After struggling to find his seat on the autobus, he finally spotted number 13-a window seat. In seat number 14, next to it, sat a lanky, tall boy with a diaphanous face and an unruly mop of hair. White earphones were plugged into his ears, and resting on his lap was a book titled Do Muslim Women Need Saving? The lanky guy shifted slightly to make room for him to reach his seat.
Even though the AC was on and the bus was cool, Anas took off his overshirt, his biceps brushing against the bonny hands of his neighbor. He plugged in his AirPods, switched on his phone, tapped the Spotify icon, and clicked on one of his playlists. As the bus began to move, music blasted through his AirPods—shuffling rap, psychedelic rock, and indie alternative tracks.
The autobus was mostly filled with foreigners—white tourists headed to Essaouira to enjoy the Gnawa music, the sea, and the city’s immaculate vibes. After spending nearly five years in France, living among white people, he found it irksome to encounter them now in his own homeland. Their steely gazes—where he could read the imprint of his own presumed inferiority—irritated him. Over time, he had discovered only one way to counter that gaze: by returning it. To meet their hypocritical fawning curiosity about the exotic other with a look that stripped away their assumed superiority. To make them see, reflected in his eyes, their lack of dominance.
As the autobus neared Essaouira—a three-hour drive from Marrakech—Anas yanked his Kindle from his yellow backpack and turned it on. The screen lit up to page 63 of The Blue Economy by Gunter Pauli, a book he’d been enjoying lately. In it, this economist explains how natural systems operate in close loops, where nothing is wasted and how humans should learn from these systems to design industries that do not pollute and that are economically viable.
For the next half hour, he immersed himself in the book until they finally arrived in Essaouira. It was his first time in the city. After years of living in Paris—where he’d completed his master’s in data science—he had quickly landed a job at a multinational firm, analyzing data to optimize profit.
His life in Paris had been nothing if not routine, juggling work, gym, and thoughts about sleeping with someone. And, yes, depression. He’d been diagnosed two years ago and had been taking Seroplex and Prazepam for a while. It had been a week since he’d gone off the meds, and he was trying his best to keep it together—vaping cherry cola almost constantly and listening to his Spotify playlists, curated with religious care and faith.
He alighted from the bus, switched on his phone, opened Google Maps, and typed in the address of the Airbnb he had rented for his three-day stay. The app showed that the Airbnb was only a three-minute walk from where he stood. He had to go through Bab Marrakech, find Zenkat Chbanat. The Airbnb was a riad called Riad Jibril, owned by a surf coach who lived in the old medina, near the house.
He passed through Bab Marrakech into the narrow streets of the medina—vibrant, colorful, bustling with artwork boutiques, handicraft shops, tailor stalls. Eventually, he reached the riad: a weathered building with an old turquoise door, worn down by time and the ocean’s humidity. He knocked on the door. A portly, brown-skinned woman in a long, faded brown house-pyjama opened it.
She greeted him warmly and ushered him into the lounge on the ground floor. “Mrehba bik, my son. Have a seat. I’ll make you some tea. Would you like Atay or kahwa?”
“Tea, please. Thank you.”
“Sugar?”
“Oh no, no sugar. Choukran.”
He sat on a black leather sofa, glancing around the room. The place had an artsy, bohemian feel. In front of him, a cluster of tall surfboards—painted yellow, fuchsia, and lichen green—leaned against a wall. To his left stood a dusty shelf with a neat ensemble of vintage cameras. On his right, another shelf crammed with books: from where he sat, he could make out names—Paul Bowles, Mohamed Choukri, Ali Benmakhlouf, Maupassant…
After he finished his tea, the portly maid handed him the keys to his room, which was on the third floor—the rooftop terrace. As he climbed up, the cries of seagulls drummed in his ears, and the briny scent of the ocean clung to his nostrils like barnacles to a boat.
He liked the idea of sleeping in a terrace room, looking out over the rooftops of the old medina. The sea was partly hidden by buildings, but its presence remained conspicuous, its soundtrack performed by the seagulls’ indefatigable talent. He tossed his bag on the bed, pulled off his plain white shirt, and hopped into the shower.
After drying off and slipping into his shorts, he dropped onto the bed, fished his phone out of his bag, and opened a delivery app. He scrolled until he found a nearby pizza shop and ordered a Margherita with a Coca Zero. Once his stomach was full, he slept like a baby until the evening.
When he woke up, late in the evening, he checked his phone. A message from Ikram—a hospitality student doing her internship at Heure Bleue Palais, a hotel near Bab Marrakech—was waiting for him:
Hey stranger, arrived well? I’ll head to Taros in a few. See you there. Can’t wait to see you.
He jumped out of bed, changed, brushed his teeth, spritzed on his second-hand Bleu de Chanel, and headed out. Thanks to Google Maps, he found Taros with ease. He was craving a drink and looking forward to seeing his friend, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly a year.
At the bar, their eyes met and they exchanged a big, warm hug. They sat in a corner. The DJ hadn’t started playing yet, so they could talk without yelling over the noise. The vibe was laid-back and playful, mostly tourists, a cacophony of languages swirling through the air. Over a beer for Anas and a Purple Rain mocktail for Ikram, they caught up on everything that had happened over the past year.
Ikram was one of the few people who could actually make Anas laugh. Her love of gossip and unbridled honesty contrasted with his desiccated shyness and his struggle to articulate what he felt. One beer led to another. Anas’s head buzzed, dizziness setting in. Around midnight, the DJ started mixing some Gnawa music and jazz, the place grew louder, bodies swaying with excitement, and soon it was too much. They decided to call it a night.
The main courtyard near Taros was now empty. Cafés were closing, and the night air stiffened. Anas’s head was swirling; his sight, blurred. His body felt limp, heavy, languid. He tried to pull out his phone, but it took him two tries to yank it from his pocket—only to find it dead.
“Putain,” he muttered. “What now?”
He looked left, then right, hoping to find someone to ask for directions to Zenkat Chbanat. No one. He crossed the main court, heading down Oqba Ibn Nafi Avenue, next to the big clock. His vision was fuzzy, but he spotted a figure ahead: a young man sitting on a bench, playing a guembri. The boy’s fingers danced up and down the strings, a melody unfolding in the night air. Atop his head sat a Gnawa hat adorned with cowries.
He approached the guy, his gait weak and unsteady.
“Sahbi, can you please show me how I can reach Zenkat Chbanat? I’m staying at Riad Jibril.”
The boy, immersed in his music, had to wake from the dream he’d been transported into. He stopped dancing his hands up and down the guembri’s chords, heaved a sigh, and glanced up at Anas’s face. His eyes widened, a tad shocked, as if he’d seen a sea creature slicing through the night and heading straight toward him. He could tell the guy in front of him was drunk and lost.
He stood up from the bench and said, “Follow me, sahbi. I’ll walk you to your place.”
With a feeble, almost spasmodic voice—childlike and wounded—Anas replied, “Oh no, no need. No need. Just tell me which street I should take.”
“It’s the old medina,” the boy answered sternly. “You’ll get lost easily. So, follow me. And don’t talk much.”
Anas obeyed, like a good boy.
After a few minutes, the two lads reached the riad. At the turquoise door, Anas turned to thank the boy—but before he could finish, the latter had already disappeared into the night, like a jinn returning to his realm after being summoned by Gnawa musicians.
The next morning, Anas woke up with a headache. He could barely get out of bed. After a few failed attempts, he finally summoned his strength, threw on a shirt, and rolled down the stairs to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.
As he stepped inside, he found yesterday’s guy standing next to the refrigerator, holding a carton of eggs. The guy turned slightly, glanced at Anas with a smirk, and said:
“Ṣbaḥ l-kheir.”
Anas, slightly surprised, replied, “Aren’t you the one who brought me here yesterday?”
“Yes, that was me. How do you feel today?”
“I’m feeling better, shukran. But… what are you doing here?”
“I’m Simo’s brother. This is my brother’s place.”
“Oh, okay. And what’s your name?”
“I’m Adam. You?”
“Anas.”
Adam’s eyes lingered on Anas’s face for a few quiet seconds, then he said, “I was about to make breakfast. Would you like to join me?”
“Yes, sure. If it’s not a bother.”
“I’m making an omelette and mint tea. Do you take sugar?”
“Oh no—no sugar, please.”
“Got it. You can sit if you want.”
Anas pulled a chair up to the wooden table and sat down, eyeing his companion with growing curiosity. There was something intriguing about the way Adam moved—quick, effortless. The elegance with which he cracked the eggs and poured them into the buttered pan, the subtle flair with which he seasoned the omelette with a pinch of salt and cumin—it all quietly impressed Anas.
“How come you were sitting there so late last night, with your guembri, all alone?”
Adam let out a soft, nearly inaudible laugh at the question. “It’s something I like to do when I need to think.”
At that response, Anas flinched—something about it struck him like a note of panic. When I need to think. The phrase echoed for a moment in his mind before being drowned out by the sound of seagulls outside.
“I can relate,” he said. “I do the same. When I need to think things through, I go for long night walks. Happens all the time.”
Adam nodded, silent.
“Was it Gnawa music you were playing yesterday?”
“I wasn’t really playing music,” Adam said. “Just riffing. But yes—I play Gnawa. That’s what I do with my life.”
“Oh. Can I ask—how long have you been playing?”
“Since forever,” Adam said with quiet pride. “I come from a Gnawa family. My ancestors were brought to Morocco as slaves from the Sahel region—places like Mali, Niger, maybe even further east. They were taken across the Sahara and eventually arrived in Essaouira through the old port of Mogador. Over generations, the music became our inheritance. From an early age, my father handed me the guembri and the qraqeb. He taught me, along with my brother, how to play.”
“That’s incredible,” Anas said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’d love to hear you play. And sing.”
“Actually, we’re gathering tonight at my father’s house. A bunch of friends and relatives will be there. We’ll spend the night singing and dancing—from midnight until dawn. Would you like to come?”
=================
At midnight, Adam was waiting for Anas to come downstairs. Together, they headed straight to Adam’s father’s house—Mallem Joundi—a 65-year-old Gnawa musician: dark-skinned, pale-eyed, wise, and passionately in love with Gnawa music, which he had been playing and singing since he was five years old.
At the house, a swathe of people—mainly men from the town, a few women, and a couple of foreigners—were sitting cross-legged on floor carpets. In front of them sat Mallem Joundi, his back leaning against the wall, the guembri perched on his lap, eyes closed, readying himself to sing.
A woman they called Lmqedma began to burn incense. To Anas, the scent was strange, pungent and he felt a choking sensation rise in his throat. The house billowed with smoke; it was hard to make out anyone’s face or body clearly.
Mallem Joundi began playing the guembri, producing hissing, sibilant sounds with his mouth. Two other men, dressed in green Gnawa costumes and wearing black hats emblazoned with cowries, joined in with their qraqeb—metal castanets—playing and dancing simultaneously. Adam joined them too, clacking his own castanets.
Then Mallem Joundi started singing. The guembri, the qraqeb, and his voice blended into something at once mournful and soulful. For a moment, Anas felt a shiver down his spine. One of the foreign women stood up and began dancing in a trance. Another woman, this one scarved, rose and moved hither and thither before collapsing to the ground. No one panicked. No one checked to see if she was okay. Women falling into trance-dances and collapsing afterward was an epiphenomenon—an accepted side effect—of listening to transporting Gnawa music.
Anas was deeply touched. He felt something swell in his chest, something trying to burst free. His neurons, it seemed, were dancing with joy—a feeling he only used to get after taking his antidepressants.
Without knowing how or why, he stood up and began to dance—awkwardly, raucously—letting loose, letting his demons go. The demons of depression that had been haunting him for a while now, turning his life into an interminable litany of misery and an unending harkening after serotonin.
As he danced rapturously, an epiphany befell him—a momentum, a life-force, whispering in his ear that he should leave everything behind. Everything he thought mattered. Stay here. In Essaouira. Healing. Listening to Gnawa music. Dancing. Staying here with Adam. With the seagulls. By the sea.
——
Image: ChatGPT remixed