The Green Bicycle by Haifaa Al Mansour

“Oh no! A thief!”
    Wiggling her rear end, she pretended to scamper away. This time her mother failed to suppress her amusement.“Shame on you, talking that way,” she said, trying to keep a straight face. “We don’t know! It could have been a thief.”
    They burst into hysterical laughter together.
    As they caught their breath, Wadjda felt the mood in the room change. Her mother crossed her arms and looked out the window, fixing her eyes on a spot in the distance. Impulsively, Wadjda reached up and pulled down the full
abayah
and veil. Standing in the middle of the room, completely cloaked in black, she looked like a phantom, some sort of shadowy figure from the underworld.
    Her mother was still looking out the window. Wadjda stumbled forward to stand beside her. Without looking down at her daughter, her mother reached out and absentmindedly adjusted Wadjda’s veil.
    â€œYour uncle’s wedding is coming up.” She spoke abruptly, as if this was what she’d been thinking about the whole afternoon. “I have to buy something very nice to wear. You know, so that all the other women see what they’re up against.”
    A wave of compassion swept through Wadjda’s body. She bunched up the sleeves of the
abayah raas
and twined her fingers together. The tense atmosphere at wedding parties was way too familiar—Wadjda knew what was coming. Although the wedding wouldn’t take place for some time, she could already feel stress radiating off her mother.
    Weddings took place in two segregated realms: one for men, and one for women. The two parties couldn’t be more different. In their area, the men would drink coffee and tea and . . . what?
    Well, basically
, Wadjda thought,
they stare at one another
. Over and over, the men would exchange awkward greetings. They were like goldfish swimming in a bowl, seeing other fish for the first time, blowing bubbles—then forgetting and doing the whole thing over again a few seconds later. The tribal world had never taken the art of conversation very seriously. From what Wadjda had seen, men’s talk rarely extended beyond “Hello” and “How are you?”
    In contrast to the men’s snore-fest, the women knew how to party. Weddings were the only opportunity women had to dress seductively, and they took advantage. Funny, Wadjda thought, cause they were just showing off for other women! Dresses were skintight and left little to the imagination—especially in the cleavage area.
Totally embarrassing!
    The
tagaga
, or wedding singer, knew how desperate the women were to let loose, so she made things even wilder. Her music offered a sound track guaranteed to get the ladies on their feet. In addition to singing, the
tagaga
played the
duff
, a large tambourine-like drum, patting it heavily with her palms in a rhythmic beat that pushedeveryone to dance faster, faster! Sometimes women would pretend they were possessed by demons. That way, they could go out on the dance floor and shake their heads like crazy, writhe their bodies, wiggle their butts.
Just be super ridiculous, really
, Wadjda thought. It looked fun.
    But among the joy, the women were watching one another. Potential young brides glided around the dance floor with grace and fake modesty. And women whose husbands had decided to take on new, younger wives did a special dance to show that they were still around, even though they’d been relegated to “second wife” status. Their husbands might have decided to marry again—it was not uncommon for men to have multiple wives—but still they wanted to intimidate potential rivals.
    The second wives had to keep up a proud face in public, even if the idea of their husbands marrying another woman hurt them deeply. To maintain their dignity, they would allow themselves to be swept up by the music and dance without fear. It was a declaration to the world that they were strong.
    Yet, they