Qat (4) Sana’ani Qat and an Adeni Lunch

Yemenat

Ahmad Saif Hashed

It took time, no small amount of it, to mend what that shocking moment at the very outset of my stay in Sana’a had broken and damaged in my soul.

I needed a period of recovery, a chance to regain my balance and to bridge the gap left by what happened during my very first qat session in the city. It was a wound that kept bleeding, leaving a deep mark on both myself and my companion in ideals and convictions, Jazim Al Areeqi.

I can no longer recall with certainty how long that recovery took, though it was long by my own standards of forgiveness and forgetting, even when some wounds refuse to heal completely.

I called Mohammed Al Mutari and invited him to lunch and qat on a Thursday, driven by a sense of gratitude for the generosity he had shown me during our previous meeting and the events that followed.

I wanted to repay him, twice over if I could. I did not know then that I would end up swallowing a far greater dose of embarrassment than I had ever imagined, along with a recklessness wholly unexpected.

I chose Thursday for the qat gathering. It marks the midpoint where the week begins to loosen its grip.

I wanted to repay a favor long overdue and to settle a debt that weighed heavily on me. Fridays I usually spent trying to recover from sleeplessness and exhaustion, and I needed Saturday and Sunday to erase what the body had endured.

One single qat session was enough to sap my strength for half a week before I could return to myself again.

I was accustomed, more often than not, to marshaling my reasons and insisting firmly on abstaining from qat. Yet whenever I was compelled into a session, unable to evade it or find a way out, I would find myself utterly drained and exhausted in the days that followed.

Some oaths in Sana’a amount to a civilian version of the military maxim Execute first, then discuss, with due difference of context. Here, however, they are uttered within a benign frame, intended to honor the other and safeguard dignity, and are employed as expressions of affection and generosity.

With Al Mutari, I appeared decisive from the outset. I left him no opening for an excuse, no crack of hesitation through which escape might slip.

I set out late Thursday morning to buy qat for both of us, though my experience in purchasing it was utterly barren and hopeless beyond redemption.

In truth, it was a zero more absolute than an empty jar of fava beans. I knew that my ignorance of how to buy qat exceeded my ignorance of how to chew it by many folds.

My colleague and neighbor, Mansour Al Wahidi, on whom I rely in my Sana’a exile for many things, among them his remarkable ability to socialize and to win people’s affection, his tact, and a tongue that drips honey tempered with prudence and composure, was of no help to me here.

He does not chew qat. Indeed, he has never tasted it in any form. And so I left the house alone, like one wandering without direction, asking myself in confusion and bewilderment which market I should go to, and where I might find qat that would keep my face white before Al Mutari, the expert in qat, its varieties, its ways, and its rituals.

Suddenly, an idea flashed in my mind, something I had heard before, once spoken, so it seemed, as a kind of boastful flourish. (Sheikhs’ qat). Sheikh Abdullah’s Market in Al Hasaba. I retrieved the phrase the way an adventurous discoverer recalls the sighting of a distant continent.

I felt grateful for a memory that does not abandon its owner in moments of trial. In that instant I sensed as though a kindly companion stood beside me, refusing to leave me prey to my ignorance in an hour of hardship and constraint.

I entered Sheikh Abdullah’s qat market and found, among Al Maqawitah ( Qat Sellers) an exuberant warmth and an eager welcome.

I almost felt as though I were a peacock they were seeing for the very first time. I returned their friendliness and greeted them with astonishment at what met me there, until I was overtaken by a sense of wonder and quiet amazement.

Some of them called out to me gently, others with clamorous insistence. Each wanted me to buy from him, and each summoned me from his corner with extravagant warmth and fierce competition.

Their offers intersected with my path so persistently that I began to think I had entered the market carrying twice its noise and commotion upon my shoulders.

For a moment, I felt as though Al Maqawitah had known me for ages and were reunited with me after a long separation.

One of them even called me Mohammed. I was startled by the familiarity of the name. I thought perhaps he had said Ahmad, not Mohammed. Or maybe I heard Mohammed because I had not listened closely enough, or because the din drowned out the truth.

In any case, my astonishment only grew from the moment I entered until the moment I left. A noble feeling crept into me, the desire not to break any vendor’s heart.

They all overflowed with openness and generosity, displaying the brightest and kindest forms of goodwill. I felt a warmth and exhilaration that surpassed even the reception once accorded to the rulers of the South by the rulers of Sana’a at the dawn of Yemeni unity.

Then came a pang of guilt, a stab of conscience. It seemed only fair that I should turn back to the very first qat seller at the entrance of the market.

I told myself I should not have passed him by nor bruised his feelings, especially after I had heard him swear the gravest of oaths, reinforcing them with invocations of the forbidden and of divorce, that his qat was Ghaili and that it was the pearl of the entire market.

I assumed that this qat was indeed plucked from irrigated springs, and after such solemn oaths I believed it to be the market’s finest jewel. I invoked the saying A book is known by its title, and thought the name alone sufficient proof of origin and quality.

I recalled the murmur of spring water flowing among grass and rocks, and a wave of longing swept over me.

In truth, I do not know Ghaili qat, nor can I distinguish it from any other kind. All qat blurs together in my eyes. I can scarcely tell its leaves from those of other trees. And yet the name, fortified by oaths hurled forth without pause or hesitation, drew me back to him from the far end of the market.

He was delighted by my return, greeting me with a joyful face, his brow glowing with pure happiness and abundant welcome.

From its outward appearance, the qat gleamed, catching the eye from afar, and I took that as confirmation of its excellence. I did not open the bundle, content with a trust buttressed by solemn oaths.

I said to myself that no man would divorce his wife just so I might buy a bundle of qat from him. This seller does not lie. Surely he is earnest, truthful, and trustworthy.

I asked him about the price, and he answered. But the sum he named was a shard of hellfire.
When he noticed my recoil, he began once more to lavish praise on his qat, elaborating at length on the cost of procuring it and the expenses it entailed.

It seemed to me then that his profit was meager or nonexistent, and that perhaps he had even suffered loss and misfortune. I felt sympathy for him. Indeed, I found myself siding with him against my own interests.

It seemed to me that the vendor’s labor deserved more than he had asked for, so I paid him above his price, having granted him my trust and placed my reliance in God.

I waived the remaining change in deference to the effort that had stirred my compassion so deeply. I was filled with reassurance that I had also purchased the finest qat in the market for my friend Al Mutari, who deserved every costly thing. I returned from the qat market to my home buoyant and elated.

I appeared to myself like a knight who had offset his losses by winning the battle. As I tucked the bundle of qat under my arm and hurried home, I felt like a general returning victorious from war, bearing a laurel wreath.

I told myself that my guest Al Mutari is an expert in qat, and he will surely feel great gratitude toward me. I was certain he would praise qat and commend my taste and discernment in choosing it.

He would admire how, despite my limited knowledge, I managed to buy the finest kind, the sort that would delight him and satisfy his craving.
Perhaps he would think I sought help from a friend in purchasing it, but he would be surprised when I confidently assured him that I bought it myself, with no one else’s aid.

On my way back, I bought fish and fruit, quickened my pace to prepare the table, and called Al Mutari to hasten his arrival. Within an hour, the guest arrived, and I welcomed him with fitting warmth, saying You are most welcome, upon my head and my eyes.

I set before him a meal of rice and fish, followed by delicious fruit as a fragrant finale. I thought then that I had reached the pinnacle of hospitality and fulfilled the duty of hosting to its utmost, especially with a table overflowing beyond need.

I did not realize at the time that salta or Fahsa (A traditional Yemeni stew made with tender pieces of meat), or at least Aseed ( made from flour and water cooked into a thick, soft dough), were the true destination of a guest’s gaze, the prelude without which no qat session can truly please or prosper.

I believed this Adeni lunch to be the height of generosity, yet I noticed something obscure in my guest once the fruit was finished.

I did not fully grasp it, but I sensed that something within him was unsettled, urging him toward departure.

I tried to spread the qat before him and offer him his share, but the moment he glimpsed the bundle from several meters away, he rose from his seat like a giraffe, surveying it from above with an enigmatic look that left me perplexed.

He then asked my permission to step out for a quarter of an hour, claiming he needed to see the nearby carpenter to settle a debt he had promised to repay that afternoon.

I urged him not to be long, but he returned after more than an hour, carrying a long bundle of qat cradled in his side pocket, which moments earlier had rested elegantly on his shoulder, cascading down his back with ease.

I cried out in astonishment and asked how he could buy qat when I had already bought some for both of us.

He replied mockingly, a mockery charged with embarrassment and audacity, asking whether I had seen the women selling lahuh (A kind of traditional Yemeni bread) in Al Hasaba by the gate of Sheikh Abdullah’s market.

I said yes.

He said that they chew the same qat I bought.
I was stunned by my guest’s bluntness and brazen candor. I tried to excuse him, either for his cutting honesty or for his ease with himself. Still, I was flooded with intense embarrassment, a shame that pressed heavily upon my chest.

I was even more taken aback when he bared his teeth and told me he had eaten lunch outside once again, because what I had offered did not count as lunch at all.

I felt shame gnaw at my face, nearly swallowing me whole from head to toe, and I wished a storm would sweep me beyond the edges of the earth, or that the ground would swallow me into some distant abyss.

I then tried to convince him that the qat I had bought was excellent Ghaili, beyond reproach. I opened the bundle confidently to display it and prove my claim, only to see details I had not noticed before, as though I had not bought qat at all, but a ruin. The deceit was glaring beneath the leafy surface.

My guest took the qat from my hands and flung it aside. He then divided his own qat between us and swore by divorce that I was never again to chew except from his supply.

That day, I felt my fall was black indeed, one no forgiveness in Sana’a could ever whiten. I promised myself never to repeat it, and I swore never again to invite a living soul to lunch or to qat. But fate mocked my resolve, and what followed was worse still.