The Maqama Leg
I stood in the middle of the marketplace of the city of Alaco beneath the beating sun. It was the midday hour, the sun clanged against my skull like a hammer, and my belly was empty, for I’d had nothing to break my morning fast. My pockets were empty, containing not even the few scant coins necessary to purchase a stale heel of bread and a fly-ridden lump of butter. My master had driven me from his shop with curses and refused to give me the wage we had agreed upon. All around me, the crowd surged, customers jostling for advantage, merchants cajoling them as skinflints, and the stench of commerce like hot iron in the forge.
Unsure of where to turn, cap in my hand, I approached a prosperous man whose girth alone bespoke the bounty that ever lay upon his table.
“Please, sir,” I begged. “Might I have a few pennies? Or might you spare a single crust of bread that I might not see Death’s grim countenance this day?”
“Begone, foul beggar!” cried he. Better to find gainful employment than to become a leech on the society of your betters!”
I turned then to a finely dressed woman who bore upon her chest the talisman of the Nailed God. “Please, ladyship!” I cried, careful to keep my eyes downcast. “My master has not paid me as agreed upon. Might you spare a morsel? A coin that I might purchase sustenance?”
“Begone, lying little cheat!” cried she, lashing at me with her bag. “I shall not bear the burden for your lack of industry! Lazy layabout, you seek to live well on the largesse of your betters!”
Turning away from her, my stomach empty and my vision swimming, I found myself face to face with another man. And what a man he was. Hot-eyed and sweaty-handed, he laughed in the face of the burning sun.
“Boy!” he said. “Do they seek to douse your light? They understand not your plight, but I do. Oh, I do!” His eyes flashed like lightning, and his voice boomed like the voice of the Nailed God himself. “Beware, boy! See that girl? She’s taking what belongs to you to swallow it down with nary a purl.”
I turned and beheld a sight that set a red-hot poker in my heart. A girl, no more than a few years older than I, was being given a slice of bread and a dollop of butter by a shopkeeper.
“By what right do you take what is mine?” I demanded of her.
Her eyes widened. “Yours? No! I have swept this man’s stall every day this week and twice on prayer day. In return, he has paid me with this slice of bread and dollop of butter.” She saw the hollowness of my cheeks then and the dullness of my eyes. “But you are starving, so I will share this bread with you.” She broke the bread and portioned the butter into two, handing me one of the pieces.
The hot-eyed man appeared beside me and knocked the bread to the ground. Even still, covered with dirt and offal, I would have eaten it and gladly, but he ground his booted heel upon it.
“Fool!” cried he. “Why settle for half when all is your right? Why not take it from her? She will not fight! Take it, take it, she did not bake it. She lies about her labor, and why should she have her master’s favor? Is she even a citizen of our fair city? Beneath that countenance so pretty, beats the heart of a miscreant, a fiend hell-bent on taking your employment, all for her bitter enjoyment!”
I saw it then. The man spoke true. The girl had not offered to share out of the goodness of her heart, but as a ploy to take even more from me. Had she not stolen what should have been mine, including worming her way into better employment than I enjoyed?
“But, sir,” I said, a thought striking me then. “If she has already taken my position, how will I live? None of these others will lend aid.”
“Ah,” said he. “But is their plight their fault? They have not enough wealth to give and not balk.”
“More wealth will help?”
“Oh, assuredly. With more liquidity, they can give with ubiquity!”
“Oh, happy day!” I cried. “How shall we go about it?”
“My boy, let me tell you — I am a candidate for governor. I should rule! Give your vote to me, tell your family and friends I should lead. Once I’m in power, then will have come our hour! I’ll enact such laws that make their pockets overflow with gold, and then they’ll give and not withhold! It’s your only chance — else you’ll dance starvation’s dance.”
The day came, and I had done my work well. All my friends and family I’d told, and those who would not listen were bludgeoned into submission. The votes were cast, and the hot-eyed man had won!
I sat down to wait for the relief the hot-eyed man had promised. Days passed, but nothing changed. It will, I said to myself. Look at the new wealth all around! Still waiting, Death came to me. One withered hand reached for me. The other dragged the girl whose offer I had spurned.
Instructions
Leg 18 – The Maqama Leg: Write a microfiction in highly stylised, rhythmic prose-poetry with a wild trickster at its centre.
The maqāma are typically understood to be short picaresques told by a fictitious narrator about a low-class trickster protagonist who uses disguises, refined language and sophisticated rhetoric to swindle onlookers out of their money.
Maqama is an old Arabic literary form: ornate prose overlapped with poetry, full of wit, boasting, and trickery, featuring a protagonist and a narrator who may or may not realise they’re being played. You can find some examples here.
Your trickster can be a beggar, a prophet, an AI bot, a landlord, a talking crazy fox, a poet, a vending machine, or whatever.
Someone can get outwitted, and someone or something can steal your wallet.
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