Annaba Amour
"Malika teaches French at Annaba University. When visiting professor Yacine arrives from Lyon, she shows him that the city of Saint Augustine offers more than ancient ruins. 'El hob ma yhtajch tarjma' (الحب ما يحتاجش ترجمة) - Love needs no translation."
Annaba's ruins whispered Latin while its streets sang Arabic. Yacine had come to lecture, but found himself a student.
"Bienvenue à Annaba," greeted the woman at the faculty meeting. "Je suis Malika."
"Enchanté."
She switched to Algerian Arabic with a smirk. "W marhba bik f bladna."
Her curves defied the professional blazer; her mind defied easy categorization. Franco-Arab, secular-traditional, academic-sensual.
"Rak specialist f Saint Augustine?" she asked at the reception.
"His philosophy, yes."
"Jaddi 'aych hna qbel Augustine." My grandfather lived here before Augustine. "Mnin jat el expertise?"
She offered to show him Hippo Regius—the ancient ruins where Augustine had preached.
"El touristin ychoufou el hjar," she said as they walked. "El ahali ychoufou el roh."
Tourists see stones. Locals see spirits.
"Warini el roh."
She led him to a hidden corner—fallen columns, wild flowers, a view of the Mediterranean.
"Hna kan yekteb." Here he wrote. "El Confessions bdaw hna."
"You believe that?"
"N'aych hna." I live here. "El mkan yehki."
Days passed in academic collaboration. Yacine lectured, Malika translated, and something unspoken grew between them.
"Tji l'dari?" she asked finally. Come to my house?
"Alache?"
"'Andi kutub ma yetlqawch f'el maktaba."
Books that aren't in the library.
Her apartment overlooked the bay. Books covered every surface—French, Arabic, Latin, Greek.
"Ya latif," he breathed. "Maktaba kamla."
"Hayati." My life.
"Wahdek?"
"El kutub ma ykhedbouch." Books don't lie. "El rjal ykhedbou."
"Ma nkhedbch." I don't lie.
"Koulhoum qalou haka."
"Ana machi koulhoum."
She studied him with professor's eyes. "Warini."
He kissed her between Philosophy and Theology, her soft body pressing into towering shelves.
"Yacine," she gasped.
"El hob ma yhtajch tarjma," he said. Love needs no translation.
"Min qallek hadi hob?"
"Augustine."
She laughed—rich, warm, genuinely surprised. "El professor y cite el qiddis."
"The saint was human."
"W enta?"
"Nsani." Human. "M'ak."
They made their way to her bedroom, books tumbling in their wake. Yacine undressed her reverently.
"Kbira," she warned.
"Kamla kima Augustine."
"Comparing me to a saint?"
"A confession."
He worshipped her body like sacred text—reading every curve, parsing every response. Malika moaned in three languages.
"Ya rabbi... Mon dieu... Da'ik..."
"Which should I answer?"
"All of them."
He entered her between shelves of Confessions, and Malika made confessions of her own.
"Shhal zman," she gasped. How long. "Shhal zman m'a had."
Since anyone.
"Ana hna."
Their rhythm was academic argument—thrust and counter, building toward thesis. Malika clutched his shoulders.
"Aktar," she cried. "El conclusion."
The conclusion.
He drove toward it.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." His pace intensified. "El hob ma yhtajch tarjma."
They concluded together, cries echoing off book-lined walls. Yacine collapsed onto her generous body.
"Augustine kan razine," she panted.
"How so?"
"'Araf el hob el haqiqi."
He knew real love.
His visiting position extended—semester, year, permanent. Colleagues credited Annaba's charms.
"El ruins?" they asked.
"El professor."
They teach together now—he Augustine, she contemporary French. Students whisper about the obvious chemistry.
"Kifeh tfahmou ba'dh?"
Malika looks at Yacine with professorial precision.
"El hob ma yhtajch tarjma."
Some things translate themselves.