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Ocean big as her thighs. Ocean big as her name.

hometown glory

i. The cool tropical breeze flows through the mango tree as I lean my chair on the rough bark. I hear the rustling sound of the wind as it gracefully dances through the leaves, along with the faint sound of mainstream bachata bouncing against my eardrums.

ii. The mosquitoes scratch against each other like velcro and the breeze is impossibly warm. Glass shatters outside my window and I can hear a group of men calling out in broken English to an American tourist across the street ‘habibtii, my love’. My eyes are stinging and the heat is like fog, thick and inescapable. The children sleep naked here.

iii. The stars indent the sky, like words being typed out on an old typewriter.You hear the roaring engine of motorcycles passing by the little run down shack where your aunt lives. Sometimes the men blow you countless kisses, shouting ‘adio belleza, hey gorgeous’ or something of the sort. The unbearable heat makes you soothe your skin with cool buckets of water in a scratchy tub, almost too rough to go in barefoot. And afterwards, you lay down on an unfamiliar bed with a fan blowing hot air at your face, counting sheep or something clichè like that until your eyes have had enough of being open. 

iv. Some nights, we’ll sit around the carpeta and listen to the women sing and tell stories and the men will smoke hookah and discuss soccer matches. The children will run around with bare tanned legs and chubby little bellies that jiggle with each step. The older ones, the teenagers that are too young to sing in deep, lilting voices with the woman or argue over Man United with the men and are too old to play marbles with broken walnuts bought for two dirhams down the street; they wander the streets of Rabat and dance to the stars.


Collab with centuryoldghosts. She’s in italics, I’m in plain. Check out her blog, she just made it and she’s incredibly talented. :]

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