Don't Tell Me You're Afraid by Giuseppe Catozzella Page B

motionless the whole time, like a stone statue.
    Hooyo took a few steps back and repeated: “You look beautiful, my daughter. If it weren’t your sister getting married, I would say that today you look more beautiful than the bride.”
    Then she picked up the mirror that she’d leaned against the wall and told me to look at myself.
    I was stunned by what I saw. In the glass there was no longer a little child but a young girl with even, delicate features, beautiful.
    It was me, and I was beautiful. I would never have believed it.
    As soon as I stepped shyly out the door, Hodan gave me a look of pure admiration. “You’re beautiful, my little
abaayo
,” she said, moved, as Hooyo hastened to wipe away the tears that threatened to cause her makeup to run.
    â€œIt’s you who are beautiful, my dear young bride Hodan,” I replied, using words that are customary on a wedding day. “Don’t forget us.”
    We celebrated feverishly for hours. Even Aabe danced with all of us daughters, supported by his buddy, the cane.
    Then he and Hooyo danced in each other’s arms in a way that no one had ever seen; they looked like an engaged couple deeply in love. Hooyo was radiant in her white veils: In a single day she’d shed twenty years, as if she were our sister.
    We carried on like that, singing and dancing, late into the night, to live
niiko
music played by the Shamsudiin Band. But the most moving part of the whole
aroos
was Hodan’s singing. As a surprise, she had written a song for each of the people she held dear. One for Hooyo, full of gentleness and gratitude; one for Aabe, full of hope and promise; one for Hussein, overflowing with pure love; and one for me, her little warrior sister. At the table we pulled out our handkerchiefs and cried like babies until she’d finished. It was a low blow, unfair; we’d make her pay.
    Everyone, however, was awaiting the most entertaining moment of the wedding: testing Hussein. It’s a tradition that serves to show the bride’s family that the groom will be able to cope with any eventuality.
    The most enthusiastic challenger was an uncle of Hussein’s, a very funny man, short and bald, with a long, thin mustache.
    Poor Hussein had less than five minutes to obtain a basket of fresh fruit for the bride.
    Outside the hall was a large field planted with watermelons. Hussein came back with a single huge watermelon. It weighed so much that his arms nearly gave out, his smile slipped, and his legs faltered.
    Then he had to wring a chicken’s neck. We all went out into the garden to wait for Hussein to get up the courage to do something he’d never dared do before. His relatives explained that the hen was very old, and wringing its neck would only be doing it a favor. Hussein took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his starched shirt while the poor creature squawked and flapped around awkwardly. I kept my eyes closed the whole time, and the hen’s terrified screeches gave me goose bumps. I opened my eyes again only when I heard the final applause.
    As a final test, Hussein had to prove that he was strong enough to carry Hodan to the table where Aabe and Hooyo were sitting; it was to the right of the bride and groom’s table, along an obstacle course that his cousins had set up while he was busy with the chicken. It was the last straw and Hodan, merciless, laughed and laughed.
    Everything had been perfect; we were elated.
    The closer we came to the end of the weeklong celebration of the
aroos,
however, the more I felt a pall of sadness come over me.
    After tomorrow my beloved sister would no longer be with me; she would go to live in Hussein’s parents’ house. It would no longer be me she’d sing to sleep but Hussein. No longer would she hold my hand tightly; no longer would she lead me to the most wonderful dreams of hope and liberation.
    She would do all these things with him.
    I would have to