On one scorching day in a bustling tourist souk in Giza, I found myself wandering through narrow alleys lined with vibrant stalls. My mission? To find an amulet, a golden scarab, that would not only protect me from scoundrels, bullies, robbers and wicked girls but also keep me healthy and geared up to immerse myself in the splendor of Pharaonic life. In Egypt, gold seemed surprisingly affordable, so why not indulge in a piece of ancient mystique?

As I browsed, however, none of the scarabs struck me as solid or worthy enough for a man on a mission. Disappointed but undeterred, I eventually stumbled upon a silver one. It shimmered modestly under the sun, and something about its simplicity captivated me. “Silver… Oh, what the heck!” I thought. Perhaps it wouldn’t offer 100% protection, but it was better than nothing. I still remember reading about the power of these talismans to ward off malevolent forces, disease, or misfortune. I purchased it, and now I wear it proudly when I have an assignment or when traveling abroad, a small token of adventure.

As I made my way out of the souk, a young boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, approached me with boundless energy. Holding a small wooden donkey whose name seemed to be Kofu, he sprang into what can only be described as a linguistic whirlwind. His broken English collided with desperation: “Mister, buy this lucky Kofu! Very special!” Smiling mischievously, I decided to have some fun. “I’m from Peru”, I said. “I only speak Quechua.” He froze, bewildered. Undeterred, he switched to French: “Monsieur Français, s’il vous plaît?” I shook my head. “Moi, pas Français.” Then came Spanish: “Señor Español, por favor?” Again, I feigned ignorance. “Yo, Español no!.” Finally, he tried German, his voice tinged with frustration: “Bitte, bitte Herr Quechua”. I grinned: “Nein, niemals!”

Despite my rejection antics, the boy refused to give up. With endearing persistence, he stuck by my side, weaving a long, sorrowful tale of hardship, how he and his brothers struggled daily, how selling Kofu would mean survival, how this little donkey was his last hope for the day, his “lucky charm.” The story was so dramatically tragic, told and mixed in all the languages I knew, that I almost laughed. It seemed to me like the kind of exaggerated story used to trick someone into buying something out of sheer pity, something you don’t even need at all. Ah! Dear reader, it was like trying to convince you to invest in my future before my present collapses. My wallet is thin, my rent is thick and wisdom won’t keep me warm at night. But I guess that you, who are an independent and intelligent reader, wouldn't be fooled by such theatrics.

Still, there I stood, torn between amusement and sympathy. I glanced at Kofu, the humble wooden donkey, and then at the boy, whose eyes sparkled with optimism and faith. Back and forth my gaze went: Kofu, the boy, Kofu again. Something inside me softened. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was his relentless spirit, or maybe it was just the absurdity of the moment. Whatever it was, I caved in. For a reasonable price, cheap really, I bought Kofu.

Later, back in Cairo’s old Town, I wandered into a larger souk teeming with wooden donkeys of every shape and size. They were cheaper, prettier, bigger, smaller—you name it. I knew I was duped, and yet, none of those donkeys bore any resemblance to Kofu. There was something uniquely charming about him, flaws and all. Holding him in my hands, I chuckled to myself. “Ahhhh, Kofu,” I murmured, shaking my head. “You’re proof that I’m just a sentimental fool.”