Ali Ibn Nafi - the creator of deodorant
Prologue: “The Season”
Spain, Sometime in the 11th century...
Late afternoon - Scene opens on the front of a gorgeously ornate villa, just outside a small town, somewhere in Andalusia. Scarlet silk hangings skirt the edges of puffy white clouds, as they billow in the soft winds. The palms rustle politely along the main walkway, as a covey of distinguished looking ebon men stroll quietly towards the entrance. In the distance behind them, a hardy, multicolored band of armed mercenaries begin setting up camp in a benign field. The sable coterie stand at a distance as one of their young men, obsidian and clean shaven, knocks at the front door. A slender juvenile Persian girl peers through the opening. Her misty green eyes sparkle with jubilation as she recognizes the voice of her esteemed and opens the door eagerly beckoning the group in. The two adolescents launch into spirited conversation and begin walking off. The eldest visitor abruptly stalls them. “Where is my good friend, little blossom?”, the man exclaims. “Oh, Let me see that you are properly greeted , sir. mar Haban! I just happened by the door and was taken by surprise at your arrival. kayf Haalak? Let me go get the servants...”, the young girl spouts. “All is well, sweet daughter.” A finely dressed man addresses the crowd from a second level balcony. “I saw your approach from the high point, old friend. Welcome! (he claps his hands twice) Servants!!” The elder holds up a jeweled box, “Very well, good friend. I have that thing you were looking for...”
Early evening – The perse sky shimmers like the sea, as the silver moon hangs low over the rich man's residence. The elder slumps down casually over the balcony, his forearm to the railing. He relaxes in the evening air. A bevy of servant girls can be heard in the distance playing the sweet songs of life. His host walks up quietly beside him, “I trust those young ladies were... entertaining.”, He says. “I appreciate the hospitality, friend, but I abstain...”, the elder replies, “...Those slaves you sent me, were worthless. (he looks up) they can't be, in the sun... (scene changes to a arid sun bleached image) ...I appointed one for ministering water to the workers at a citrus grove of mine, back in Morocco. (a slim, shirtless and sunburned fellow stands miserable and motionless at the side of a water cart. His elbows clinging to his sides, forearms and palms up, with the water ladle lazily teetering in one hand.) They say he just fell to pieces... (two muscular black orchard workers, also shirtless, walk intently into the scene. The ginger man helplessly stares at them. One worker frustratedly smacks the slave's ridiculously upraised palms. Water violently splashes out of the ladle as it falls to the earth.) All he does is whine and complain.” The host retorts, “I never said they were good for anything. Thinking highly of themselves, maybe. They are unwilling to accept being inferior, so they cling to that delusion of importance.” (the elder peers at the host out of the corner of his eye) He says, “I might agree, the ones I associate with tend to have a degraded sense of value.”. The host returns, “Their value is in their pocket. It's not what I assigned to them, but what they themselves believe to be true, while claiming that aberrant faith. A gentle god that hides the teeth of death. Their Trojan Horse. They give honor for faulting others, without ever having anything truly helpful or constructive to offer. They never look around and see what they are doing doesn't work. It's always someone else's fault, someone else's responsibility. Parasites...a crippling disease... They can't even thrive without sucking the life out of everything, and everyone around them. (He spits) That's why those fools ended up your slaves. The greed and desire for wealth that fills those disgusting, dirty Vandals heart, and the lack of wit that makes it impossible for them to attain it.” (the elder rustles his garment up around his shoulders) He says, “Feeling a little chilly out here...” The elder continues, “At any rate, I give praise to God for a fair hand at life. There are so many places I could be in this world, where life is of little value, much less the intangible elements of fairness, or honor, or justice. The very concept of uprightness is an image of standing, perpendicular, against everything else.” (The hosts' countenance changes from wrath to that of peacefulness) He responds, “Yes, brother. These years are golden and full of wonder, I guess deep down, I fear the inevitable. Nothing is permanent. The seasons will change, and then come back around again. There is a dread that visits me deep in the night. I feel the wheels of destiny in motion, a rot seeping in the walls of my home. I hear ancient whisperings, premonitions of the future. 'It's better to be dead than to be a slave...' 'It's better to be dead, than to be a slave...' BOO!” (they both laugh) “Get the fuck outta here, you asshole.”, says the elder. (the elder jabs at the host's sides) While dodging, the host then says, playfully but with firmness, “Seriously dude. It's better to be dead than to be a fucking slave.”. Lastly, the elder quickly ripostes, “Slaves don't know that...”
Era 1 - “ Dihya Kahina”
