A friend and I were catching a taxi in Zamalek a few days before Eid. We were walking up and down 26th July Street, and the street was filled with the hanging bodies of slaughtered sheep and goats for the Feast. It’s a sight I’m accustomed to from living in Kenya, and the only thing you have to make sure of is to avoid the dripping puddles of blood falling from the carcasses because they hang them far out over the sidewalk. As we were passing one of several Butchers’ on the street, my friend weaved one way around the blood puddles on the sidewalk and I went the other, putting me closer to the door of the shop. A man clutching a knife the size of my arm abruptly stepped out of the shop and stopped short of running into me, before enthusiastically yelling what was likely the full extent of his English in my face.


There was something about weaving around blood and slaughtered sheep, and being yelled at by a man clutching a butcher’s knife that was momentarily hilarious.

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