From Ghazi Algosaibi’s ‘Abu Shalakh, the Chameleon’

Abu Shalakh, the Chameleon is a 2002 fantastical, satirical novel by Ghazi Algosaibi (1940-2010) in which the Saudi literary giant and politician recounts the history of the Kingdom and its global entanglements through Abu Shalakh, a lovable liar, unreliable storyteller, and self-proclaimed “truth-teller.”

From ‘Abu Shalakh, the Chameleon’

By Ghazi Algosaibi

Translated by Mohammad H. Alanazi

Prologue:

 

Attn: Mr. Othman Al-Khudairi

Editor-in-Chief, United East Newspaper

 

Greetings,

It is a pleasure to inform you that the first section of the book I was assigned to complete is enclosed, based on the lengthy and exhaustive interview I conducted with Yaqub al-Mofasekh, famously known as Abu Shalakh, the Chameleon. I hope to provide you with the remaining sections as soon as possible.

 

Best regards,

Tawfiq Khalil Tawfiq

Editor of the Cultural Page

 

Chapter One:

Genius’s First Steps

“Were each living creature’s birth

Like his, a moment sweet,

Women would give birth without

A midwife at their feet.”

– Al-Mutanabbi, trans. James F. Warren.

 

Tawfiq: Can we start with a basic question?

Abu Shalakh: What’s that?

T: What year were you born?

AS: No, nope, I can’t do it! This question shows a lack of knowledge and politeness. You’re showing your ignorance in two ways. First, in our part of the world, there were no birth certificates or even a rooznameh–

T:  Rooznameh?

AS: Meaning a calendar, sir, a calendar. A word that comes from Farsi, like Shahnameh. I believe nameh in Farsi means book.

T: I was asking–

AS: And I was telling you there weren’t any birth certificates or even a rooznameh. And there weren’t exceptional minds like in the pre-Islamic age when they used to memorize an entire epic poem and then demand, Give me some more! Another thing related to your ignorance is that you asked about the year without specifying which calendar. Did you mean the Hijri, Gregorian, Persian, or the Jewish one?

T: Persian and Jewish?

AS: Yes, Persian. We changed the name of the Gulf from Persian to Arabian without having the right to do so. And now we’re afraid to admit our mistake, just so we can avoid being labeled “populists.” Do you want us, in turn, to rename the Persian calendar, too? Call it the Arabian calendar? As for the Jewish calendar, we should memorize that, all of us Arabs, from the Atlantic Ocean–and it’s curious that we didn’t already change its name to the Arabian Ocean–to the Aresian Gulf–which is a name I came up with by combining its two names to annoy the Arab and Persian side. Aren’t we living in the Jewish age? Answer me honestly, aren’t we living in the Jewish age?

T: I was asking you–

AS: And I was pointing out your ignorance–

T: If you don’t remember the year, then it isn’t necessary–

AS: The fact that the answer is unknown doesn’t absolve the one asking from making sure the question is worded properly. As for the rudeness, you should’ve remembered that you can’t ask a man over seventy or a woman over forty that question, especially if you’ve noticed a facelift, a nose job, any sign of a liposuction, dyed hair–

T: I apologize for–

AS: You apologize? Don’t apologize, for God’s sake! I hate nothing more than apologies, especially because ninety percent of them aren’t sincere. If we all apologized for everything we did, we wouldn’t have the time to do anything else. Take, for example, our friends, the English. They colonized nearly every nation on Earth. What if our English friends decided to apologize to the people of every nation they occupied, humiliated, exploited, and sucked dry? Imagine an African guy who goes to the UK to study. The customs officer at Heathrow would welcome him with passionate kisses and a cry, I apologize, my friend, for the women we raped in your country! As soon as he accepted the apology and made his way to the exit gate, a taxi driver would jump out, hug him and say, I apologize, mate, for the money we stole from your country! And just as he’d arrive at the hotel he chose to stay in, the receptionist would spring into action, lovingly shaking his hand and whispering, I apologize, love, for the martyrs shot down by our bullets in your demonstrations for independence. Think what an apology would trigger. By the way, brother Tawfiq, what’s the name of the boy?

T: What boy?

AS: Your boy.

T: I don’t have boys. I have girls, Lamia’a and Hasna’a.

AS: Bless them. What about your father, then?

T: What about him?

AS: What’s his name?

T: Khalil.

AS: Imagine, Abu Khalil, that–

T: Excuse me, Sheikh–

AS: Sheikh? Don’t call me that, please. I’m not a Sheikh. Not in a religious sense. Not in a tribal sense. Not even in a fantastical sense. Not in any sense whatsoever.

T: Sorry! What–

AS: Didn’t I say I hate apologies?

T: All right. I prefer, if you please, to be called Abu Lamia’a.

AS: No problem. Gladly. Imagine, Abu Lamia…

T: Lamia’a, with two As.

AS: Imagine, Abu Lamia’a, if our friends, the Americans, apologized to everyone they did wrong. Suppose they decided to apologize, in chronological order, to the Indians first. Each one of Uncle Sam’s sons would have to go to each descendant of the Indians our American friends killed off and apologetically kiss their hands and feet. If that happened, where would our American friends find the time to open another McDonald’s franchise, expand the reach of the Internet, or support those hooligans in Israel?

T: Alright. Let’s leave the topic of your birth then and discuss–

AS: No! No! How can we leave out the topic of my birth? I want this worthy book to start from then.

T: But you’ve already said–

AS: I’ve already said not to ask me about the year I was born, I didn’t say don’t ask me about my birth.

T: Tell me, then, about your birth, Sheikh…

AS: Didn’t I say I don’t like to be called “Sheikh”?

T: Sir?

AS: No, not Sir, not Mister, not Doctor, not Sir Mister Doctor, not Haji, not Your Excellency, not Your Highness, not Your Lordship, not Mawlana, not Our Master, not My Good Man, not Darling, not Dear…

T: What should I call you then?

AS: Call me Abu Shalakh. Yes, Abu Shalakh would do just fine. Do you know what it means?

T: Actually… the fact is–

AS: The fact is you don’t know. Ignorance can only be cured by asking the right questions. “Shalkhah” in our part of the globe means a cunning lie, great exaggeration, enormous bullshit. Abu Shalakh is the person who deals in bullshit, who is constantly and repeatedly bullshitting. The local bullshit shiner. I was given that nickname ironically, of course, and the story of it will come in due time. The nickname spread quickly, and it stuck; everyone I knew began to call me Abu Shalakh. I’ve gotten so used to it that it’s become an essential part of my personality. It started to grow on me and I loved it to the point I almost forgot my real name–

T: That’s Yaqub al-Mofasekh.

AS: I said I almost forgot it. I didn’t say I forgot it. Do you know what al-Mofasekh means?

T: Actually… the fact is–

AS: The fact is you don’t know. al-Mofasekh means The Naked One. Stark naked! The surname has a funny story to it. My fourth great-grandfather was a stylish and well-groomed man; he was so famous for it that he was called Lbaysan, which means The Well-Dressed One, and his side of the family was known as al-Lbaysan, or House of Lbaysan. One day, while my fourth great-grandfather was strolling around in desert lands and valleys, dressed in his most elegant clothes, he encountered a group of bandits, but instead of robbing him, their leader immediately challenged him to a game of strip poker. It turned out the leader of this group of bandits was a first-rate poker player. A pair came, then a two pair, then a straight, then a flush, then a straight flush, then a full house! After each loss, my poor great-grandfather removed another piece of clothing. He started by taking off the agal around his head and, in the end, took off his underwear. He came back home completely naked. Since then, he was known as al-Mofasekh, and we’ve inherited the name one generation after the other.

T: Can we go back to your birth?

AS: My birth was a very laborious process, very! Almost like I was hesitant to come out into the world. At the time, there weren’t any hospitals that had a maternity ward. No one was around to help except that stupid midwife who lived nearby. She held my head and started pulling, rather painfully. This is because she wasn’t pulling my head, but a ball on the other side of my body. That witch got my head and ball all mixed up. After hours of tugging and pulling, I came out with a ball the size of a head. It’s a miracle I didn’t die. And I didn’t lose my ball. At the time, it occurred to me–

T: It occurred to you? As a newborn baby?

AS: Yes! Yes! It occurred to me that destiny had saved me from death because it was preparing me for greatness. This kind of thing is common among the greats. President Anwar Sadat had a similar experience. He mentioned in his memoir that he fell into a canal when he was a kid; he couldn’t swim at the time, yet he survived because fate had the role of leader in store for him. As soon as I was born, I turned to the midwife, spat in her direction and told her, Take this! You clearly can’t make heads or tails of things! Then I turned to Mother and said, Désolée, maman. I know I wore you out. Naturally, neither of them could understand a thing I’d said. I spat at the midwife one more time. One of the elders noticed my aggressive behavior so early and commented, This kid is acting like a street kid. As someone really clever, I understood what he had said, but you’ve got to understand, Abu Lamia’a, I was an infant, so I’d never seen them before. I went deep into thought, contemplating what he meant by street kid. My thinking went so deep that I refused to speak. At the time, refusing to speak was illegal in our part of the world, so the elders reported me to the authorities. After a few hours, a baby only two months older than me came and started interrogating me in baby language, which nobody understood but the two of us. He was a cop, a junior sergeant, actually. He asked, Why are you refusing to speak? Are you trying to insult the government with your silence? I said, No, I’d never, Mr. Sergeant, sir. Take note, Abu Lamia’a, of how I was born with the masterful skill of hypocrisy, ready to be used when necessary. He then asked, Why, then, are you refusing to speak? I told him, I was just busy thinking.

What were you thinking about?

About street kids… do you know what that means?

The baby sergeant, in turn, went deep into thought, contemplating the meaning of it. So he was reported to the authorities, and they sent a slightly older baby in his place to—

T: I think we’ve covered the subject of your birth and all–

AS: The new baby officer actually convinced me to speak again when he told me, Why not think while talking? What great advice that was, Abu Lamia’a. What an eye-opener! I went back to speaking, and from that moment on, I thought and talked at the same time. Out of the mouths of babes! As soon as I started speaking again, I turned to Mother and said, Désolée, maman. I know I wore you out. The reality is that she passed away the next day, God rest her soul. She died from complications during my birth. I was a super baby; my weight was estimated to be twenty rub’ah.

T: Rub’ah?

AS: Yeah, that was the unit of measurement in our region in those days. One rub’ah equals four pounds.

T: Your weight was eighty pounds the day you were born?

AS: I was, Abu Lamia’a, an extraordinary baby across the board. My weight was just an estimate. At that time, there weren’t any pediatricians or scales for babies. Anyway, Mother died because of me. And maybe the midwife’s stupidity had something to do with it. As soon as Mother died, my feeding issues began. In those days, there wasn’t any bottled milk for babies. The elders decided to assign the midwife who delivered me to breastfeed me alongside her baby, but I pridefully refused out of mere self-respect. I spat at her again, repeating my adage, Take this, you rotten woman! You clearly can’t make heads or tails of things! So they looked for another, and they found one, yet I refused her breast milk, even though her breasts weren’t that bad. I was, Abu Lamia’a, afflicted with depression stemming from a guilt complex that I was the cause of Mother’s death. I decided to go on a hunger strike until I died. At the time, hunger strikes were illegal in our part of the world, so the elders decided to report me to the authorities’ Department of Infants on Hunger Strikes. I expected a baby around my age to arrive, as it did last time, but the authorities were clever and addressed every situation as they saw fit. I was caught off guard by a wicked ten-year-old child who spoke baby language fluently. He entered, dragging with one hand a female goat with udders filled and ready-to-go with milk, and with the other a male goat with two horns hitting the ceiling. He stood in front of me and said, Goddamn! A baby weighing twenty rub’ah!? I told him, Damn you! Say God be praised. He said, God be praised! I said, Say Mashallah, what a blessing! He said, Mashallah, what a blessing! Why aren’t you eating? I told him, I’m suffering from depression stemming from a guilt complex that I was the cause of Mother’s death, so I decided to starve myself. He said, Listen here, fatso, you either start sucking on this female goat’s udder or I’ll make this male goat butt you with its reckless horns and tear your stomach open. I pondered the situation and understood its consequences. The male goat began to look at me with a stare that wasn’t different from the way an Israeli general would stare at a Peace of the Braves group. You need to know, Abu Lamia’a, that after I considered the situation from various aspects, I decided that if I began my life surrendering to threats and yielding to extortion, then I wouldn’t achieve any of the glories that await me. I looked at the male goat with contempt, the female goat with pride, and the wicked boy with disgust, then said, Doesn’t matter! Let the goat butt me. I will die and be free of this guilt complex I have, with no care who that’ll upset or please. I was preparing myself for a decisive and desperate battle with the goat when I was surprised by the authorities’ boy laughing and saying, Up to you! You’re so fat, hunger won’t harm you. As soon as I heard him say this, Abu Lamia’a, I felt a sudden rush of blood to my head. He wanted me to die of starvation, the bastard! I rolled over until I reached the goat’s udder, began sucking on it, and milk, as delicious as ice cream, poured out into my mouth. I continued doing so until the goat screamed in pain and started to show signs of extreme exhaustion. The authorities’ boy said, Hell! Stop! You killed your mom, and now you want to kill our nursing goat? I told him, Be off, then, with your nursing goat. And don’t forget the male goat, you goat-faced fool! He told me, To hell with you, fatso! and took the goats with him, leaving me still hungry. The elders decided then to let me loose in the barn. I finished with a cow and moved on to the next. My weight began to increase, my health improved, and the swelling caused by the rotten midwife disappeared. The elders started to think of my upbringing. You need to know, Abu Lamia’a, we were a family that lived comfortably and owned many palm trees, farms, shops, and livestock. There weren’t any financial issues that stood in the way of raising me in a high-class and modernized manner. So the elders decided to bring a Filipino nanny to look after me in place of Mother, God rest h–

T: There were Filipino nannies in the year you were born?

AS: No, Abu Lamia’a. I, humbly, was the first to bring in Filipino nannies to the region. You can consider me the real discoverer of the Philippines. After the routine procedures were completed, Imelda arrived. I remember vividly that she was beautiful and brought with her a considerable number of shoes. The elders held a meeting and set a comfortable schedule for her in line with the latest resolutions of the International Labour Organization for treating laborers humanely. From four to seven in the morning: Imelda cleaned the barn and milked the cows. From seven to eight in the morning: she prepared a milk bucket for me and kept me entertained while I consumed it. From eight to ten in the morning: she made breakfast for the adults in the family and served them while they ate it. From ten to eleven in the morning: she washed the piles of dirty clothes, especially mine, by hand in a basin for this specific purpose. From eleven in the morning to noon: she made my lunch, which consisted of a six-egg omelette, a plate of ripe dates, and a bowl of molasses, entertaining me while I ate. From noon to two in the afternoon: she cooked lunch for the adults and served them while they ate, after which she licked the dishes clean. From two to four in the afternoon: she returned to the barn to clean it and milk the cows. From four to six in the afternoon was the time for physical exercise: she ran around while I chased and flogged her with a stick. From six to eight in the evening: she washed the piles of dirty clothes, especially mine. From eight to ten at night: she entertained the adults who needed entertaining through sexual play, massages, and kissing. From ten to midnight: she washed the cows with water, soap, and cologne. From midnight to two in the morning: she ironed the piles of washed clothes. From two to–

T: What? What’s this schedule–

AS: You’re right! It was a very comfortable schedule and gave her plenty of free time. And free time, as you know, Abu Lamia’a, brings dark thoughts and overthinking. That was what led Imelda to commit suicide by milk.

T: Suicide by milk?

AS: Yes, she drank all the cow milk, all at once, so her guts burst and she unfortunately died. In fact, after she died, I went into deep depression because I couldn’t find anyone to flog with the stick. The elders held a meeting to discuss my problem and decided to solve it by buying me a young enslaved African boy to practice my stick skills on. They went to the slave market and got me a five-year-old boy. They held a meeting and set a schedule for him in line with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. From six to ten in the morning: he cleaned the barn and milked the cows. From ten in the morning to noon was the first physical exercise: he ran around, and I chased and flogged him with the stick. From noon to three in the afternoon: he went out to deserts and valleys to bring our daily need of wood, which was approximately one hundred rub’ah, carrying them back on his head. From three in the afternoon to eight in the evening: he cleaned the house and emptied the drains and restrooms. From eight to ten at night was the second physical exercise: the elders beat him to help with his blood circulation and improve his endurance. From ten to midnight: he washed and ironed the clothes. From midnight to–

T: This schedule–

AS: You’re right! Absolutely right! This schedule was comfortable and left significant room for unhealthy worries. As a poet once said:

Spare time, youth, and wealth,

corrupt like nothing else

And the boy was corrupted and decided to commit suicide by scorpion.

T: Suicide by scorpion?

AS: He ate all the scorpions he found in the barn, around ninety of them, and unfortunately died from their venom. In fact, after his death, I suffered from an enormous sense of emptiness that led to depression. Then, the elders had a brilliant idea: buying small pets that I could play with.

T: You didn’t have any relatives around your age to play with?

AS: Listen here, Abu Lamia’a. This book is about me and not my relatives. Why did you think of relatives, huh? Because they’re venomous like scorpions? Anyways, when I want to talk about a relative or friend, I’ll do so, and don’t ask me about it when I don’t want to do it. They can write books about their lives if they wish to, just like this one.

T: We were talking about pets.

AS: Indeed, we began with a cute baby lamb. At first, I was feeding it from my milk. But I discovered that it’d shriek loudly when I flogged it with the stick. The game started: a sip of the milk and a flog of the stick. As time went on, it got used to the flogging and stopped shrieking. So I started to look for another game. After a long brainstorming session, I realized that a small lamb like that doesn’t need both eyes. One is enough. I shoved a nail in its right eye and plucked it out. The strange thing was that it was laughing as I did this. After that, we called him the One-Eyed Freak–it was nameless before. I liked this game of eye plucking. I took out its other eye, so then we named it Blindy. One day, and for an unknown reason, the elders decided to slaughter the lamb and eat it. I was too young at the time to eat meat, and I went deep into depression. Then the elders decided to solve my problem with pigeons. They bought around forty pigeons and released them in the house. But pigeons were able to fly, thus making it challenging to flog. I began to scatter seeds for pigeons; I hid and then pounced on the pigeon while it ate and flogged it. During that period, I noticed scientific inclinations lying dormant within me. I was struck by an infatuation for scientific exploration. I decided to perform surgery on every pigeon I captured. The surgery consisted of plucking its feathers first, then dissecting with a kitchen knife, and identifying its internal organs. After six surgeries of this kind, the elders saw fit to kill the pigeons and eat them. A systemic and calculated genocide! I got severely depressed, and nothing pulled me out of it except for the arrival of the young donkey the elders bought for my amusement. In fact, I spent the happiest moments of my life with that young donkey. When I flogged it, it responded with a gentle hee-haw tainted with some kind of giggle. I’d hop on its back, and it’d strut, proud of me on it. It was extremely attached to me, and the feeling was mutual. I noticed one day that its tail was full of flies, and the poor thing was very irritated by these curious guests. I wanted to help it, so I brought scissors and tried to cut its tail; however, during the attempt, it beat me to the punch and kicked my ball, causing it to swell again. It took advantage of me being stunned and ran away, never to be seen again. I got deeply depressed, but the elders refused to buy more animals. My depression didn’t leave me until I saw, one morning, a black kitten in the barn. It quickly became my friend, and I spent a great deal of time with it. I decided to teach it how to swim. I tied a rope around its neck and lowered it into the borehole.

T: Borehole?

AS: A water well. In those days, Abu Lamia’a, there weren’t any water supply networks or faucets, so nearly every house had a well. The main thing is that I lowered the black kitten into the water borehole while I shouted at it, Swim, little kitten, swim! When I got it out of the hole, I was surprised that it was a lifeless body. Sometimes we want it to be a swim, but it turns out to be a sink. I cried my eyes out and got extremely depressed. I went on a hunger strike and refused to speak, but no one cared, so I went back to eating and speaking. One long and dark night, Abu Lamia’a, the elders decided it was time to send me to the Muttawa. And here began–

T: Muttawa?

AS: The Muttawa is the local teacher. Muttawa Mozza was a kind old woman who lived in our neighborhood and knew a few reading and writing basics and some short surahs of the Quran, so students received their education from her. Here, my tears began to stream down as I realized I had transitioned from one stage to another: from a period of playfulness, fun, and fooling around to a period of seriousness, discipline, and responsibility.

T: How old were you then?

AS: I was between six and eight. However, it’d be difficult for you, Abu Lamia’a, to place me in terms of age. I was a genius child. Some people use the term child prodigy these days, but I am a humble person, so genius is enough to describe me. I looked and acted much older than my actual age. Strangely enough, when I reached forty, the tables were turned. I looked and acted much younger than my actual age. It appears, and God knows best, that this phenomenon is characteristic of genius. Don’t ask about my age too much, Abu Lamia’a, since such questions serve no purpose and might mislead the dear reader who’s ignorant of the signs of early genius.

Ghazi Algosaibi (1940-2010) was a widely admired literary and political figurehead in contemporary Saudi Arabia and across the Arab world. A prolific writer, he produced a wide range of works, including political and nonfiction essays, poetry collections, and novels. Of his extensive collection of books, only a few have been translated into English, such as An Apartment Called Freedom, Seven, Dusting the Colour from Roses, and The Gulf Crisis: An Attempt to Understand.You can read more about his work at ghazialgosaibi.com.

Mohammad H. Alanazi is a poet, writer, literary translator, and lecturer. He earned a BA in English Language and Literature from Northern Borders University and an MA in Literary Translation Studies from the University of Rochester. He is currently pursuing his PhD in Comparative Literature at UMass Amherst with a focus on modernist and contemporary Arabic literature, Bedouin literature and culture, and (Pan-)Arab nationalism and identity. His first poetry collection, Fayaḍān [Deluge], was published in Arabic by Tashkeel Publishing in 2022.