I was probably 5. During a cold winter, my mother took me to a small bookstore. As she was busy looking for a book, I was drooling in front of a postcard. It was a laser-cut postcard printed on white textured paper. “Feliz año nuevo” was written with a script typeface. The gold foil looked like an alien invention. Yes. I fell in love with a postcard. Right there. In a tiny bookstore in Tangier. I asked my mom if I could have it. She said no. According to her, it was of no use to me. Fuck. I didn’t argue. I knew it would be a lost cause. As she was paying her book, I took the card and put it under my sweater. There was no fucking way I’d leave something that excited me more than ice cream when I was 2. We left the bookstore.
My mom noticed I was walking like a zombie. The card had sharp corners that tickled my belly. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She asked me to stop right away and found out about the card.We came back to the bookstore and apologized to its owner. She was all red, ashamed that her daughter could do such a stupid thing. I remember she gave me a roasting, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about the postcard that certainly came from another planet.
The pistachio green and smelly paper
Around the same age, I was hanging out in my brother’s room. He had so many things in his room. Curious, I opened one of his drawers. I found this pistachio green and smelly paper. It had a head, the number 50, a castle, flowers and horses printed on it. I liked it. I thought it would be perfect for my next drawing. I went to my room, took a black marker, and awkwardly redrawn every single line. I could hear some screaming coming from downstairs. I put down my marker. My brother was walking furiously towards his room, followed by my mom and dad. He opened his drawer: “my 50 DH were here; someone stole them!” I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t quite realize he was talking about that pistachio green and smelly paper. It was like a new Ionesco play. They were looking everywhere for my brother’s money so he could stop freaking out.
At some point, my mom went into my room, and found the 50 DH on my desk… or, at least, what was left of it. Fuck. She gave my artwork to my brother! He put it in his drawer and closed it. I could see fire in his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My dad put hot pepper in my mouth for stealing my brother’s pistachio green and smelly paper + drawing on it + not saying anything. My mom gave me ice cream behind my dad’s back. Thanks mom. This shit was burning my tongue.
I didn’t steal anything anymore.