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That was it.

Samir felt a crack of hope. He pulled out his own phone. procuration voiture maroc

The sun hammered down on the dusty lot in Casablanca. Heat shimmered off the rows of second-hand Dacias and creaking Mercedes-Benzes, making the air smell of hot rubber and exhaust. For Samir, who lived in Lyon, this was the last step. The final hurdle. That was it

“Legally, yes. For the carte grise only. For three days.” Samir knelt beside the armchair. “It’s a procuration spéciale . Maître Zohra will call you in ten minutes. She will ask you three questions: your name, your father’s name, and the car’s chassis number. Then you say ‘Nawaltoukoum al wakala’ —I grant you the power.” The sun hammered down on the dusty lot in Casablanca

Omar squinted. “And I give you permission… to be me?”

“You don’t need a smartphone, Baba,” Samir said, scrolling through the instructions on his laptop. “You just need the code they send by SMS.”

She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. For a terrifying second, he saw the ghost of the old Morocco—the one where you needed a folder of photocopies, a bribe for the “facilitator,” and three days of patience.