By Ahmed Jalali
They called him Hamadi. He never knew why his father chose the name, nor why people later added “Hamadi Lagriss.” He didn’t know what it meant. But he carried it, as he carried his life — without question.
Hamadi knew one thing well: his work. He was a shepherd, and he was proud of it. His brother farmed the land. His father decided everything. Hamadi never argued. He listened, nodded, and went back to his flock.
He had spent his childhood, his youth, and half his twenties among the sheep — walking, watching, and waiting. Sometimes he cursed a lame one. Sometimes he sat on a rock and played his flute, soft and slow, for himself and for them.
One day he told himself he was no longer a boy — that his time for marriage was near. His brother had married; now it was his turn. He knew little about marriage. He thought of it as a duty, like feeding the sheep or fixing the fence.
He wondered who they would make him marry. A girl from his village? From another? A cousin, maybe?
He didn’t care much. He rose and looked across the valley, where his flock scattered like white stones.
One afternoon, on his way back from the nearby village, less than a kilometer away, he stopped.
There, in the blinding light of August, he saw her.
A girl.
An angel-faced girl.
She passed by and smiled faintly — a smile that struck him like lightning in a dark sky — then disappeared.
Hamadi felt dizzy. He blamed the heat. But walking home, he smiled to himself and whistled a tune, the kind he played only when something good stirred in his chest.
He went back to that village again, and again, hoping to see her. For weeks he saw nothing. Then, one Thursday — market day — she was there. The girls came out on such days, pretending errands while their mothers looked away.
Hamadi saw her twice that day. Once from afar. Once close, when she passed near him with a jug. She said nothing. He said nothing. But their eyes spoke.
He went home walking barefoot on the dusty road, nearly running, joy beating in his chest. He spoke to himself aloud, as he often did when confused, hiding among his sheep and the wind.
Weeks turned into months. Hamadi became addicted to the well. Every Thursday, at the same hour, she was there.
They spoke without words. Their eyes did the talking. One day, he dared to lift the heavy bucket for her. She smiled. He pretended the bucket was heavier than it was, to make the moment last longer.
Love grew quietly, like grass after rain.
One day Hamadi said to himself, “Hakima will be my wife. And the world can go to hell.”
But the world had other plans.
People began to talk. Why did Hamadi always take his donkey to that far well when there was one nearer home? Some said he mixed salt with the fodder to make the beast thirsty. Others just smiled knowingly.
Before Hamadi could speak to his mother about Hakima, the news struck him like a thunderbolt:
Hajj Zaari had betrothed her to his son. Her father agreed.
Hamadi took his sorrow in silence. He went out with his flock, muttering to them in strange words, then sitting under a tree, playing soft melodies to the sky. His whistle rose high and long until it seemed to split the horizon.
Years passed. Hakima had a child.
Hamadi followed the news, the quarrels, the gossip. He learned to love one word: divorce. He convinced himself it would come one day.
He spoke little to people. But he liked children — their simplicity, their trust. When they grew older, he lost interest in them.
Only one boy stayed close: Aziz, a schoolboy with bright eyes. Hamadi took him along on his herding trips, taught him to whistle, to listen to the wind. Sometimes he played him sad tunes on the flute.
One evening, Hamadi told him the story — the whole story. His voice trembled. A tear slid down his cheek and fell on his sunburned face.
Aziz listened in silence. After a while, he asked:
“Uncle Hamadi, how did you feel the day you knew Hakima was marrying another man?”
Hamadi looked up.
“Do you see that sky?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“That day,” he said slowly, “the sky and the stars fell down.
