We are all storytellers in a way. It’s a fundamental part of how we communicate as communities—big and small. That is what The Anthology is about: to lend Esquire Middle East’s historic platform to a new generation of short story writers, and champion the art of the written word in the GCC.
In partnership with Montblanc, each edition of The Anthology will feature a short story written by a regional writer, giving them the opportunity to take a further step in helping telling their stories, express themselves and fulfilling their potential. It’ll be Esquire’s privilege to share it.
In a brown room heavy with dust and desperation, Waheed (44), a fat-yet-handsome man, lies on his old, squeaky bed. He has just woken up and is scanning the room, searching for a glimmer of hope, a little meaning to help him rise and face the day. He hears rummaging and crackling sounds from the kitchen. Closing his eyes, he pulls the covers tighter and tries to drift back into sleep.
A baby’s cry stirs him awake again, and a faint smile crosses his face. With that, he removes the covers and sits up. Waheed walks into the living room, crowded with furniture that makes him feel larger than usual. Samira (38), a slim and pale woman, is holding a one-year-old boy on her waist as she emerges from the kitchen. Waheed greets her with a brief glance and a cough. “The heater’s still broken,” she snaps, ignoring his obvious lack of warmth. Their daughter Ameera (4), wearing only her underwear, runs toward her father and leaps onto him. He recoils, then embraces her with a laugh. “You’re too big now; you can’t jump on me like that,” he says, but Ameera’s innocence dismisses his words as she buries her face in his chest.
“I got you something special,” Waheed whispers into Ameera’s ear, and her face lights up, knowing exactly what he means. She jumps off and runs toward her parents’ room. Waheed chuckles at her excitement. “The heater’s broken, and we’re out of gas!” Samira demands, her frustration beginning to boil over.
Just then, Ameera returns, holding Waheed’s white Thobe and hands it to him. He reaches into his pockets and pulls out a handful of tree leaves, which Ameera joyfully tosses into the air, twirling as they fall around her.
“Why did you bring her those? They’re filthy and will just make a mess in the house! They’ll all die anyway,” Samira scolds, her voice sharp with anger.
“No! Tree leaves never die! I’ll take care of them!” Ameera protests, her voice filled with hurt as she defends her precious leaves. “When I grow up, I want to be a tree leaf,” she adds.
“You’ll be too strong, then” Waheed tries to take her mind off her mother’s negativity and teases her.
“Yes! And I’ll beat you at wrestling!” Ameera giggles. Waheed pulls her close and playfully wrestles with her, saying, “Beat who, now?” Ameera laughs loudly, and Samira retreats back to the kitchen, where her anger festers in isolation.
A few moments later, Waheed dresses in his construction jumpsuit, boots, and orange safety vest. As he prepares to leave the house, Samira approaches him from behind.
“We still haven’t bought Suhail’s engagement gift! And we need diapers for the baby,” she reminds him, her voice tinged with urgency.
Waheed sighs, feeling the weight of her demands, and wishes to leave the apartment as quickly as possible. “I’ll figure it out,” he mutters before walking out the door. “Have you eaten?” Samira stops him again, and Waheed answers with a simple nod.
At the construction site, Waheed asks to speak to his manager, Abdulmajeed, in private. They move to a secluded area, away from the ears of others.
“It’s been two months, and I still haven’t been paid,” Waheed says, his voice thick with desperation. “Don’t lose hope in us,” Abdulmajeed replies, laughing. “We’re trying our best. Just think of it as us saving your money for you!”
Waheed can’t believe the audacity. “I’m a family man. I have children and a wife. I can’t keep going like this,” he insists, frustration barely hidden beneath his words. “I’ll see what we can do. Just give us one more month, and you’ll get more than enough to make you happy.” Abdulmajeed chuckles again in a dismissive tone.
Defeated, Waheed walks back to his post under the scorching sun, he wouldn’t mind burning under the sun if it meant satisfying Samira, but it isn’t the case. He signals to the workers to get into the truck, preparing to demolish the building. With each bang of the wrecking ball, he feels a strange sense of release. The aggression of destruction offers him a momentary escape. But just as he loses himself in the chaos, a voice calls
his name.
“Waheed! Planning to stay lonely forever or join me for tea?”
Waheed’s face brightens as he sees Bassam, a dark and skinny man, waving at him. The two sit on the curb, sipping tea. Bassam leans back, sharing his daydreams with passion. “There’s nothing better, believe me. Going home to two women! God, that must be heaven.” Waheed chuckles, shaking his head at his friend’s wild fantasies. “Leave it to heaven then, where we don’t have to work or make money,” he says wisely.
“But that’s too far away. Why can’t we have all the women we want here, in this life?” Bassam presses. “Don’t worry,” Waheed replies, “heaven will come faster than you think.” Bassam’s smile falters, sensing the gravity in Waheed’s tone. “Why are you so depressing?” he asks.
Waheed forces a sad smile. “Samira wants money for her cousin’s engagement gift. We haven’t been paid in two months, Bassam,” he admits, his frustration spilling out. Bassam pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, brother. As long as we’re friends, you don’t need to worry.”
Laying back on the curb, Bassam closes his eyes, adding, “My dreams are faster than heaven, but in heaven I’ll take care of you and take you as a wife too” They both laugh, Waheed playfully and softly punches him in the stomach, making Bassam squirm in pretend pain.
As the workday ends, Waheed stands in line with other workers, waiting to scan his card and clock out. He looks at the men around him, wondering if they’re as disillusioned as he is. What’s the meaning behind it all? His turn comes, cutting off his contemplative thoughts, and he moves forward. His manager sees him and offers him a cigarette, but Waheed politely declines and heads home.
When Waheed walks through the door, he’s met with chaos. Ameera is crying, refusing to eat, while Samira, seated on the floor, tries to feed their baby and manage the meal all at once. She’s wearing a dress, ready for her cousin’s engagement, but the tension between them is palpable.
Neither says a word upon seeing the other. Waheed’s heart softens when he sees the burden Samira carries with the children, but guilt gnaws at him—he doesn’t have enough money. He hands her the little cash he borrowed from Bassam, trying to hide his shame. “Did you ask them?” she inquires.
He hands her the small sum, feeling defeated. “They’ll give us the rest next month.”
“Three hundred? This won’t cover anything! Are they joking?” she snaps. Waheed sighs, throwing his tired body onto the couch. “What do you want me to do? I asked, but they…”
Samira cuts him off, standing and walking to their room. “They don’t respect you, that’s why.”
“You want me to fight with them? Is that how you want them to respect me?” Waheed retorts.
“Don’t fight. Defend your rights!” she demands.
Waheed falls silent, knowing that if he fought for his rights, he might not still be married. He battles his frustration and tries to shift the tone.
“Is that a new dress?” he asks, attempting to compliment her. Samira, sensing his underlying thoughts, leaves the room before he can say more, knowing full well he won’t. At the engagement party, Samira clutches an envelope with her son on her hip and Ameera walking beside her. Entering her aunt’s house, she’s met with the sight of women dressed extravagantly, their appearances a clear testament to their wealth. Embarrassed to have her children with her, Samira avoids making eye contact with anyone until she greets her aunt, a woman of 67, with a shy smile.
“I’m sorry I had to bring the kids,” she says apologetically, handing over the envelope. “This is a small gift for the bride.”
Her aunt smiles warmly, embracing the children. “That’s so sweet of you, and don’t worry about it. I’ve missed them.” As Samira moves through the crowd of glamorous women, she squeezes Ameera’s hand, feeling watched and judged. They sit down to enjoy the music and finger food, but Samira’s constant adjustments to her dress and hair betray her discomfort, showing that she feels out of place. A waiter offers Ameera a sweet, and she eyes it longingly but hesitates to take one. Samira, watching her carefully, feels a swell of pride when Ameera thanks the server and doesn’t take the sweet.
“I want one, Mama,” Ameera whispers.
“Good job, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll get you something just like theirs. But remember, even when we’re hungry, we don’t let others see it” Samira responds softly. Ameera buries her face in her mother’s waist, while Samira takes a deep breath, wondering how she’ll make it through the night.
The next day, Waheed works tirelessly under the scorching sun, carrying blocks from the truck to the ground in front of the building, alongside his co-workers. Their workday is interrupted when Abdulmajeed calls for an urgent meeting. In a cramped 4×4 room filled with curious workers, they wait to hear what the manager has to say.
“Thank you all for the hard work,” he begins speaking, punctuated with nervous laughter. “We really appreciate it! Haha. We have some unfortunate news — an incident has occurred, and we’ve lost a worker. Now, we don’t want to lose any more of you, hahaha, so we want to remind you of the safety guidelines. Bassam Alrami — may he rest in peace
— will be missed, and may his death serve as a reminder to help save more lives. Now, let’s begin…”
Hearing Bassam’s name hits Waheed like a hammer. The voices around him fade, his vision blurs. Is this real? He was just with Bassam yesterday. How could this have happened? The next thing Waheed knows, he is at the mosque, where the congregation is about to pray over Bassam’s body. He sits frozen, staring at the body in front of him—not crying, not angry, just in disbelief. He hears a boy’s sobs—it’s Bassam’s 17-year-old son, weeping over his father. Shame washes over Waheed. He feels the burden of wanting to care for Bassam’s son, but knows deep down that he can barely manage to take care of his own family.
Waheed drags his feet on the way home, his body heavier than ever. When he enters the apartment, he closes the door slowly, still unable to fully process the loss of his friend. Samira greets him with complaints.
“I couldn’t cook lunch,” she begins. “We still don’t have gas.”
“I don’t want to eat,” Waheed mutters, not looking at her, as he heads toward the bedroom. Samira follows him, snapping, “What about the kids? Should they not eat just because you don’t wan—”
“What do you want me to do??” Waheed interrupts, losing his temper but keeping his voice low. “What do you want from me? Money?” He begins aggressively emptying his pockets, tossing torn papers and receipts onto the bed. Samira, shocked by his outburst, covers her mouth as her eyes fill with tears. “I’ve got nothing! I gave you everything I have! What more do you want from me? My clothes?” Waheed’s voice cracks as he starts stripping down to his undergarments. Samira cries and tries to stop him.
“Please don’t do this” She cries out, but he pushes her away, throwing his clothes onto the bed.
“Here, take everything,” he says before rushing out of the house. With teary eyes and blurry vision, he walks fast, heading nowhere in particular. He looks around, desperate for solace, but finds none. The sun is setting, just like his hopes for the future.
He heads to the construction site and sits on the curb where he sat with Bassam the other day. He talks to himself as if Bassam were still with him. “You said heaven is too far” he says as he sheds tears. His mind is boggled, he who wants an end to his life and its challenges is alive, and the one who deserves to stay has gone. Without knowing how, Waheed finds himself on a bridge, lined with trees on both sides. He is tired and breaks down, collapsing onto the street and sobbing.
As Waheed struggles to catch his breath, a breeze cools his tear-stained cheeks. He closes his eyes, momentarily forgetting he is in the middle of the street. The darkness around him is profound, but the sound of the trees swaying in the wind catches his attention.
He opens his eyes and watches as leaves fall gently to the ground. Slowly, he stands up, wipes his tears, and begins collecting the fallen leaves. Quietly, he walks back home.
When Waheed enters the apartment, Samira is in her room, and Ameera is asleep in hers. He stands in the hallway, hesitating. After a moment, he walks into Ameera’s room, places the leaves on her sleeping body, and lies down next to her, wrapping his arms around her.
About the Author
Ghadeer Binabbas, an epidemiology graduate, has seamlessly transitioned into the world of storytelling, working on a diverse range of creative projects. She translated the feature film Junoon (2021) and the script Dandanah (2021). She wrote and directed the short film Brush My Hair (2023) and co-wrote and co-authored the lyrics for the short film Urjeha (2022).
She has contributed as a writer to several projects, including the Netflix original series, Sãjãt (2023), and Do Re Mimi (2024), which won multiple awards at the Saudi Film Festival, including the Jury Award. She also participated in the Red Sea Lodge development lab for the feature film In The Beginning, It Is The End, which won the MBC Academy Award during the Red Sea International Film Festival.