Prince of the Desert
While some saw him as just another Nazit Saman illiterate horse trader, dressed in his simple gallabeya, I knew him better. Lotfy’s Ladies was to be the tee shirts never made . As he shepherded us down the dusty lane to the desert past the other stable owners envious looks, he rode proud. Nimbly jumping off his horse in the middle of the Sahara to fix a broken stirrup, adjust any strap, coax reluctant rider and horse through pass rocky; rescuing the foolish who drunkenly dared ride at midnight. Lighting a cigarette with one hand passing it while walking in the cool gathering dusk of the desert. With only the sound of horses hooves in the eternal sand. His eyes could see the soul, knowing what to say. If gay was the mood, he laughed. If pain was etched on the face he consoled. Still in sleepless nights I call the memories to quiet life’s turmo