I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have to carry the burden all alone after my father’s death.
My father made me promise,
Not to ask for any help from any of my grandparents or uncles.

That’s how he was like.
I’m always willing to help.
I don’t need any favors in return.
I don’t need anything from anyone.
I don’t expect help from anyone,
Even if I’m on my deathbed.

Ideally, my grandfather should’ve paid for the funeral costs.
But when my father died,
I had exactly 3,000 Egyptian pounds in savings.
I was sixteen years old at the time.
I spent them all on the funeral.
I paid for everything,
Until we reached El-Minya,
Where he was buried.
And then we headed back.

I didn’t shed a single tear during the funeral.
I’m not supposed to cry.
My father wouldn’t let me get a job,
So I could focus my energy on just one thing.
It feels as if my mother is now my wife.
And as if my brother, who’s one year younger than me,
Is my son.

My brother sometimes gets me all worked up,
To the extent of tears.
“You’ve got to share some of the responsibility with me.
You’re not a little boy,
I shouldn’t be giving you an allowance.
You’re only a year younger than me.
You’ve got to help out.
I shouldn’t be the one doing all the work,
While you sit and watch.
I’m not your father.”

I yelled at him in public,
When he had just come out of rehab.
It was when I found him hanging out with the same group of people.
I shout and yell,
And hold back my tears.
I can’t cry,
Because men don’t cry and all that.