At that time, Bouznika wasn't very different from Khmiss Zmamra. Moussa was from Bouznika, born and raised there. His father was a farmer who owned a smallholding and sold some of his produce at the weekly markets. Moussa would accompany him to the Wednesday market in Ben Slimane and the Sunday market in Mohammedia, or *Fadala*, as his father used to call it. Moussa knew no other cities until he grew up. After getting his baccalaureate, he enrolled in the Faculty of Arts in Mohammedia. He never ventured beyond it until he needed reference books from the Al Saoud Library in Casablanca.
In 1990, he obtained his bachelor's degree and, without hesitation, was among the candidates to enter the primary education stream. The competitive exam was in the city of Ben Slimane. He passed, and after training, he was appointed to a remote town in the Tata province. To get there, the bus passed through places he was discovering for the first time.
On his father's smallholding, there were wild olive trees, pomegranate trees, white fig trees, black fig trees, and white grapes, as was common in the whole region. There were no black grapes back then. But here on the road, whenever the bus stopped, boys and girls would board, carrying buckets and baskets filled with figs or grapes. And how sweet was the black grape and the black fig offered to you while you were in Doukkala or Abda!
Moussa settled in that remote town in Tata province. He adapted quickly. He didn't feel much longing for Bouznika. Even his financial situation didn't allow him to travel frequently between Tata and Bouznika. However, things improved gradually. He started going into the city and sitting with his colleagues in cafés, though he made sure to pray in the mosque whenever possible.
There in Tata, he heard things he had never imagined. He heard some teachers talking about marriage. Some would say, "I married a woman from salary grade 8," and another would say, "I married one from grade 10." He would think to himself: How could I be satisfied marrying a woman merely because she's from such and such a salary grade? Love, or nothing!
And there, on the road between Tata and Casablanca, something happened that he had never imagined. The bus stopped in Khmiss Zmamra, and among those who boarded was a girl unlike any he had ever seen—a girl like those he had read about in Mohammed Attia El Ibrachy's stories. She boarded the bus with a bucket of black figs in her hand. The moment he saw her, he felt his blood boil in his veins and a wild desire to take her and run away with her so no one else could see her. As for her, she was competing with other boys and girls for potential customers who wanted to buy grapes or figs.
The girl approached Moussa, and his heart almost stopped. He asked her in a barely audible voice about the price of the figs. He had already put his hand in his pocket even before she could answer. She asked for ten dirhams, but when he handed her fifty and said, "Take this," she gave him the bucket with its contents and laughed when he asked her name—laughed so loudly people heard her chuckle. Then she got off the bus as fast as lightning.
She didn't tell him her name, and he couldn't follow her. The bus moved on, and his heart burned, a fire that only grew fiercer even after he reached Bouznika.
His mother talked to him about marriage, and he procrastinated. He started writing poetry. He bought records. He cried. He requested a posting in the nearest place to Khmiss Zmamra. He was appointed in the El Jadida province. He spent years searching for the seller of black figs. When he found no trace of her, he returned to the Ben Slimane province, got married, had children, but he never forgot the girl with the black figs.
Moussa was never one to resent fate and destiny. He was, and still is, one of the faithful with good character, and he raised his two sons and his daughter—who is now about the same age as the black fig seller—accordingly. Even his wife is among the kindest of God's creation; he has never seen anything from her but what pleases his heart. But alas, alas, he can never forget the seller of black figs!
Because of her, he became a fan of the football team Nahdat Zmamra. Because of her, he became a poet who writes and prints collections of poetry at his own expense. Because of her, his appetite still vanishes whenever he sees black figs.
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