قصة الأصل
I was a kid. Time was slow. I had biked over to my best friend’s house, the summer sun still clinging to my shoulders, the wind having tangled my hair into a crown.
We were playing in the living room on the carpet — plush and worn, a warm cinnamon brown that held the dust of a thousand footsteps and spilled potato chips. We were surrounded by the clutter of plastic figurines and crumpled coloring books. Her house had a smell I can still trick my mind into remembering if I concentrate: a blend of Café Bustelo brewing in the kitchenette, the faint musk of old wood and lemon Pledge, the lingering aroma of yesterday’s arroz con gandules, and the unmistakable earthy scent of their German shepherd, who shed like she was trying to leave pieces of herself in every room.
Her aunt was visiting, perched at the tiny round table in the kitchenette, sipping coffee from a floral mug with faded roses and a tiny chip on the rim. She and my friend’s mother were chatting, their voices rising and falling like waves, punctuated by laughter and the occasional ¡Ay Dios mío!
Elvis Crespo was blasting from the stereo, his voice loud and sonorous, filled the house with rhythm and joy. The boys drifted in and out of the room in their Bulls jerseys carrying the scent of cologne and sweat, their voices booming, their laughter contagious.
Then, a pause. The CD hit its last track, and for a moment, silence settled over the room. The disc changer clicked, and suddenly, something new poured through the speakers. A strange and hypnotic new voice unlike anything I’d ever heard filled the air. Shakira.
My best friend let out a staccato squeal of delight, bouncing to her feet. Her mami and titi groaned in unison.
«Mija, change it to Selena, porfa.»
«No mami, I want her to hear this one song. I think she’s gonna love it!»
She skipped to the stereo, her fingers dancing over the buttons, skipping tracks with purpose. And then—there it was. A sound that cracked something open in me. It wasn’t just music. It was a door.
What is this? Who is she? How do I hear more?
«Ay, mija, not this one. Nadie puede entenderla—you call this spanish? Esa chica libanesa...»
So it’s… not Spanish? What’s a libanesa? I needed more.
The room faded around me as I leaned into the sounds. Shakira’s voice was a kaleidoscope, twisting language and rhythm into something that felt ancient and brand new.
That moment was the origin. It was the spark that ignited many Saturdays in homemade coin belts with the Eye of Horus painted onto wrists. Subsequent Christmas requests included specially ordered CDs from Beirut to Damascus, which eventually turned into a subscription to Melody Arabia.
That day I biked home humming Ojos Asi. It had cast its spell on me, and I was done for.