Our sojourn in Khenitra lasted four days. During the day Tala and I played newsreels of Maram’s engagements. The Nasiris were spectacular hosts, and Khulood and Tariq played their parts well. They dazzled the Vathek courtiers, folded in smaller families who lived in and around the city into engagements, and did what was most important: cemented Maram’s ties to the people of the city.

On our final day, Maram visited the city college. The newsreel followed her passage through the impressive entryway, and into the main courtyard where a line of scholars waited to greet her.

“Dihya,” Tala said wonderingly, her eyebrows raised. “Never did I imagine you would convince her to interact with us as she is now.”

I smiled. “She just needed a push in the right direction.”

Though our entrance to Khenitra had been bombastic and loud, our entrance into Azaghar was less so. I’timad and ‘Imad had advised that it was better to leave the spectacle to the day of the Mawlid, and to not overshadow it.

I rose early on the second day of our stay, before the sun rose. In the time before the Vath, the Mawlid would have been heralded by the call to prayer from every temple in the city. Such things weren’t allowed anymore, and so the day began with the ringing of the bells. On Cadiz I would rise earlier to help my mother cook as we had on my majority night. Everyone wore gold and green, and at midday we would join the village square for an enormous feast.

Despite being unable to participate, I rose early and bathed and dressed well. Tala and I cooked and baked for hours before the sun rose, piling platters with esfenj and briouat, m’hencha, ka’ab ul-ghazaal, and baghrir. When the bells stopped ringing we brought the platters, along with a teapot and glasses, to the central courtyard and settled in around a small projector that would broadcast the festivities.

On the newsreel the people of Azaghar had taken to the streets in the early morning, though they had clearly been hard at work the day before. The streets were decorated in green and white, everywhere a camera-droid flew, streamers waved in the wind. The sound of people was a dull roar of cries, laughter, and singing. The zaouia at the far end of the city was crowded with children as the malawi stood outside handing out sweets, alms, and small gifts.

The newsreel cut to the scene inside the temple beside the zaouia. It was packed with men and women sitting side by side from the minbar all the way to the enormous double doors. Atop the minbar a trio of men and two women recited Massinite poetry in harmony. It had been an age since I’d seen anything like this, since I’d heard Massinite poetry.