Kamila’s Karachi

Waves crashing across the shore,
Tiptoeing on the sand, the edges of my shalwar spotted with sand, wet and crusty against my skin.
Grabbing a bhutta, we smile; we’re engulfed in the warmth- the sun, the sand and the toasty bhutta.

I step out of the jacuzzi, the cold hits my warm body, instantly alerting me, Ugh- where is the waiter with my club sandwich.
I reach for the towel and step onto the veranda,
I lay tanning- nostalgic for that Caribbean summer.

The feeling of bodies pushing against each other on a warm morning in August,
Bhai’s bike had to get a flat on the one morning I was late.
I’ll never make it to school in time, this bus stops for the entire population of Karachi. Why is that man looking at me?

I can’t believe no one woke me up on time today,
Today wasn’t marked with the smell of eggs and croissant,
But unruly hair and a nauseous car ride.
Baba leaves for work too early anyways, says the road to the factory is clear in the morning.

I play my usual roulette of excuses in mind,
What do I say in a class full of sunnis when they ask me about where my father is, I can’t really say he was imprisoned and hung for his religion.
I can’t remember the last time I claimed my religion out loud-
Sometimes in the silence of my room, I whisper “Yes, I am an Ahmadi.”

I will totally fill the minority quota,
A muslim in a small Parisian university,

They hate us but as long as I get there.