I was invited by a friend of mine to his cousin's marriage in a popular area in Cairo. He insisted that I should go, although I did not know the bride or the groom. Perhaps he did so because – as he said – I am keen on being amid simple people, away from artificial flattery. Eventually I went. I passed by narrow yet beautiful streets although they were in shantytowns. I don't know why, but I missed my past full of warmth, spontaneity and naiveté. I found myself amid a vortex of colors and overlapping words. I remembered my mother's advice: "Don't be afraid… Men are not supposed to be afraid or cry… Be a man… If you come in first, I'll give you a bicycle... If someone hits you, hit them too." Suddenly, that innocent world was gone and I woke up amid a noisy marriage with a sentence being repeated by the loudspeakers on the surrounding balconies: "Manhood means good manner." I blushed and cheered, I don't know why. The MC spotted me and started flooding me with greetings and comments: "Watch out, man… The silver and golden screen… our countries' stars… Egypt's my land." Then the band started playing the music of "Tears in insolent eyes", a series about Gumaa Al-Shawan. Penknives showed up and hysteric dance broke out amid bullets being fired from different directions. I'm not hiding from you that I felt the ecstasy of victory, but I quickly restored my silly smile and went back to my seat. People were hysterically fighting for the mike. No one was caring for the fat dancer or the unknown singer, while the MC finally emerged triumphant and took the mike: "Hey, man, there's no chocolate on the mike. Less is more." There was a moment of silence, and then it was time for a series of photos, with everyone rushing to get the mike and some chat topped by a board with one single word; manhood. "There's no chocolate on the mike." Oh, my God, what a wonderful expression. It was just a way to make fool of the attempt to monopolize the microphone by putting it very close to the mouth or rather the attempt to settle an all-male struggle to be the protagonist, even though for few moments. And it was the MC himself who came out with all this, that's the strange thing; after all, he is the one most trying to be the protagonist. I left the wedding and that mob late at night, alone. On my way back, I just stopped for a moment – as usual – to pick up some newspapers downtown. I do not know why, but I went on thinking of that sentence – there's no chocolate on the mike – while reading the newspapers and I felt it applied to us all, including me. I remembered our discussions, our programs and our popular heritage. I also remembered my adolescence, wondering how many times I was beaten up and how many times I talked about my triumphs in rows. I hysterically burst into laughing. I remembered my friends' stories and I realized that in all stories, including loved ones, there is the obsession of being the protagonist. Some famous programs cropped up in my mind, such as: [Yes], [No one listens to anyone] and [The main concern proves I am right and the others are wrong]. TV cameras, radio microphones and newspapers… everything gets intertwined as part of a search for being the protagonist, in a continuous rejection of admitting your mistakes or understanding the others and with a latent dissatisfaction for playing a secondary role. This is an involuntary, yet continuous, form of tarnishing the value of work or the honesty of news. We have turned into a gearless machine, fragile unprofessional media, unmistakable human beings and empty hangers on which you can hang your mistakes. A world of protagonists creating no civilization... I may be one of those trying to be always protagonists, yet let me remind myself and you that there's no chocolate on the phone, as the MC said. *** This true story comes from the archive of my friend Amr Saad, the protagonist of Khaled Youssef's latest film Dukkan Shahatta [Shahatta's shop] and one of the main actors in today's Egyptian cinema. Amr is not a professional writer, but he is a pleasant storyteller. When he wrote this story and read it to me on the phone, I felt happy and decided to tell it to the readers instead of writing an article of mine. Now, I'll leave you the liberty to mull over its meanings and connotations.
