Algiers Awakening

The white city tumbled toward the Mediterranean as Karim's taxi climbed through Algiers. Twenty years in Paris, and now his grandmother's death brought him back to a homeland he barely remembered.

"Waqef hna," he told the driver. Stop here.

The rooftop café materialized like a dream—bougainvillea cascading over whitewashed walls, the bay glittering below.

"Saha," greeted the woman behind the counter. Her curves filled a colorful karakou jacket, traditional gold jewelry catching the afternoon sun.

"Saha," he managed. "Wahd qahwa, min fadlik."

"Qahwa wla qahwa torkiya?" Regular or Turkish?

"Ki ma thabbiha." However you like it.

Her smile could launch ships across that gleaming bay.

"Ana Samira," she said, bringing his coffee. "You're not from here."

"I was. Once." He gestured at the view. "Nsit gaddah hadi jamila."

"You forgot how beautiful it is?"

"Nsit kollesh." I forgot everything.

She sat across from him, uninvited and unapologetic. "Roh ydor." The soul wanders. "But it always knows home."

"I don't know if this is home anymore."

"Chrab qahwtek." Drink your coffee. "Nchoufou ba'dine."

Days passed. Karim returned to the rooftop café each morning, drawn by coffee and the woman who served it. Samira was forty-one, never married, owner of this slice of paradise.

"Alache ma tzawwajti?" he asked. Why didn't you marry?

"Ma lqitch elli yestahel." Didn't find one who deserved it. Her eyes held his. "Wenta?"

"Divorced. She hated that I dreamed in Arabic."

"Hadhi mouchkila kbira." That's a big problem. She refilled his cup. "El roh ma taqbalch el kdheb."

"The soul doesn't accept lies?"

"Exactement." Her French slipped in naturally. "You can't love someone who rejects half of you."

Samira showed him the Algiers tourists never saw—the courtyard of the Ketchaoua Mosque, the winding alleys of Bab El Oued, the fish markets of La Pêcherie.

"Hadi dzayer el haqiqiya," she said. This is the real Algeria.

"Enti dzayer el haqiqiya," he corrected.

She blushed beneath her olive skin.

"Ta'alay," she said one evening. Come with me.

She led him through narrow streets to a hidden hammam, steam rising from ancient stones.

"Hna?"

"Ma tkhafch." Don't be scared. "Ana m'ak."

The hammam was empty—she'd arranged it. Karim watched her unwrap layers of fabric, revealing curves that made his architect's eye appreciate divine geometry.

"Ya Allah," he breathed.

"Aych?" She stood proud in her fullness. "Kbira barsha?"

"Kamla." Complete. "Enti kamla."

The warm water embraced them both. Karim's hands found her hips, her waist, the soft abundance of her.

"Ghassalni," she whispered. Wash me.

He soaped every curve with reverent hands, learning her like a building he wanted to restore.

"Enti dzayer f qalbi," he confessed against her wet skin. You are Algeria in my heart.

"Wenta fi qalbi," she answered, pulling him close.

Their kiss tasted of hammam steam and homecoming.

She guided him inside her in the warm water, thick thighs wrapping around him like welcome. Karim groaned as her heat engulfed him.

"Dweb," she moaned. Melt. "Dweb f'ya."

He did—dissolving years of exile into her embrace.

Their rhythm echoed off ancient tiles. Samira clutched his shoulders, soft body undulating against him, cries rising with the steam.

"Qrib," he warned.

"M'aya." With me.

They came together, waves of pleasure crashing like the Mediterranean below the city. Karim held her through the tremors, forehead pressed to hers.

"Rja'," she whispered. Come back.

"Ma nmchich." I'm not leaving.

He redesigned his life from her rooftop café—remote work, video calls at dawn, evenings watching the bay turn gold.

"Ma ndmouch?" his Paris colleagues asked. Don't you miss it?

He looked at Samira serving customers, sunlight catching her jewelry, and laughed.

"Lqit elli kont nhawes 'alih." I found what I was searching for.

The bay sparkled its agreement.