When I said I left my heart in Cairo, I meant the heart I use to take on travels – the one that is euphoric and doped – assuredly lighter than the one I use to walk with on the hardened roads of this city. The lightness is inexplicable; its source fundamentally untraceable. But it exists: not on its own but as a twin of the other.

It was the last thing I needed. It took me years to understand this specific human condition I was subjected to. My Dad’s voice on the phone was one that judged – an accusation that warranted an unquantifiable penalty. Undoubtedly rhetorical, it is now no longer a question that needed an answer.

On Kerbau Road, I walked through the familiar doors painted a bright red, climbing the staircase that was filmed for such many different purposes. I was overjoyed to discover over a dozen shadows hovering in the dark, and finally illuminated by Dynamo bottles and Taxi stands. I never contemplated it. It was the first birthday surprise I had ever received, a party that was planned for me to walk into. I loved it; and everyone who was part of it.

I am 21, but what does that mean?

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