She avoided Tazula as best she could. She wrote her mother short lines about longing for the city and her old friends. She hungered for her mother’s...hand upon her fine hair, gently stroking it free of all the wasted time and uneasiness of being in a place where the walls stank of hate and injustice. It was all around her: in the younger ones who giggled, in the men and their chauvinism, in the older women who clung to tradition. On the walk from the women’s campus to the big mosque it hung in. She looked very hot. She was sweating and her top was soaked, I showed her my Id, told her where I lived, a little about me and, told her she was safe with me. I led her to my car and gave her a tire iron, telling her I wanted her to feel safe. She got in my car and sat down. The air on my small car is not very good when it is not in motion. But cooler than the outside, so I sat down on the door runner backwards so that I could look at her as we spoke. In a very short time I found out that. More

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