If God wants

"Where do you need to go?"

I can see his back. A middle-aged man, probably in his 60s, with a brown leather jacket worn out by time, like his wrinkled face. He is looking at me through the rear-view mirror, with inquisitional eyes trying to understand what those blue surfaces hide beneath them. His eyes are confident but gentle, like those of a man that has experienced too much to have anything shake the calm state he has reached over time.

“Afrikanische Straße 47“, I reply.

He lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

A ray of sunlight suddenly infiltrating through the yellowing leaves illuminates my face before vanishing behind big grey clouds.

I can sense his stare.

"You know, a long time ago, I met a girl with the same colour of your eyes. She was the craziest person I have ever met. It was on a Friday afternoon more than 30 years ago”.

*

"Oh, sorry, I have mistaken you for a friend. Man, you look just like him. It is crazy" She is suddenly in front of me with those wide blue eyes and a big smile. "What did you say?" I ask her, still mesmerised by her sudden appearance. "I said, you just look like someone I know."

"My friend. In this world, there is only one Ahmed, and that is me", I reply.

She bursts into laughter. She must be crazy. I haven't heard someone laugh so hard, especially with a stranger.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Never mind. Have a nice day."

"No, no, wait. Where are you going?"

"I am meeting a friend, and I am running late. Sorry I must go, but it was nice meeting you," she tells me, still with a warm smile on her face.

"I have an Uber. If you want, I can give you a ride?"

"That sounds like a nice offer, actually. I need to go to Babylon cinema. Do you know where that is?" she asks me very confidently. What a weird girl. How can a woman accept a ride from a stranger so quickly? "Sure, sure, I know where that is? What is your name?"

"Nina, what was your name again?"

"Ahmed", I reply.

For a while during the ride, we both remain silent. She is sitting in the back seat just behind me. "Your Uber is quite boring." She utters suddenly. "I mean, it is certainly modern, and many people will probably love it, but it just looks like all other Ubers. So clean, empty with nothing personal."

"Are you telling me you would prefer a piece of junk to this?" I laugh. Those young Europeans are so insolent, I think to myself.

"I don't know. I find old objects more interesting. You know they have something to say. Many people waste their money on new stuff. But to me, the older, the better. They are cheaper and more environmental-friendly too. For instance, I am sure you paid a lot for your leather jacket."

Those hippy Europeans and their second-hand clothes now think they can teach me something about how I should dress.

"Listen. Are you telling me that I should now wear old stuff, like the old rag you have there?" I look at the jacket lying beside her. I shouldn't have said that. It was harsh. It came out of my mouth without me wanting it. I look at her from the rear-view mirror. She smiles at me. At least she doesn't look offended.

At the red light, I turn on the radio, and Nina rolls her eyes in annoyance. Well, she definitely doesn't hide her opinions. A high-pitched voice of an English or probably American singer comes out from the speakers. The song is indeed very awful.

I decide to put on a song from my phone. It is a sad Persian song. The woman is singing for her man who left her to go to a faraway land, and she knows she will never see him again.

"In Afghanistan, we would have these talented Persian singers." I say, "You know Persian songs are like poetry. Love stories, of course, but delivered in such a way. You would just remain speechless while listening to them. I love Persian music, but I can't listen to that often anymore. It reminds me too much of home."

"I like the song", she replies with a surprisingly calm voice of someone curious and interested in knowing more. With the same tone, she asks me, "Do you come from Afghanistan?" "Yes. Well, my family moved to Iran when I was very young, so we live there now."

"When did you move here?"

"I was young, 16. And my brother, one day, came to me and asked me to go to Europe with him."

"Oh, so you were young when you moved here. That is why your German is so good. It's nice that you have your brother here." She adds. "Yeah, he is the only other one, the rest of my family is still in Iran."

Suddenly her phone rings. "Well, my friend cancelled. What do you think of grabbing a coffee? I guess I owe you one."

On the street, while heading to the café, I notice her odd way of walking. She is short, but her steps are wide and fast. On many occasions, in fact, she turns toward me, much taller but still slower than her, with a smiling face and lifted eyes and shakes a bit the head, like to say, "so are you coming or not?". However, once she grabs her coffee with both her hands, she takes a relaxed deep breath to then loudly exhale "ahhh" in satisfaction. "I just love coffee", she confesses.

"When was the last time you visited your family?" she asks me after some time.

"It was not long ago. Last summer. It was nice to see everyone. I have so many brothers and sisters you can't imagine." I show her a picture of my parents and my siblings. "You have a beautiful family", she adds.

"Do you have a dream? Like, what do you want to be when you grow old?" I ask.

She smiles. "How old are you?"

"22"

"Ohhh, you little thing." She replies.

"Eh, how old are you?" I ask, a bit annoyed.

"23” she laughs. "But I mean, your question sounds a bit odd to me. I don't believe at this age you think about dreams anymore. Of course, you may still think of a job you want to do, but usually, you are not given too much space to decide anymore. You are supposed already to have reached, in a way, your dream life."

I laugh. Does she really expect me to be an Uber driver my entire life? "What is your dream then?" she asks. "To become a CEO of a company, earn enough money here to then go back home and build a castle. You know, a huge one with a farm with many rooms for my parents, my wife and kids."

She bursts into laughter. "Oh, that is such an ambitious dream, and you think you will really be able to return to Iran? To live there, I mean?". I look at her with furrowed eyebrows revealing my sudden anger. "I didn't mean to offend you. I just know people that have always dreamed of going back to their home country, without managing to. I don't know exactly why." She replies.

"You know, maybe my dream would be to never settle in a place but go from city to city, from town to town, learning about the people of the place." She adds, after some silence, "I would like to go to Latin America one day and leave Berlin. Europe is tiring. People only think about working, earning money, enough to enjoy their holidays, after which they return to their monotonous and repetitive lives. Life is just about work. I hear in Latin America people are more relaxed. They enjoy more life, also with little."

Her dream might be even more absurd than mine, I think to myself. But I already heard many other young Europeans say the same thing.

"You know, I have always been surprised by how the sky looks so far where I come from. In Iran, clouds look so distant. Here it is like you could reach them by just lifting your hand."

She smiles. "I should go home now," she says suddenly.

"I can take you there. Where do you live?"

“Not far from here. In Afrikanische straße 47. I will just take the metro. It is not too complicated. Thanks, though.”

I hesitate, but then I ask, “I want to see you again.”

“If God wants, we will meet again”, she responds, and without giving me the time to reply, she suddenly leaves with still that gentle smile on her face.

*

"Do you remember that day, Nina?"

"Yes, Ahmed. I do remember it very well. You still have that same leather jacket. I like it now more, though." I smile.

This short story was written during the workshop Stories Born from Songs facilitated by the author Chimeka Garricks in October 2022.