Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

Oneway Street
“Who is this cake for anyway?” One of Hamza’s sisters asked, laughing as she sliced it
into thick pieces.
“Haya, I think,” Hamza said, just because.
“It’s for you, Sara,” another of the sisters said, “How are you cutting– do you see children
in this house or elephants?”
His daughter brushed past them as she walked away with a slice of cake on a small plate.
There was icing on the back of her hand, a dusty yellow. Jasem grinned at her from his reclined
position on the sofa and she rested the plate on his lap. Hamza could not tell if she had wanted
that slice for herself or had intended it to be for him. He doubted she would be honest if he
asked. As she sat beside him, the fork fell off the plate and onto the floor.
Hamza thought of the past. He thought of his daughter as if he was not there looking at
her. He could tell it took some time getting used to him. The way he was now, quiet more times
than not. When he wasn’t looking at faces, it was like his eyes were facing inwards. There was
also his sense of dress, which plausibly the most difficult thing to get used to. All things that
couldn’t be known over the phone.
Sara insisted that he ate, so he skimmed some of the icing. But mostly, he drank tea. He
went through three cups, not saying much. No one prompted him to explain at all, and he did
not.
Qasem moved across the room towards him. He hitched up his kandora to his calve to
bend one leg over the other. He looked at Hamza then down at his cake, taking a couple of big
spoonfuls. Hamza reached for the tea pot to pour some more tea for himself. The spout was
curved and he missed miserably, the now-lukewarm tea dribbling down his hand. He went to
wipe it off on his sleeve and caught his son watching from the side. The boy dipped his head
back down, rearranging the fork on his plate. They met eyes again and this time, Jasem was
smiling with half his mouth.
Hamza shook his head, as if making a joke of himself, setting the teapot down.
108