Fes Writes: Fes Regional Workshop Anthology

Adam Nyang Prayer Beads As the alarm on my phone blared in the room, I woke up with a start. For a moment or two, I was disoriented, my body not used to being roused at 4 am but then I remembered why I was up and let out a loud groan before jumping out of my bunk bed. An hour later, I was on a CTM bus heading for Rabat. I drifted in and out of slumber the entire journey, my forehead pressed against the cool glass window. When we arrived at Rabat, I roused myself with a shake of the head and scrambled my way to the Police Headquarters. I tried very hard not to think about the disappointing outcome of my last visit. One of the men who worked in the residence permit department, a man who‘d given me an appointment for that very specific date, had acted as if he‘d never set eyes on me when I showed up for it.

I‘d stood there at a loss of what to say, a sick feeling slithering its way to my stomach as the realization hit me that my trip all the way from Fes was futile, that the fare I‘d spent, money that could have fed me for at least three weeks was gone and I had nothing to show for it. The fact that there was nothing I could do to the man telling me I would have to come back made the situation even more maddening. Then I decided to blame myself instead. My anger had to be directed somewhere. I knew how laborious and complicated the process of renewing your resident permit in this country was, why then had I waited an entire year since my current one expired?

No matter. I‘d resolved that something like that was not going to happen today, oh no. I was willing to beg, shed tears if I had but there was no way I was leaving the Police without attaining my goal. If being interrogated and having my fingerprints taken and recorded into their criminal database was what needed to happen so I could get the transfer slip I needed to move on to the next stage of this renewal process, then exactly that was going to happen today. I don‘t think anyone has ever been as eager as I was to be processed.

I stepped into the imposing building with that singular purpose and bee-lined for the office I usually went to. It was a medium sized-room, bathed in white light from the overhanging bulbs. It was filled with the click click sound of fingers tapping away at keyboards, sporadic laughter and conversations from the people who occupied it.

I stood at the doorway, hesitant, my heart in my throat. The man I‘d come to see was talking down at a young woman dressed in a tracksuit and carrying what looked to be a very heavy backpack. She couldn‘t have been older than twenty-five, had the distinct features of a Philippine and there wasn‘t a single doubt in my mind that she was on the verge of tears.