The Playboy Diary: Age of Innocence

Before the Diary

Afra

New York, spring 2021

“Mom, I’m home,” shouted Leila after hanging her keys on the key hook.

The loud music coming out of the kitchen tempted anyone who heard it, and despite not fully understanding the lyrics, Leila hyped up with it. “Cheb Khaled” is the king of “Rai Music” in Algeria, and his famous song “AbdelKader,” although released in the early 2000s, is still one of the greatest ever made.

“Oh dear, you’re home!” old Houria said excitedly. “I didn’t hear you coming; the music must’ve been loud,” she added and swiftly silenced the radio.

Hi, my name is Afra, and I am the narrator of this story. Don’t squeeze your brain to try and find out who I really am; just bear with me. The old family died, and on the ruins of the new one, the Imam and the Priest’s friendship was shattered and scattered into pieces.

The Imam’s daughter and the Priest’s son, after an unaccepted, unexpected, unconventional marriage, gave birth to a girl whom they named “Leila” and who had been living with the Imam since she was five years old. The marriage broke the families into halves, making any future reunion impossible. However, the past is the past, and what has passed must be forgotten until… it comes back to haunt you.

That night, when Leila and her grandmother were busy preparing dinner, the Imam’s past paid him a visit. While treading lightly in the streets of Brooklyn, romanticizing the old beautiful days, a 1971 black Buick Riviera pulled right next to him. He stopped and carefully placed his hand in his pocket as if fetching something when a familiar voice addressed him.

“Uncle,” the voice called.

The Imam smirked and replied without turning around, “So you’re back home, son”

The man, who was about 5 feet 8 inches tall with dark hair, dark eyes, black thick eyebrows, olive skin and strikingly Sicilian features, stepped out of the car, leaning on his oak walking cane. He touched his ivy cap and greeted the Imam in the ultimate respectful way. The Imam turned back and nodded with his head, keeping the distance between him and his visitor.

“What for?” The Imam asked.

“My brother’s dead,” the man answered.

“How about your father?” The Imam asked after a brief lull. “He’s okay… wherever he is. Mom says hi,” the man replied. “Is she okay?”

“Yes, she’s fine.”

The men stared at each other nostalgically.

“I fail to understand the purpose of your visit my son,” the Imam said, breaking the silence.

The man looked at the ground as if contemplating an answer, then raised his head to meet the Imam’s gaze again.

“We want the girl for the funeral… He froze all of his assets, and if she doesn’t attend, everything will go to charity,” the man replied.

“Why now?” The Imam asked.

“We don’t know, uncle! My mother asked if you could prepare her for the news. I appreciate if you tell her as soon as possible; I got business to take care of,” the man answered.

The Imam was silent for a moment before he could give a reply.

“We’ll have to see about that; tell your mother that I will do my best,” he said.

“Thank you, uncle; I’ll be in Brooklyn for some time, so I’ll come back for the answer,” the man said.

“Be safe, son,” the Imam replied, bidding him farewell.

“You too, uncle,” the man gave a parting nod with a smirk on his face, then disappeared into his car and drove fast.

The Imam stood motionless, contemplating over what had just happened when he heard a rattle coming from one of the trees on the other side of the street. He was very slow for the bullet that penetrated his heart was faster than his intuition. He collapsed immediately and was found the same night drowning in blood.

The Imam’s death was considered a hate crime by the authorities. However, upon hearing the sad news, his wife; old Houria had a severe heart attack and died the same night. Leila was an orphan, again.