Jamila Omairah
My name is Suleimani

Jamila Omairah

My name is Suleimani

A short story,

translated by Samira Kawar

Suleimani returned from his job feeling exhausted after a long hard day at the textile factory where he worked as head of personnel and production. He had worked for the company for a long time, ever since being appointed as a junior employee, gradually being promoted to his position on merit. But that did not prevent many employees from resenting his promotion  as they thought he was a pitiable character who should be seen by a psychiatrist, and that he even hated himself. It was rare for anyone to escape his scolding, his overbearing behaviour, a salary deduction on his orders, or his constant commands. He was known for his strict reaction to any mistakes by the employees.

Every morning he would stand at the factory entrance awaiting their arrival, with apparent endless patience, and would personally taking note of those who were late or absent without having booked the time off, even though the shift supervisor, who took down names in a long register, was also present. But things did not stop at that. They dragged on and on as on a widening path. A recently bought “electronic fingerprint” machine had been installed at the entrance, but that didn’t persuade Suleimani to stop watching the employees as they arrived and harassing them. On his orders, a large notice was erected at the factory entrance. It read: “The external gate will close at thirty-five minutes past seven, and anyone who is late will not be able to enter and will be considered absent.” The workers could never recall seeing him smile or laugh, even over a joke. There was a very small lump above his eyebrows that expanded when he frowned, which was often.

He would frequently interfere in how both male and female employees dressed and how they liked to appear. In fact, there were instructions that could not be ignored by anyone wanting to get a job at the factory and to keep it.

As far as the women were concerned, long nails and nail polish were banned, and long hair could not be worn loose. He used to say “Clothes that attract attention may not be worn” because this would reduce productivity and invite promiscuous behaviour by both male and female employees. He would say that inappropriate dress would result in senior executives being held accountable to the factory’s general director.

There was also a long list of instructions for male employees that could not be contravened or amended as long as Suleimani was in post. Men were banned from having long hair and had to be clean shaven every day. Smoking was banned during working hours and inside offices. Anyone wishing to smoke could do so outside, opposite the main entrance during their half-hour break.

He would often take employees by surprise by suddenly appearing and watching what they were doing, checking what had been achieved, and what still needed to be done. This would keep them on tenterhooks in anticipation of these sudden appearances.

Sometimes, he would give a long speech, calling on them to increase their competency and productivity, and saying he expected creative ideas from them, and that he aspired to seeing the factory become one of the leading and most successful of its kind in the region, and even in the whole world.

I forgot to mention mobile phones. All employees had to switch off their mobile phones and give them to a specific employee for safekeeping in a special box. They could only be retrieved on leaving at the end of the working day. He justified his ban on mobile phones by saying that many employees used their phones for entertainment and to hook up with girls, to text them and flirt with them, which would impact the factory’s workflow negatively and cause jobs to be postponed for days. In an emergency, anyone who wanted to use a phone could use the landline in the public relations department.

Some people thought Suleimani was a partner in the factory, and that he received large end-of-year bonuses, otherwise, where did he get so much power, authority, and controlling harshness from, which not only applied to the factory workers, but to visitors as well?

By contrast, others doubted such talk and considered it as malicious rumour aimed at damaging the man’s reputation and morals. Suleimani’s extreme dedication to the factory was an established fact: throughout his long years on the job, he had only been absent a few times for reasons that were out of his control. When that had occurred, he would try to compensate by working overtime for several hours without being asked to by the factory management. He would remain inside the factory with the guard till a very late hour, following up on every available detail, searching through all the employees’ files and offices without exception. Some explained his extreme behaviour, even towards himself, by saying he was one of those people who are born for such a role, which fully suits their personalities, and that they are unable to play any other role well. They earnestly search for such a role, and if it disappears, the world will face collapse and ruin. They said that people with such personalities should be pitied.

Suleimani was one such person. Since childhood, his personality took on that nature, which helped him to play that role and perfect it later in life, effortlessly and uncomplainingly. The role suited him perfectly, and if you were to try to put him somewhere else, he would suffocate and die like a houseplant that is moved outside into a sunny spot.

***

That day, he returned from work exhausted. His head was throbbing like the pendulum of a clock. He even felt that the clock was hanging from his head, echoing the movement of the workers, their noise and endless bustle like that of persistent ants.

He changed out of his clothes, took a cold shower and ate his meal alone, then took two Panadol Extra tablets. Taking advantage of the absence of his children, who were on a visit to their grandfather with their mother, he laid down on the sitting-room sofa and tried to shake off the demands of the factory and its new production line, the employees’ complaints and their insistent demands for an annual increase in their salaries. His wife had used that visit to her father as an excuse to leave the house, which Suleimani had turned into a mini factory. She would have gone on that visit with or without a reason, and would stretch it as long as possible to avoid further problems with Suleimani.

Soon, his snoring was so loud it permeated the room.

***

He was perspiring when he woke up. He still felt sleep clinging to his eyelids despite his long nap. The clock he had felt hanging from his head had completely disappeared, but his wall clock was still in its place, and it showed the time as half-past nine.

The complete disappearance of his headache brought a smile to his face. He stretched his body backward and forward several times, then got up and did some quick exercises to re-energise himself.

He took a cold shower, then made some coffee, sat down at his desk and switched on his laptop to follow the latest news of the world through that magic blue space that fascinated him.   

Whenever he used advanced technology, he would say to himeslf: “This is a new craze”. He recalled the days when his father was alive. As a boy, his father used to send him on foot to his grandfather’s house, which was a long distance away, to tell them something or other, or to go to the house of some relative on some urgent errand. This had been before they had a phone in the house. Or he would send him to the main post office downtown to post a letter to a friend. He would give him a small key, and raise his large, thick-fingered hand to his face and tell him: “Be careful not to lose it.” The key allowed him to unlock a small box and retrieve the letters and parcels inside it.

Had my father been alive, what would he have done now? Would he really believe what he was seeing? This was doubtless one of the great privileges of this century, as the technology engineer at the factory used to say. A time when I can carry a machine the size of my palm and put it in my pocket, without any knowledge of the complicated technology of its operating system, or of what is inside it. At that point, he felt regret. (The head of the technology department had pressed him more than once to register for a short modern communications technology course with the employees, but he had always refused, citing work pressures and his ever-growing responsibilities.) The machine rings several times, and a relative you haven’t seen for a long time is contacting you. The machine takes a recorded message that tells you who called you if you were unable to take the call or respond. You can also have a video phone call with a friend who is thousands of kilometres away, even if he is in the farthest city in the world, and the cost is minimal. Or you can respond with a short text message that you can send off as you prepare to go to bed, or to begin some task or other.

The world has become a global village, people, and I’m one of the millions upon millions of those lucky groups that live in this amazing technological era. I feel proud.

He was confronted by an empty white tab asking him what he was thinking about. He felt pleased, as though the question were directed at him alone. What am I thinking of? What? “I am thinking about lots of things, if only you knew,” he thought.

He was confused by the tab and white space beneath it. It was trapping him into disclosure, disclosure of what he was thinking. He felt that he should be wise and precise, because it was rare for anyone to escape that sort of trap. What made it even more confusing was that nothing could be amended or discussed, because the flow of words would not stop. There was no one to stop the text or recall it. By pressing one key, the text would be visible to everyone.

***

Suddenly, a small green light flashed at the top of his mailbox. That meant that he had just received a message. He quickly opened his mailbox. He recalled the image of their green metal mailbox when as a boy, his father sent him every Tuesday to check whether anything new had arrived. He still remembered its number (508) and its location, which was in the third row of the long rows of green metal boxes against the wall. He would walk there with short slow steps (there was a small hole in the sole of his shoe, which would reappear whenever it was repaired.) He would walk down a nearly dark corridor with steps that still echoed in his memory. He would salute the old employee at the entrance with “Peace be upon you”. Often, he would get no reply because the old man had suddenly fallen asleep in his large chair, his head falling onto his chest. He would keep walking towards the mailbox holding a small key hanging on a thin black ribbon. He would open the box with a quaking heart for fear of finding it empty.

He pressed a button, opened the message, and read in amazement: “Hello. Are you alone? Have you got time? I’m feeling stifled and would like to chat with you. Hanan.”

His pulse quickened and became so violent his heart almost came through his chest. Before answering, he looked up his list of friends to ensure that she was on it. He recalled meeting her during a short passing chat. She was a student at one of the private universities proliferating in the city.

He went back to the message box and wrote: “Hello, Hanan, yes, I’m on my own. Go ahead.”

“I’m feeling bored and out of sorts, and there are things I would like to tell you,” she responded.

“So, all good, I hope? Tell me.”

“I want to see you, I’m not good at texting, let’s talk on video.”

“On video? How would that work?”

“There’s a tab with a camera above it. Press it and it opens.”

He did so immediately.

And there she was before him, her very image. She had short black hair. He noticed something that looked like a small ring in her right nostril, and there was a smoking cigarette between her fingers. He almost loudly called on God for protection from the Devil as he looked left and right, but he recalled that he could be seen. She was sitting in a swivel chair with a table in front of her on which books and notebooks were randomly scattered.

“Hanan, so there you are.”

“Suleimani, at last.”

They laughed loudly, like two people doing a high five.

“So, what’s bothering you, my pretty little one?”

“Mmmm, mmm,” and she began to twist her body as she sat in her chair, moving back and forth, as her half bare breasts followed suit.

I forgot to mention her clothes. She was wearing a short sleeveless top that revealed half her bosom. Every time she excused herself and got up to fetch something, she deliberately revealed her skinny stomach.

He lit a third, fourth and fifth cigarette, he was constantly holding one. As soon as he finished one, he would quickly light another. He froze and stared at her, feeling a hot air current coursing throughout his body.

“So, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing. I asked you, and you haven’t answered me. What’s bothering you, my little one?”

“Suleimani, Suleimani,” she said flirtatiously. “Oh Suleimani, oh Suleimani.”

“Suleimani’s at your command, do you need help with your studies?”

“No, no, Suleimani, you’re way off the mark. I’m completely on top of my studies.”

“I see, my Hanan.”

“O my darling,” she said soulfully, and he felt that he was melting like a bar of chocolate in the heat. He had never been called that before. He kept staring at her bosom, stupidly, like a child.

“Suleimani, Suleimani.”

“Suleimani’s at your command.”

“I want to see all of you.”

“My dear, here I am before you, all of me.”

“Suleimaaaani.”

He trembled. He felt her tender voice that sparkled like drops of hot water piercing him and entering his bones. He felt her intermittent panting moans as though they were over his face and inside his ears. He trembled again, and the blood ran hot in his veins, causing him to blush.

“Suleimani, Suleimani.”

“Suleimani’s darling,” he said.

“I want to see it.”

“What do you want to see? What, my pretty little thing? Don’t be shy.”

“Suleimani, I want to see, I want to see it. I mean your penis. Now, now Suleimani.”

He jumped up from his seat at his computer as though he had been stung, while still holding his cigarette. He paced up and down the room in shock, unsure about what to do. But her voice pursued him. “Suleimaaaani.” Her voice was hoarse and intermittent, flirtatious, bewitching, coquettish, begging and persistent, “My daaarling Suleimaaani.”

“Oh, my Hanan.”

He threw his shirt to the floor, clearly baring his hairy chest, threw his still burning cigarette into an ashtray and took off his trousers and pants, whispering: “My Hanan, Hanan.”

“My dearest love, you’re my darling,” she said.

He began to massage his penis as she watched so that it would gradually become erect like a spear, and she stared from her blue lit screen. He stepped backed away from the camera slightly, and heard her begging, “Stop right there, please. Yes, there. That’s it, Suleimani. Exactly Suleimani, That’s better. That’s it.”

He stood there completely naked, with his “vital organ” swinging in his hands in all directions.  Up, down, up, coming and going, going and coming, as he said: “My Hanan, I want you now, O fountain of my tenderness.”

“Suleimani, Suleimani.”

“Hanaaan, Suleima . . . Hanaan . . .” their voices intermingled and everything else but the two of them disappeared.

The light on his screen went out, and he threw himself on the sofa fully naked, and fell asleep.

***

A few days later, Suleimani found himself bedridden and unable to move. He felt powerless, confused, and angry because for the first time ever, he did not know what he should do.

He realised that he had fallen into a vile and nasty trap. He was unable to moisten his dry mouth with a glass of water. The kitchen was a few steps away, but he was unable to walk to it.

Dazed, anxious, frightened, and his throat feeling dry, he trembled as he re-read the message: “Suleimani, I am sending you the sound and footage of our last exchange to confirm to you that it has been recorded. You must make a choice: Either it will be published on the factory’s Facebook page and on YouTube, or you will pay me a certain amount of money that I will specify, and will inform you of the payment method once you have responded. Think about it. You have 24 hours. Hanan.”

He was helpless. Suleimani had never felt so powerless. He was besieged by an enemy who was blackmailing him and whom he had no ability to challenge or resist. He was completely helpless. His soul was in the hands of a young woman who was not subject to his instructions and the strict orders with which he had oppressed his employees. Now, here he was on the receiving end of even stricter orders that were merciless, striking his domineering personality to its core and humiliating his dignity to the lowest point.

He may have thought about how he had become a wronged man and a victim, but it never for a moment occurred to him that he had always been an oppressor.

The twenty-four hours were passing quickly, and Suleimani was falling.

Published as an online selection of Banipal 75 (Autumn/Winter 2022)

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