Oh, what a journey it’s been – from there to here, from then to now. Must I go back? But something’s calling me to return once more, a voice crying in the wilderness – the burdened voice of a spirit.

The endless, downward spinning finally stops. The air around me is harsh and oppressive – a heavy darkness on the surface of my mind and soul. I turn up the air conditioning and lie on the moist bed. Drip, drop, drip, drop; I stare at the distant, indifferent air-conditioning unit protruding from the wall above my head. I move my soggy pillow when I realize the tears it weeps are not clear, but brown. Sighing, I sweep the room with my eyes. The massive mahogany wardrobe that should contain my clothes presses against the brownish-yellow wall; it totters and threatens to fall at the slightest provocation. I ignore it and wipe the sweat from my hands and face.

How do the beggars stand it? Walking among the waste, sleeping with the strays, covered in layers of clothing, how do they do it? Don’t they feel snared by the Egyptian sun’s scorching fingers – nowhere to go – trapped? I scream in frustration and slap the air around me as my thoughts are interrupted by three infuriating flies. I shudder silently as I think of what else inhabits my room. Fleeing, I push the door and walk in on Mama and Chrissie. They jerk, and after an awkward moment, begin to laugh and joke. It’s not the first time I’ve unexpectedly intruded on one of their hushed conversations. Yes, yes, protect the little one; she doesn’t remember most of it. She doesn’t need to know.

But don’t worry. I’m prepared for this battle. I promise I am. I stare at Mama with a grin plastered on my face. She’s been crying – not the kind of crying she does in front of me or even in front of Chrissie; these are unselfish tears – tears not for past pain, but for future – tears of fear, tears for me. The doorbell sounds, shattering the deep silence of the house.

Bang! Bang!

It is the noise when fist meets face.

It is the sound of a wailing woman.

It is the noise of a breaking home.

It is the battle cry.

I pull and push at the door and finally get it open. The heat of the streets forces its way through the unguarded entrance into the house, into my brain, into my mouth. I stare down. Well, that didn’t take long. I smile and laugh; I don’t know why, because inside I cry. This one’s gonna be a long one. I steady myself and prepare to do battle. “Hello, Daddy.”

It’s mid-battle. I’m wounded. I need to recover. Cursing myself for my weakness, I step onto the balcony. The air burdened with smoke and dirt is lighter out here. I steady myself against the burning metal railing and breathe. It is the air of dusk. The stench of garbage permeates the atmosphere. Looking down, I see the beggars I once pitied, and I envy them. My eye catches the form of a stool in the terrace corner; I study it for a while. I bring it near the balcony edge, its crude, splintering skin grinding against the strength of the concrete wall. It’s wounded also, its leg broken and scabbed. But it stands. It doesn’t need four legs – three are enough. I laugh and again face the door; I am ready for battle, I am ready for war. And someday I will be ready for a truce.