Short Stories

#1- Nafisa Skipped Living a Decade of Her Life

Playing with other kids in neighborhood including myself, Nafisa was the only girl who did not have a brother. She was the fourth daughter in her eight-member family. Their only bread winner was their disabled father who fed the family through farming, and is known as Keshawarz, The Farmer. 

Zeia, a schoolmate of mine lived in another village not far from mine and often joined our games. We grew up together; we played, laughed, argued and fought. It was all fun.

Growing up, I remember I was in sixth grade in 2001, and Zeia was in fifth; one of the school days when Zeia, me and other kids were coming back home from school, a kid from Zeia’s neighborhood with his pale face ran to us and said  “Zeia’s mother who had been taken to the hospital to give birth has passed away”. He said it to all of us, proud to be the the first to tell us the news. Zeia cried out loud, some kids cried along and others felt sad and comforted him.

For a week or so, Zeia didn’t come to school, but when he did, every kid who knew Zeia, shared food, drink, and fruit with him. Befriending was the way the kids showed they were sorry for the loss. Zeia had no older sister to take care of him, he had two younger; his brother, and the youngest child whose birth cost her mother’s life.

Rumors said Zeia’s father cried every morning when he heard his kids unconsciously ask for their mother. (In Afghan lifestyle, a mother means a lot more than a father to the children at home)

A little over a year passed from Zeia’s mother’s death. Nafisa was by then a bit older and traditionally, didn’t join the boys’ games. One day one of the kids whose house was next to Nafisa’s, said to the other boys “Hey my dad says Zeia’s dad has been coming to Nafisa’s house to ask her parents for her hand”. Some didn’t listen to him and continued playing soccer, but most did. Another kid, our team captain said “but he is too old for Nafisa! Plus, she is only our age, she can’t marry now” he continued jokingly “she is my age, I’m 13. Can I have a wife, please?” others laughed…

Not long after our first discussion on the soccer field about Nafisa, we ourselves witnessed Zeia’s father along with some elderly including the village clergyman going to Nafisa’s house. They were going in daylight so others could watch them and sense where they are going. (That happens when families have agreed on marriage, and the clergyman comes to make it official). “That’s it! Nafisa is engaged now; she is a bride” the team captain said laughingly and others “Wowed”’.

Thus, Nafisa, my childhood friend got engaged to my other friend’s father, a man who was 3 times older than her. We later heard that the arrangement was done upon some money that the “groom” would pay to Nafisa’s old father; they money is known as something equivalent to “milk price”. It was in fall of 2002.

School was over and winter began. There were no more soccer games; all the villagers, old and young gathered in the mosque everyday and shared stories-mostly gossips. One cold winter evening when everybody was in the mosque, Nafisa’s marriage became the subject of discussion. An elderly, a relative of Nafisa’s, said “there’s going to be Nafisa’s wedding very soon, this weekend probably” he continued “everything is arranged, and we all will be asked to help prepare meal for the guests.” Silence was all over the place, until someone asked “how much money is the “groom” paying anyway? A lot of it, I fancy?” the elderly didn’t answer.

The weekend, the wedding day arrived and the villagers were asked a day before to prepare meal for guests. Among the crowd of older men and kids in Nafisa’s yard; a friend and I sneaked up and down to take a glance at Nafisa, but we failed for the first couple of times. We had not seen her since her engagement. Finally on the third attempt we made our way to the women’s big room - pretending to be looking for our moms – and there we happened to see Nafisa. She smiled “haha… it’s my wedding, I’m the bride.” She said and touched her head to make sure her new hair was combed. We smiled back but didn’t manage to say the congratulatory words we had practiced a few times before we met her. But we did sense that she-very much like a kid-was excited about the makeup that was about to be put on her face.

The wedding day was over, and bride gone to her home. The night after the wedding, again the talk in the mosque was of Nafisa. One of the elders said “We all say that she was young and immature, which is true, but we have to also know that both families have agreed that in between the “groom” and bride, there should be no sexual intercourse for the next 3 to 5 months, at least.

 Thus, Nafisa, my childhood friend got married – beginning of 2003

A year later, Nafisa got pregnant and “gave birth” to her own child. (The process of her birth giving is another long tragic sad story).

A few years later my family moved to Kabul and since then I heard no word from Nafisa until in summer of 2012 when I went back to Afghanistan. During my stay at home, I also went to see the old villagers and home in Ghazni. One of the days I went to see my old school, and to get there, I had to pass by Nafisa’s home. Carious to see how my childhood friend looked like, I and a relative kid lingered for a minute near Nafisa’s house, and there she came, a middle age woman with a pile of dishes over her head. She didn’t recognize me first, and neither did I. But the kid going to school with me said she is Khala ‘aunt’ Nafisa. I introduced myself and exchanged a few words with her the way I would talk to an elderly… and then she excused herself as a child cried ‘mom’. The wrinkles on her tired face showed her a lot older. I’m not very good at guessing age, but I dare say my childhood friend now looked at least a decade older than her actual age. And since then, I often wonder if she ever has the time and thought to wonder about the missing decade of her age...

I hope to continue this story if I ever visit the place again ...maybe I even get to talk to her about her life, her struggles, memories ....