The Daring Girl

AYA

^CAIRO, 1923^

Cairo was a city bathed in light. The moon’s glow reflected off the freshly paved streets, its shimmer dancing in the puddles left by the evening’s rain. The night air was heavy with the aroma of damp stone, spices, and the faint scent of jasmine from afar.

I hung out of my bedroom window, inhaling the city’s vibrant life. The hum of cars, the chatter of people, the sporadic bursts of laughter—it all beckoned me. The city was always awake, and I didn’t want to miss a moment.

It was the most thrilling place I’d ever been. When we first moved here after the war, after Papa’s death, I was relieved. Cairo offered us a new beginning, a new home, a chance to leave behind the sorrow and the barren countryside.

Uncle Asim had vowed to look after Mama, my sisters, and me. But we quickly discovered his promises were as hollow as his pockets. He spent his nights smoking and likely fraternizing with the foreign soldiers, wasting what little we had.

Meanwhile, Mama scrimped and saved at the market, choosing the cheapest food, constantly repairing our clothes, and skipping meals so we wouldn’t have to. She opened a small spice shop under Uncle Asim’s name, and we all worked there during the day, grinding spices and selling small bags to our neighbors.

Mama never voiced her concerns, but I saw them in the strain of her smile, the way her hands shook when she thought no one was watching. And I noticed how she began to pressure my uncle to find me a husband—one less mouth to feed.

But he never did. He simply didn’t care enough. There was no honor in his family, and we were powerless. So, I had no choice but to work. But a part of me enjoyed it. The independence, the city’s excitement, and the knowledge that I was supporting my mother and sisters.

It was my responsibility, yes, but also my pride. Late at night, I dressed quietly, wrapping my red and yellow skirts around my hips, securing my short bodice tightly against my skin. I traced the cool jewels that decorated my chest and waist, their touch grounding me.

I lined my eyes with heavy kohl, painted my lips a deep crimson. I brushed my hair, tied it back with a scarf, and draped a red veil over my face—a balance of modesty and illusion. With my shoes on and cloak around my shoulders, I quietly navigated through the silent house.

I paused at the bedroom door. Inside, Mama held my youngest sister, Femi, in her arms. Beside her, Bahiti, Dalila, and Heba slept peacefully, their small bodies huddled together for warmth.

I could never reveal where I went at night. Mama would be appalled. She wouldn’t understand. And worse, it would tarnish my sisters’ reputations. I didn’t mind tarnishing mine. Not if it meant putting food on the table.

With one last look, I rushed downstairs, past the room where Uncle Asim snored in his drunken stupor, and slipped out into the night. The streets were quiet after the rain, their usual dust and heat washed away.

I pulled up my hood, wrapped my cloak tightly around me, and navigated through the gleaming alleys. Foreign men had been pouring into the city since before the war, bringing their European habits and vices. Consequently, secret clubs had popped up everywhere, hidden behind unmarked doors and whispered passwords.

The club where I worked was a mere five minutes from home. At the blue door, I knocked, whispered the password, and slipped inside as it creaked open. A dark tunnel engulfed me, the distant music growing louder with each step.

I pushed through the beaded curtain and entered the club. Smoke swirled through the air, thick and hazy, obscuring the cavernous space. Foreign soldiers lounged at tables, their uniforms disheveled, their faces flushed from alcohol.

Women moved among them—some like me, some foreign, their hair cut shockingly short, their lips painted a bold red. At the bar, I removed my shoes and cloak, unfastened my scarf, and let my hair fall freely.

My veil stayed, covering my face from the nose down, its soft fabric brushing against my skin. I checked my bodice, adjusted my jewelry, then stepped onto one of the circular stages. The music played softly, the men laughed boisterously, and I began to dance.

My hips swayed, the coins at my waist chiming. My arms moved in rhythm, my body arching, spinning, dipping. I ignored the catcalls, the drunken whispers. I danced for my sisters—for my freedom.

Then, I spotted him. His icy blue eyes found mine from a dim corner of the room. He was sitting alone, shrouded in shadows. The sharp contours of his face were barely visible, his gaze steady.

I was inexplicably drawn to him, unable to tear my gaze away. As I danced, it felt like I was dancing solely for him. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, and something within me fluttered.

When my dance ended, I stepped off the stage and reached for a tray of beer glasses. But before I could move, I bumped into someone. It was too quick—too unexpected. The tray should have tumbled to the floor.

But it didn’t. A hand, steady as a rock, caught it, balancing it effortlessly above my head. I looked up, stunned. He was the most attractive man I’d ever laid eyes on.

A foreigner, his skin was pale as ivory, his dark brown hair slightly curled at the nape of his neck. His face was perfectly symmetrical—almost eerily so—with thick eyebrows, a straight nose, full lips, and a chiseled jaw lightly dusted with stubble.

And his eyes—those bright, icy blue eyes—were fixed on mine, penetrating, inscrutable. He was taller and broader than any man in the room. Even through his khaki attire, I could sense the power that lay beneath.

He was young, maybe just a few years older than me. But there was something timeless about his demeanor.

“Hello, little bird,” he said, his voice deep and velvety, like warm honey.

A shiver ran down my spine.

“Thank you,” I managed to say, taking the tray from him before it hit me—he had spoken in flawless Arabic.

He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over me. Then he smirked.

“Where have you been all my life, little bird?” he asked, leaning in, his face just inches from mine.

He took a soft breath, then leaned back, his smirk broadening.

“You smell delicious.”

I could feel my cheeks heating up. I was thankful for the veil.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Aya.”

“I’m Alexander.”

He nodded slightly, locking eyes with me.

“You’re a beautiful dancer, Aya.”

“Thank you, sir,” I murmured.

His smirk deepened as he picked a beer from my tray. “Would you sit with me?”

“I cannot. I must serve drinks.”

He frowned just a bit, then smiled again—a smile so stunning it was disarming.

“I see. Then perhaps I can buy your time?” He pointed to a nearby table, where a chessboard sat untouched. “Do you play?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

His grin broadened. “Good.”

Before I could object, he took my tray, set it aside, and placed a hand on the small of my back. His touch was cool, lingering as he led me toward the board.

“So, Aya,” he murmured. “You begin.”