WHEN

2025-06-21

I had read in a comment thread that the Sahrawi Empire had once stretched as far south as a town called When. At that extent, no one could say with certainty what the empire actually left behind. There was supposed to be a trail once, from Casablanca to When; a highway of tourists and potheads tracing the path like ants on pheromones.

There are interesting places in the Sahel but this was not one of them. When was green, atypically so for the area, but still dusty. The buildings were brown and spread out, blocky and sunburnt and slightly ashamed of still being here. A single car sputtered along the main road, its white clad driver feeling zen about his decaying vehicle's lack of suspension.

Not that I knew where he was headed. I couldn't tell north from south anymore. It didn't bother me much, because the place itself didn't seem to care. No signs, no maps in sight, and the sense that the land had shrugged and stopped giving a damn a while ago. The empire was gone. The trail was dust. When was exactly the kind of place an empire would forget to clean up after itself.

The internet, that deranged oracle, told me there was an island in the river worth visiting. Some reviewer claimed to have lain there in sublime contemplation before guilt drove them off; something about not wanting to look down upon the townsfolk. I went. Sat on the dirt, felt nothing. Left. Spiritual epiphanies tend to skip me entirely.

Back in town, I found a shop named Top Stuff. A tragic display of plastic buckets, detergent bottles, and sunglasses destined to melt on the dashboard of your rental car. Next to it, wedged like a punchline, was a stall called Top Shit.

The man at the stall was Berber. Cool. Real cool; the kind of cool you don't learn, but are born with, like certain rare blood types, or an immunity to snake venom. He wore black sunglasses like armour. His stance made me self conscious of my own; the way I clutched my guidebook like prayer beads. I asked him if he sold jewellery, something gold, something silver. He said no, but showed me a few of his glittering trinkets anyway.

Then he brought out the pièce de résistance: a frog skeleton with massive eye sockets, looking like whatever killed it came fast. Something in me wanted to buy it. The price seemed steep. He offered a 3-for-1 deal. I nodded. Never picked another two items.

As I loitered around his junk altar, gazing upon my purchase, something shifted in the soil. A white scorpion the size of my boot, albino and bloated, skittered under a pram like it owned the place. I pointed, something you do when a venomous beast approaches a baby. The shopkeeper only groaned.

Then the thing chased me. I ran. Sand flying, locals watching, pride collapsing. I doubled back, and the thing dove into a crack in the earth. I waited, it peeked. We had a brief staring contest before I brought my foot down. Crunch, and the ground exhaled, a mess of white carapace in my sole's wake. The baby didn't cry and the shopkeeper said nothing.

This is a fictional story, partially based on a dream I had. Check out Sahel Sounds.