The sound of fatty hands clapping roused Akram Baba from his dozy pondering. He tidied his Kaftan, adjusted his headcloth, and hastened to the inner chamber where his superior, the wealthy merchant Mustafa Deeb, impatiently reposed. Akram scurried around a corner, almost knocking over one of the Deeb children.
“Careful, Baba,” the young boy scolded, while waving a forefinger threateningly, “or I will have you cleaning goats for a month.”
“A thousand apologies, master,” Akram Baba said to the small child. “May your goats be forever bleating.” Mustafa Deeb barely acknowledged Akram’s arrival, preferring instead to lounge languidly while dropping juicy grapes into his gaping mouth. Akram kneeled patiently at a distance, awaiting instructions, until eventually, after sucking the juice from the last of the grapes, Mustafa Deeb beckoned him closer.
“Tonight I shall entertain my friends who are visiting Baghdad,” Mustafa Deeb said. “The cook requires supplies from the market, and I want you to purchase them for me. It is a simple task for a simple man. I think you are suited for the job.” He chuckled hoarsely while looking down his large nose at the young man.
Akram swallowed his pride. “It would be my great pleasure to satisfy your needs, master,” he said, while inwardly relishing the opportunity to get away from the claustrophobic merchant compound for a while.
“Then what are you waiting for?” Mustafa Deeb chortled. “Time is money for a rich merchant like me. Go to the kitchen without delay, collect the shopping list, and submit a request to the treasury. Make haste, Baba!”
Akram wasted no time, and soon he was reveling in the pulsating life of Al-Rasheed Street. Here he could pretend to be somebody special—an important emissary of Mustafa Deeb with privileges far beyond the reach of most Baghdad citizens. He loitered at a teahouse, while listening to the enchanting sounds of santur, dumbuk, and oud in the masterful hands of a Baghdadi Chalghi band.
“Hey, Baba! Who do you think you are?” a young voice called out above the din. It was another of the Deeb children. “I don’t think Father will take kindly to you wasting his time and money.”
How many children does Mustafa have? Akram thought. They are like spies in every nook and corner, ever ready to ruin my fun.
“I am just auditioning the Chalghi band,” Akram nervously replied. “I thought Master Mustafa might like to have them perform tonight for his friends.” The oud and santur players gazed quizzically at Akram without missing a beat. The Deeb child shook his head in disbelief before running off down Al-Rasheed Street with his young friends.
Akram relished his occasional visit to the busy Baghdad marketplace, where the rich aroma of Middle Eastern spices attracted locals faster than sheiks to a belly-dancing contest. Inside the bazaar, customers surged in turbulent determination, while farmers loudly talked up their produce above the chattering cacophony of Baghdad life. Akram sampled dates and pomegranates, weighed couscous and farina, sniffed cinnamon and nutmeg, and generally idled away his time. He then leaned back against a lamppost toward the back of the marketplace, while reading a Baghdad newspaper. Children chased each other around his legs, turbaned villagers sat together smoking from a hookah, and chattering black-clad women milled around in small groups. Akram was focusing on the adventures of Hadad the Arab in the newspaper cartoon section when an unexpected chill breeze swept past. A moment later, someone gave him a stern push from behind, forcing Akram to stumble and trip on his own kaftan. He turned angrily, ready to curse the clumsy offender, but then froze, mouth agape, and eyes fearful.
Before Akram Baba stood Death: the legendary Grim Reaper. He wore a long black cloak that smelled of clammy decay, and a scythe rested on his shoulder. His deep-set eyes, although concealed within shadowy folds, remained fixed on Akram. The Grim Reaper clutched an hourglass with skeletal fingers and held it out in front of Akram. Grains of sand raced quickly through the narrow hourglass chamber. Akram, terrified and stumbling, ran from the marketplace, knocking surprised shoppers askew. He charged down Al-Rasheed Street, dodging carts and leaping goats in a feat of acrobatic finesse rarely seen by a man wearing a kaftan and head cover. He crashed heavily through the bamboo gate entrance to Mustafa Deeb’s complex and fell to the floor sobbing.
“What is this disturbance!” Mustafa Deeb called from the inner chamber. “I am trying to rest before my guests arrive this evening.” He extricated himself from a bundle of soft pillows and stomped heavily toward the commotion. Mustafa Deeb’s lips curled with distaste when he realized it was his servant.
“Baba! How dare you interrupt my slumber like this. What in the name of Allah has overcome you?”
“The Grim Reaper… the marketplace… he pushed me,” Akram blubbered. “Have mercy upon me, Master Mustafa.”
“If you met the Grim Reaper, you would not be here to tell me about it,” Mustafa scolded.
“But it was him,” Akram insisted. “He was dressed in a long black cloak, with face concealed, and he smelled of rot.”
Mustafa was not convinced. “For all I know, you have just met one of my four wives.”
“He had a scythe and an hourglass. I saw my time running out,” Akram said.
“I assure you, Baba, your time will be running out if you don’t deliver the kitchen supplies for this evening’s entertainment.”
“I can’t go back to that market today, master. I want to keep as far away from Death as possible.”
Mustafa Deeb considered the situation a moment. “There is another market at Samara,” he said. “You can take a fast horse from the stable and be at Samara by this afternoon.” Akram jumped at the opportunity. It was rare for Mustafa to show such generosity with his horses, and the opportunity to escape from the Grim Reaper was all the reason he needed to jump in the saddle. Within five minutes, Akram Baba was galloping away from his troubles and toward Samara.
Meanwhile, Mustafa Deeb summoned a coach and headed toward Al-Rasheed Street. He had never met Death, and Akram’s pitiful frightfulness did seem genuine. Once at the marketplace, Mustafa Deeb began pushing among the crowd in search of the Grim Reaper. He ambled aimlessly for half an hour, talked business briefly with an associate, and handed gold coins to a couple of his children, who quickly darted off toward a sweets stall. He was ready to give up the fruitless search when he noticed a tall figure hovering in a dark corner. Mustafa approached cautiously.
“Are you Death?” he asked.
“I am he who is known by that name,” Death replied in a cavernous voice.
“What are you doing here?” Mustafa asked.
“I occasionally visit here to collect one or two people when their time has come,” the Grim Reaper said, while slowly swishing his scythe to emphasize his human harvest. “And one day, I will come to collect you also. But not today.”
Mustafa collected his thoughts. “I am curious,” he said. “Why did you push my servant Akram Baba? He came home terrified earlier.”
“I didn’t push him hard,” Death said. “It was more a gentle prodding to get him moving. I was surprised to see him at this market when I have an appointment with him at Samara this afternoon.”
About the Author
Writing is a big part of Andrew Robertson’s life. He has around 400,000 words published yearly for world-leading organizations and news outlets, in print and online. None of the work is in his name. Once a page is published, it is gone and forgotten about. Andrew’s alter-ego composes songs and poetry, speaks philosophy, and writes short stories. He is a quiet positivist living in a loud world, with lots to laugh, cry, and sing about. Andrew likes to explore the super-conscious and find spaces in our world that we all share, but aren’t necessarily aware of. Andrew likes to write for entertainment and inspiration.
