tantrum is valiant as is the chorus of the Cairo song. The crescendo arrives when a newlywed’s car drives by and every driver honks their congrats. You smile as you take a Panadol to suppress your impending headache. Your friends have still not arrived, but your order is ready. You have been abroad for a while so you had forgotten the concept of “Egypt time”, so you wait while watching your food grow cold. They call you to say they are 3 minutes away, so you prepare to wait another 10 minutes as your stomach grumbles louder, joining in on the second verse of the Cairo song. From Zooba’s window you can see the sidewalk book store, with books sprawled out on the street. Next to it is your favorite bookstore; Diwan. You contemplate going afterwards or settling on the cheaper sidewalk bookstore where they sell pirated books. Before you settle on a decision, and 15 minutes after your friends called, they finally arrive. You joke with them on their exquisite timings, and you start eating your food. You catch up on each other’s lives. One has a tennis tournament in Nady El Gezira next week, and you promise to attend. The other is going through a heartbreak, she thinks her world is going to end and sadness can be felt exuding her. You know it will pass, as she is known for her melodramaticism, a common Egyptian trait. You remind her that if she could feel that much for a two week situationship, then how great the love with the ONE will be. She, the ever hopeless romantic, finally settles down, her mood finally lifting and you laugh as you discuss her past situationships. You then start discussing a trip to Dahab, but you know deep down it is a trip that will never leave the group chat. The three of you are too lazy to plan it, and too wrapped up in Cairo’s thrum. You finish your food and decide to walk, surpassing both Diwan and the sidewalk bookstore, the decision made for you. The three of you laugh as you exchange stories while walking through the streets of Zamalek. Beautiful buildings and embassies line the roads and you hear birds sing up in the trees. Cairo’s music grows louder. You round the corner and head into one of Cairo’s best: Mandarin Queidar. You argue on what to order but finally settle on qatayef with a side of berry yoghurt ice cream. You sit on the bench outside and gossip. You take in your surroundings, taking in the beauty of Cairo’s mundane. A street cat rubs her stomach on your calf and you freeze, a little scared and a little entertained. It’s cute but you've always been warned about playing with street animals. She leaves as quickly as she came, and you settle back into your conversation as the sun sets behind you. The three of you take a serendipitous decision to head to Cairo tower. You climb up the elevator to the top floor, where you can see all of Cairo. You made it before sunset and you can faintly see the pyramids that are concealed by Cairo’s air pollution. You say “Omg guys look the Pyramids,” and the three of you throw words of praise and awe, despite them not being a crazy sight after all these years in Egypt, but you understand their glory and magnitude so you say words of praise and awe regardless. As you stand at the top, all three of you enclosed in one long side hug as you watch Cairo continue to bloom beneath you, you are grateful for being a Cairene, for the life Cairo has given you, for the stories it has enriched you with and the experiences it has bestowed upon you. You hope that everyone can see Cairo through your eyes and with a final look at the pyramids, you head back down and say goodbye to your friends and hail another taxi, but this time to Maadi Grand Mall to pick up your dress, and then home. You are filled with love, and are inspired to write a love letter to Cairo, one that begins with you sitting at home hearing the song of the city that truly never sleeps. 

“Loosely inspired by true events” 

By Malika Elshorbagy

Published April 21, 2024.