Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [155]
My grandmother and her husband were settled in the nicest of the guest houses, then escorted to my mother’s house. My grandmother had brought gifts of chocolates. My siblings and I were thrilled; we had not seen chocolates since we lived in Khartoum. Some of the smallest children did not even know what candy was, so it was fun to watch their little faces when they ate the sweet treats.
My father was proud to present his mother and stepfather with good-quality provisions that he had somehow managed to acquire. Usually the food available to us in Afghanistan was repugnant. He even relented when it came to cooling fans, for there was still no electricity in the Kandahar compound and most guests sweltered in the summer heat. After a few high-ranking guests had nearly fainted, my father had ordered a few battery-powered fans for his most honored guests.
Although my grandmother and her husband did not make use of the fans, I had witnessed a number of guests struggling to hold the spinning blades close to their faces while trying to have a conversation or enjoy a meal, reminding me of those wealthy guests in Khartoum using woven hand fans.
The first evening was the only night that our family was all together, and was so enjoyable that my father began to recall some delightful tales from his youth. Looking sweetly at my grandmother, he asked, “My Mother, do you remember when I was very young, long before my school days, when my only goal in life was to have a pet goat?”
Grandmother Allia nodded with pleasure. “Yes, my son,” she replied, “I remember everything of that incident.”
“Your husband would not allow your son to have a goat. I asked him again and again, and every time he would say no, there would definitely be no goats at his home in Jeddah. After the third or fourth time, your husband became weary of your son, and said, if you want a goat, Osama, you will need to grow one for yourself. I was truly confused, asking your husband how I might go about such a task as growing a goat.”
Muhammad laughed heartily, calling to mind the long-ago incident.
“My mother, your husband told me that the next time my mother served goat for our evening meal, I was to take the cooked leg bone of the goat, and then plant it three inches in the ground. He cautioned me that if I did not give the goat leg a daily watering, I would not grow a goat.
“Sure enough, the next time you served goat, I saved the leg bone and very earnestly carried it into the garden to dig a hole and plant it, diligently watering the goat bone daily. After a few weeks, I began to wonder what I might have done wrong, for nothing resembling a goat broke through the garden soil. After weeks of tending that goat bone, your husband finally told me the truth, that it was only a joke, and that the bone would never grow into my very much desired goat!”
My father glanced at my brothers and me. “And, that, my sons, is why I have always granted your every wish when it came to your desire for animals.”
I suddenly remembered all the goats my father had bought us when we were small in Saudi Arabia. I understood for the first time that in presenting his sons with those goats, he was fulfilling his own childhood desires.
Muhammad enjoyed the little story, finally saying, “Osama, I had no idea that you would take me seriously. I am sorry if I caused you any grief.”
My father smiled. “No. It was a good and funny joke for a small boy.”
The goat story led Muhammad to remember yet another family tale. “Osama, do you remember when you rode the bull?”
My father smiled. “I do.” He seemed very happy at the memory. “My dear family, you know my love for horses. From the time I was very young, I wanted a horse more than I wanted anything, even a home-grown goat! I pestered my mother and Muhammad endlessly,