Dowla had convinced me. From that moment on, my thoughts became much clearer. If my parents wouldn’t help me, well, I’d act all on my own. My mind was made up: I’d do whatever I had to. I was ready to climb mountains to keep from finding myself lying on that mat again, night after night, all alone against that monster. I hugged Dowla tightly in thanks.
“Nujood?”
“Yes?”
“Take this, it might help.”
She slipped two hundred rials into my hand, the entire pittance-worth barely a dollar-she’d managed to beg that very morning at a neighboring intersection.
“Thank you, Dowla. Thank you!”
The next morning I woke up with more energy than usual, and even surprised myself with my new attitude. As I did every morning, I washed my face, said my prayer, and lit the tiny stove to boil water for tea. Then, fiddling nervously with my hands, I waited impatiently for my mother to get up. Nujood, said my little inner voice, try to behave as naturally as possible, so you don’t arouse suspicion.
When Omma finally arose a little later and began undoing the corner of the black scarf where she usually hides her coins, I understood with relief that my plan might just work.
“Nujood,” she said, handing over 150 rials, “Off you go; buy some bread for breakfast.”
“Yes, Omma,” I replied obediently.
I took the money. I put on my coat and my black scarf, the clothes of a married woman. I carefully closed the door behind me. The nearby lanes and alleys were still half empty; I took the first street on the right, the one leading to the corner bakery, where the bread is deliciously crusty when it has just come out of the old-fashioned oven. As I walked along I heard the familiar song of the vendor who sells gas bottles every day from a little cart he pulls along behind his bicycle.
I was drawing closer and closer to the bakery, and could already inhale the wonderful smell of the khobz loaves, piping hot. Soon I saw that several local women were already in line in front of the tandoor. At the last minute, however, I changed direction, heading for the main avenue of our neighborhood. “The courthouse,” Dowla had told me, “all you have to do is go to the courthouse.”
Once on the avenue, I was suddenly afraid of being recognized. What if one of my uncles passed by? I felt shaky inside; hoping to hide, I brought the folds of my scarf over almost my entire face, leaving only my eyes uncovered. For once, this niqab I’d never wanted to wear again after leaving Khardji turned out to be quite useful. I avoided looking back, for fear of being followed. In front of me, buses were waiting, lined up along the sidewalk. In front of a grocery store selling plastic balloons, I recognized the yellow and white six-seat minibus that passes through the neighborhood every day, taking passengers to the center of town, not far from Al-Tahrir Square. Go on. If you want a divorce, it’s up to you, said my little voice encouragingly. I waited in line like everyone else. The other children my age were with their parents; I was the only girl waiting on her own. I looked down at the ground, to discourage any questions. I had the awful sensation that my plan was written on my forehead.
The driver got down from his seat to open the door, sliding it over to one side. The pushing began immediately, with several women elbowing one another to get inside. I jumped right in, hoping only to get out of my neighborhood as quickly as possible, before my parents realized I was missing and alerted the police. I took a seat in the back between an elderly lady and a younger woman, both veiled from head to toe. Sandwiched between their corpulent bodies, I was shielded from sight if anyone glanced in from the street. Luckily, neither of the women asked me any questions.
When the engine started up, I felt my heart beat wildly; I remembered my brother Fares, and the courage he’d shown in fleeing our house four years earlier. He had succeeded, so why shouldn’t I? But did I even truly understand what I was doing? What would my father have said if he’d seen his daughter get on a public bus all by herself? In so doing, was I staining his honor, as he put it?
The door closed, and it was too late to change my mind. Through the window I watched the city stream by: cars trapped in the morning traffic jams; buildings under construction; black-veiled women; peddlers hawking jasmine flowers, chewing gum, and tissues. Sana’a was so big, so full of people! Between the dusty labyrinth of the capital and the isolation of Khardji, I liked Sana’a a thousand times more.
“End of the line!” shouted the driver.
We’d arrived, and the door had hardly begun to slide open when the hubbub of the stret invaded the minibus. I joined the press of women passengers hurrying to get off, and with trembling fingers handed a few coins to the conductor to pay for my ride. I had no idea at all where the courthouse was, however, and didn’t dare ask my fellow passengers for directions. I was overwhelmed with anxiety, as well as the simple fear of getting lost. I looked right, left; a policeman at a broken red light was attempting to keep some order among the madly rushing cars, their horns blaring, trying to pass one another on all sides. I blinked, half dazzled by the rays of the morning sun in the bright blue sky. How could I ever cross a street in such chaos? I would never make it alive. Huddled by a streetlight, I was trying to collect my thoughts when I caught sight of a yellow vehicle. I was saved.
It was one of the many taxis that crisscross the city at all hours of the day and night. In Yemen, as soon as a boy can reach the accelerator, his father buys him a driving license in the hope that he’ll land a job as a driver, to help feed the family. I’d already taken such taxis, going to Bab al-Yemen with Mona.
Thinking he would surely have every address in Sana’a at his fingertips, I raised my hand and signaled him to stop. A young girl, alone, in a taxi-that’s simply not done. But by this time, I couldn’t have cared less about what people might think.
“I want to go to the courthouse!” I exclaimed to the driver, who stared at me in astonishment.
I sat quietly in the back for the entire ride. His cheek bulging with khat, the driver had no idea how grateful I was to him for not challenging me with questions. He was, without knowing it, the silent accomplice of my flight. With my right arm pressed over my stomach, I tried discreetly to control my rapid breathing, and closed my eyes.
“Here we are!”
With a sharp stab on the brake, he pulled his car up by the courtyard gate in front of an imposing building. The courthouse! A traffic policeman impatiently waved him on because he was blocking the way. I hurried out of the taxi and handed him the rest of my money. After that exploit, I suddenly felt wildly daring. Confused and terrified, true, but full of spirit! God willing, my life was going to change completely.