“We just need that brand of milk for Hwisheem," Rasheed said. His friend Muneer walked briskly down the long aisles to the refrigerated section. Every Saturday, Rasheed and Muneer shopped together at the sprawling Mardjaan supermarket, their schedules during the week leaving little time for errands. Rasheed worked as a civil servant for a municipal company, while Muneer owned a clothing store that catered to Rabat's well-to-do middle class.
"Shall we stop at Radya's first?" Muneer asked, as he always did. Rasheed parked on the narrow street, and both friends rummaged through the trunk, pulling out plastic bags and sacks intended for Radya. Diapers, milk, flour, sugar, oil, meat, fruit, toilet paper —everything on their carefully compiled list. Radya, petite and pretty, with large eyes and thick hair pinned up, was already at the open door, holding little Hwisheem in her arms. The friends greeted her with kisses on both cheeks and cooed over the baby. "I hope we didn’t forget anything," Muneer said, his usual way of saying hello. Rasheed and Muneer carried the bags into the kitchen and set them on the counter. "Has the plumber been by yet?" Rasheed asked. Radya sighed, "No, he didn’t show up again." "I’ll take care of it today," Rasheed promised.
"Tea is ready," Radya said warmly. Rasheed and Muneer slipped off their shoes and settled comfortably on one of the benches lining the walls of the small but cozy living room. After placing six-month-old Hwisheem in her small bedroom, Radya returned with a teapot and began pouring tea. Muneer's eyes wandered to the narrow courtyard, where a bundle of laundry lay waiting. "We’ll take those and run them through the washing machine," Rasheed decided firmly. Radya protested, but the friends had already made up their minds —the clothes would return to her clean and neatly folded by the next day. Draining his tea glass, Muneer set it on the table and stood, "We need to head out. See you tomorrow," he said, slipping on his shoes. Rasheed followed suit, ready to leave.
Three years ago, Rasheed and Muneer, aged 36 and 34, had moved into an apartment in a newly built block of flats on a wide avenue, just where Radya's street opened out. The apartment boasted three bedrooms, a small and large living room, an open kitchen, a spacious bathroom with a toilet, a storage room, and a wide balcony.
At first, the neighborhood saw them as two working friends making a practical and cost-effective choice to share a home before eventually tying the knot. However, the absence of female "guests" soon raised eyebrows and invited quiet speculation. Questions were met with other questions, and over time, the neighbors grew accustomed to what they came to see as a "modern couple," though curiosity lingered. While hosting female "guests" was strictly prohibited by law, the hypocrisy —ingrained in human nature— often found ways to navigate around legal restrictions.
Six months ago, Rasheed was accosted at the apartment building gate by his upstairs neighbor. With a deeply moved tone, she shared the plight of a struggling young mother who lived just a street away. The woman's husband left without a trace, leaving her and their baby without any means of support.
The neighbor spoke with polite indignation, cursing men who shirk responsibility and chase only carnal pleasure. "Poor mother, she's not even 23 and already trapped in a hopeless situation. Her parents have passed away, she has no siblings, and no other family to turn to. My neighbor and I do what we can, but it’s barely enough. Without us, who knows what would happen to her? She might have been forced to... well, you know, 'step out onto the sidewalk.' What will become of her and her son? God is great, but we humans can be so cruel. Poor thing!"
Rasheed was deeply moved. After praising the neighbor for her kindness, he said his goodbyes, the woman’s words lingering in his mind. That evening, Rasheed shared the story with Muneer, and together they decided to help the young mother. From that day forward, Radya became part of their lives —a kind of “adoption” by the two friends.
On Saturdays, Rasheed and Muneer shopped for both Radya and themselves. At the end of each week, Radya, both shy and grateful, would accept a small amount of pocket money. The rent and other household expenses were also taken care of by the two friends.
Believing a mobile phone was essential for emergencies, they made sure Radya had one. Her baby, Hishaam, who adored his "uncles," quickly earned the affectionate nickname of Hwisheem —or little Hishaam. On Fridays, Rasheed and Muneer would bring meat, semolina, and vegetables to Radya’s home, eagerly anticipating her delicious couscous.
On Sundays, Radya, Rasheed, and Muneer would take leisurely strolls along the boulevard by the wide beach, far from their own neighborhood. Little Hwisheem squealed with delight as he was passed from Uncle Rasheed's shoulder to Uncle Muneer's arms, and then onto his mother’s back. To onlookers, they appeared to be two brothers, one of whom was married and had a son. So, the society fit neatly into societal expectations, leaving no room for confusing surprises.
When the "family" grew hungry, they always dined at the same beachside restaurant. The manager, familiar with their routine, would mutter polite greetings of "Mr. Rasheed" and "Mr. Muneer," knowing an extensive meal and a generous tip would accompany their visit.
One evening, the doorbell rang at Rasheed and Muneer's apartment. Two police officers stood at the door, "You'll hear everything at the station," one of them said curtly.
At the station, the superintendent sat behind an ostentatious desk, speaking on the phone. Without a word, he gestured for the two men to sit.
After finishing his call, the superintendent looked at them. "We've received a complaint against you," he said.
Rasheed leaned forward: "What's the complaint?"
The superintendent ignored the question. "You know a certain Radya bint Habib, don't you?"
"Yes," Rasheed replied cautiously.
Superintendent: "Are you related to her?"
Rasheed: "No, we're just friends. Is she all right?"
Superintendent: "She's fine. In fact, she's here at the station."
Rasheed: "What? What’s she doing here?"
Superintendent: "That’s what I’d like you to explain."
Rasheed: "I don’t understand."
Superintendent: "You’re not related to her, yet you visit a legally married woman —with gifts, no less. Are you aware that this is illegal?"
Muneer: "We haven’t done anything wrong!"
The superintendent seemed to formulate a question in his head first: "Do you share a bed with her?"
Rasheed: "No, absolutely not!"
Superintendent: "Then what exactly do you do when you visit her?"
Rasheed sighed and began to tell the long story: "Six months ago, the upstairs neighbor told us that a woman, Radya..."
The superintendent appeared intrigued by the story, but mockingly: "Such generosity! And what do you get in return for these 'gifts'?"
Muneer: "She doesn't have to provide anything in return, but she insists on cleaning our apartment, and also my clothing store."
Superintendent: "That’s it?"
Muneer: "She’s a kind and caring woman, and her son is a joy to be around. Well, you could say that we’ve become a family."
The commissioner paused and was forced to call a ceasefire between law and practice in order to proceed.
Superintendent: "So, you are... how should I put it? You don’t have girlfriends or, uh... flings with women?"
Rasheed: "Radya is just our friend —like family to us."
Superintendent: "I mean, every adult, normal man needs to, let’s say, release his... sexual energy with a woman every now and then, wouldn’t you agree?"
Muneer, his irritation evident: "And what if an adult man doesn’t need to ‘release his sexual energy with a woman’?"
The superintendent seemed to have reached the point he’d been aiming for: "So, am I to understand that you two have a... special relationship with each other?"
Muneer, firm and unwavering: "Yes, we have."
Superintendent: "Well, in that case, you’re aware of the penalties for such a behavior, aren’t you?"
He reached for the phone, lifting the receiver and dialing a number. As he waited, he nonchalantly rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing a large gold wristwatch. The thick gold ring, set with precious stones, on his finger caught Rasheed and Muneer’s attention. They exchanged a quick, meaningful glance.
Rasheed, with deliberate calm: "What are you going to do now? Tomorrow morning, the landlord is coming to collect the rent. Before that, we need to go to the bank to withdraw money. With your permission, we could return here afterward."
The gold watch and ring were a clear signal —an unspoken link to "bank" and "money."
The superintendent, seemingly displeased, put down the phone: "Then I’ll see you here tomorrow morning at 11 o’clock."
Muneer: "Can we take Radya with us now?"
The superintendent scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over: "Here, give this to the officer on duty and tell them she can leave with you."
Radya’s fear melted away at the sight of the Uuncles.
The next day, at 11 o'clock, the superintendent slipped a thick envelope, delivered by the Uncles, into the inside pocket of his coat.
Superintendent: "You must be more careful. Have a good day!"