SIGNORINA: My love is not a disease, Mother. And how about my father’s affairs with una nera?

MADRE: You know how men are, darling. They like to conquer a land and its people. The onus is on us to keep the purity of our race. This weight on a woman’s shoulders is a blessing from God.

SIGNORINA: Well, I am accountable to no one, Mother. I love him. I don’t care that he is an African.

MADRE: Love is a package. Other things are as important.

SIGNORINA: I was born here. I am African too.

MADRE: Hahahaha. Your naivety, daughter, knows no limit.

Your stupidity knows no limit, said a boy in the audience, quickly hushed by others.

SIGNORINA: He is different.

MADRE: You are right. He is different. He wears different clothes to his people. He wants to please you so much that he lost his roots.

SIGNORINA: It is not a weakness to be intrigued, to love something different from you. If he is weak so am I.

MADRE: I am tired of this. I will not tolerate a young girl questioning me.

SIGNORINA: I know, Mother. My sweetheart is rejected by his side and by ours. But his roots are in my heart, as mine are in his.

Wild applause.

Shush. Shush.

PADRE (a large frame puppet, waking from his siesta in the veranda, yelling at Signorina): Never shout at your mother. Now go out and don’t come back until you have reflected upon what you have said.

Signorina weeps.

A few children stood up and screamed at the father. You shut up, fattening yourself with the wealth of our land. A boy kicked dust at the TV. The Italian family turned brown. A chorus of nationalistic song erupted. Freedom. Freedom.

The call to freedom drew the singer. She played her krar, which started a dance around the TV that only stopped when Zahra’s grandmother called for calm. Turning to the TV, the old woman addressed the Italian father. He had regained his white skin after Jamal blew the dust off his face. The grandmother wagged her finger at the father, scolding him in his own language for his treatment of his daughter. She then reached with her hand through the hole in the box and stroked Signorina’s face. All women, black and white, are going through hard times, she said to the girl: Ma come, mia figlia, so che combatti per i tuoi diritti. Non dovresti mollare mai.

Zahra applauded. Standing up, she told the children around her: Yes, she will not give up. Like my mother, she will fight for her rights.

Jamal placed a coloured picture of Cinema Impero, where he had worked, at the back of the box. I know this cinema, said the Khwaja. Bella Asmara, he sang. Bella Asmara. Piccola Roma of Africa. Where stars are reachable from your turf because you are the high and mighty of all cities.

Quiet, please.

Saba waved at the Khwaja. The Khwaja nodded: Buonasera.