Narmer H'Haikaddad,
Much like the narrow streets, the Sheifa residence in Cairo had the tendency to constrict the throat. Existing was difficult to cope with between the suffocation of her exile and the sweltering mosaic walls. The Sheifa residence in Cairo was old, but incredibly well maintained at Onuphrious’ insistence. A trader was nothing but his reputation, and surely the dirtless columns, swept and polished marble foyer, and the exotic gardens frequented by long neon lizards was a testament to the man’s accomplishments. If one were to walk into the grand marble foyer, their eyes would fall on frescoes of the river traders. Their boats, bundles of papyrus and coarse linen sails commandeering the sparse winds on the Nile basin, truly spinning gold from sweat. Such was the history of her husband, and, by extension, herself now.
From the roof of the manor, Iaheru witnessed the banks of the Nile expand. Encroaching on the houses at the banks, she’s reminded of her own history, unpainted but still tangibly influential. Her parents artisans, her childhood speckled with mosquito bitten ankles and the catch and release of frogs leaping between breaks in the papyrus. Iaheru would follow their citrine eyes, count their toes, and make note of each frog she caught on a torn papyrus scroll, releasing them with a smile of equal parts encouragement and wonder. She’d come home, covered in red welts and papyrus cuts to her mother’s horror, “What if you cut your face, Iaheru? What if you fell in the river?”
“I’d be dead,” Iaheru learned to respond flippantly. It wasn’t until she became a mother that she despised the dismissive antics of children.
It was here that she came into the service of Hei Fakhouri. It was here that she raised her children. It was here that she remained so she could stare beyond the opposite bank of the Nile and wonder what Sutekh’s life was like now that it wasn’t here. The heat of the afternoon usually didn’t suit her, especially so now that the swelled banks of the river thickened the air with sticky moisture, but she fastens a headwrap and ventures into the streets anyways. The bright sun is wicked away from her eyes by thick lines of kohl. Sandals squish into the softened Earth. Perhaps daily walks would do her well.
The late afternoon brought with it the rustle of the market closing and the inns opening. Few people lined the streets as the evening meal and the last thralls of afternoon work demanding full attention. Nostrils fill with alliums rendered down in large pots and the distinct tang of yeast rising bread for the next day. Iaheru pridefully walks, perhaps she would take to a lounge for the evening, perhaps she would fetch some chicken for Tau. What she did not expect was the distinct tear of fabric and yank of her hair combs.
“Ahh!” she yelps, pivoting to accost a man tugging at threads of gold leaf. “Let me go!” Her hands grab at the unraveling fabric. A thick golden hoop tugs along with the fringe tassels, threatening to tear through her ear entirely. A muddy sandal aims for a groin and misses, causing Iaheru to lose her footing, knocking into the assailant with a sharp elbow. “Let me go now!” She shrieks as her hair pins tear, her talons sinking into a masked face only distinguished by dark black eyes.
Iaheru manages to plant a kick, her scarf unfastening entirely, crumpling into trembling hands as she begins to run down the street towards the Souk.
Much like the narrow streets, the Sheifa residence in Cairo had the tendency to constrict the throat. Existing was difficult to cope with between the suffocation of her exile and the sweltering mosaic walls. The Sheifa residence in Cairo was old, but incredibly well maintained at Onuphrious’ insistence. A trader was nothing but his reputation, and surely the dirtless columns, swept and polished marble foyer, and the exotic gardens frequented by long neon lizards was a testament to the man’s accomplishments. If one were to walk into the grand marble foyer, their eyes would fall on frescoes of the river traders. Their boats, bundles of papyrus and coarse linen sails commandeering the sparse winds on the Nile basin, truly spinning gold from sweat. Such was the history of her husband, and, by extension, herself now.
From the roof of the manor, Iaheru witnessed the banks of the Nile expand. Encroaching on the houses at the banks, she’s reminded of her own history, unpainted but still tangibly influential. Her parents artisans, her childhood speckled with mosquito bitten ankles and the catch and release of frogs leaping between breaks in the papyrus. Iaheru would follow their citrine eyes, count their toes, and make note of each frog she caught on a torn papyrus scroll, releasing them with a smile of equal parts encouragement and wonder. She’d come home, covered in red welts and papyrus cuts to her mother’s horror, “What if you cut your face, Iaheru? What if you fell in the river?”
“I’d be dead,” Iaheru learned to respond flippantly. It wasn’t until she became a mother that she despised the dismissive antics of children.
It was here that she came into the service of Hei Fakhouri. It was here that she raised her children. It was here that she remained so she could stare beyond the opposite bank of the Nile and wonder what Sutekh’s life was like now that it wasn’t here. The heat of the afternoon usually didn’t suit her, especially so now that the swelled banks of the river thickened the air with sticky moisture, but she fastens a headwrap and ventures into the streets anyways. The bright sun is wicked away from her eyes by thick lines of kohl. Sandals squish into the softened Earth. Perhaps daily walks would do her well.
The late afternoon brought with it the rustle of the market closing and the inns opening. Few people lined the streets as the evening meal and the last thralls of afternoon work demanding full attention. Nostrils fill with alliums rendered down in large pots and the distinct tang of yeast rising bread for the next day. Iaheru pridefully walks, perhaps she would take to a lounge for the evening, perhaps she would fetch some chicken for Tau. What she did not expect was the distinct tear of fabric and yank of her hair combs.
“Ahh!” she yelps, pivoting to accost a man tugging at threads of gold leaf. “Let me go!” Her hands grab at the unraveling fabric. A thick golden hoop tugs along with the fringe tassels, threatening to tear through her ear entirely. A muddy sandal aims for a groin and misses, causing Iaheru to lose her footing, knocking into the assailant with a sharp elbow. “Let me go now!” She shrieks as her hair pins tear, her talons sinking into a masked face only distinguished by dark black eyes.
Iaheru manages to plant a kick, her scarf unfastening entirely, crumpling into trembling hands as she begins to run down the street towards the Souk.