Assalamu alaikum!

I know. I know. It's been a looong minute.

But I promise that it was for this story's own good.

And we're back now, for as long as I can keep drafting till the end, in sha Allah.

Anyhoo, hope you've been doing well.

And please don't forget to recite Suraj Kahf today and include the people of Palestine in your prayers.

Thanks.

Now, let's ride on!

***

Meena Lawal

“Assalamu alaykum,” I greet, entering the house and dragging my tired feet. I slump on the sofa and close my eyes, smiling. Today was a success. Alhamdulillah.

Working at Open Arms is an opportunity I didn’t know I needed. I get to meet women from different walks of life, passionate about helping others. I feel lucky indeed.

“Hey,” Badr greets from behind me.

“Yo,” I say, still lying down.

I open my eyes to see him resting against the head of the sofa, eyes drooping.

“So you were sleeping? Too much enjoyment sha.”

He hisses. “I was just hungry o.”

“Ah ah, what of the stew I kept in the microwave for you to boil rice with?”

He hisses again and rests his chin on his palm. “Did Ummu call you?”

I shake my head. “Hope all is well?”

He stands. “She’s coming to Abuja for a friend’s daughter’s wedding, so she’ll be staying with us for a while.”

Oh. “Okay.” I shrug. That isn’t a problem for me, but for him… “Everything will be fine.”

He frowns, “do you expect things to not be fine at all?” He glares at me, hisses, then heads toward the kitchen.

I watch him. Na wa o. How does taking it out on me help? I shrug and resume my rest.

The next day at work, we receive some women from Maiduguri, representing a new non-governmental organization that wishes to collaborate with ours in providing monthly allowances and scholarships for the women and children in Katsina and Borno.

I listened in rapt attention as the elfish woman dished out her plans, eyes fiery with passion and determination. It made me wonder if being a fashion designer is enough, if it’s really helping people. Maybe not so much.

At the end of the programme, I join aunty Iftar as we bid goodbye to our new partners. Just as the elfish woman, Lara, is about to enter her car, she turns to us for the last time and her eyes land on me.

I freeze, wondering what she’s seeing. My oversized bubu sleeves?

 She smiles widely, “before I forget,” she points at me, “I’ve been meaning to ask, please who’s your tailor?”

My eyes widen. “Is there a problem?” Aunty Iftar asks, glancing at me, frowning.

“Not at all. I’m on the search for a new tailor, and her dress looks really good.”

“Oh,” I smile. “I made it myself.” Without thinking, I opened my arms and turned around to give her the full view.

She smiles appraisingly. “We’ll talk when I come into town again.”

I smile eagerly. “No problem.”

After they leave, aunty Iftar turns to me, eyeing my white veil, my dress, and matching sandals.

“Are you also looking for a new tailor?” I ask, still smiling.

“I’m sure there’s much more to you than sewing clothes. That girl is younger than you are.”

I frown. And so? I want to ask.

“You can do better.” She says and heads back inside.

I watch her. What’s that supposed to mean? Isn’t tailoring a good profession too? I shake my head. I shouldn’t let her get to me. I’ve never felt ashamed of my profession, and I don’t intend to start now.

***

Immediately after we pray Asr, Mardiyya and I step out of the office.

“God, I hope tomorrow won’t be as stressful as today.” She says, fanning herself with a piece of paper.

I laugh, “Today was not that bad na. Last week Friday was the most stressful for me.”

“But at least you didn’t stay in one place. Me that was on seat all through.”

“Me that was wishing to be on seat nko?” I say, nudging her. And truly, I’m too used to sitting than walking up and down. But aunty Iftar said I needed the exposure, and I can’t complain.  

My phone rings in my bag. I take it out. Ummu Badr. Oh yes, Badr said she’s on her way here.  “Assalamu alaykum, ma.”

“Wa alaykum salam , dear, how are you?”

“I’m good. Alhamdulillah. Are you in Abuja already?”

“Almost.”

Someone taps me from behind. I turn to see aunty Iftar, yellow gloved hand outstretched. I give her the phone.

“Which park are they dropping you?” She asks while I wave at Mardiyya as she boards a rickshaw.

“Don’t worry.” Aunty Iftar says and gives me back the phone.

“Hello ma?”

“Tell Iftar that I don’t want her to come and pick me.”

Is she serious? “Okay ma.” After the call ends, I turn to aunty Iftar who’s already heading for her car. Sighing, I follow her. “Ma?”

She ignores me and climbs inside. I follow. “Ma?”

She turns to me sharply. “I’m going to pick her up whether she likes it or not.”

Quickly, I nod, not wanting to get on her bad side. She’s my boss, after all. As for Ummu Badr, I’m sure she’ll understand. I hope she does.

On our way, I call my mother-in-law to confirm the name of the park. When we arrive, we meet her bickering with some women in the park mosque.

I greet, she replies. Aunty Iftar greets, she ignores. Throughout the car ride, Ummu Badr asks after my affairs, she doesn’t acknowledge her younger sister one bit.

When we arrive home, Badr opens the gate and rushes toward his mom. He bows his head. She eyes him, “when did you become a gateman?” She asks.

“I haven’t found a reliable person yet.” Aunty Iftar says, tugging at the end of her niqab.

Finally, Ummu Badr turns to her, “Reliable ke? Are you storing gold in your house?”

Now aunty Iftar ignores her and turns to Badr and I. “I’ll be inside.” She ambles to her house.

Ummu Badr hisses, then she looks around the compound before facing me. “Don’t tell me that small house is yours?” She points over my shoulder.

I smile, “You must be tired, ma. Let’s get you inside.”

On entering the house, we’re greeted by a familiar soup scent. I turn to Badr in surprise. “So, you can cook?” I whisper to him. He winks at me and moves to our second bedroom with his mother’s bags.

Ummu Badr settles on the sofa, still looking around, still frowning.

I head into the kitchen and check the soup. Not bad. I grab a tray, a bottle of cold water, and cup. Setting it before her, I smile, “How was your journey, ma?”

She places an arm over her head and nods. “Alhamdulillah.” She looks around the room again, as if looking for something to criticize. But I’m starting to understand that her beef is mainly with aunty Iftar. Watching her now, I wonder why.

“Ma, please, I have a question.” I say, clearing my throat.

“About Iftar, abi?” She asks.

I’m tempted to deny, but I nod. She looks away, sighing, then she frowns, “is something burning?”

Badr’s soup!

 I rush to the kitchen, just as Badr joins me, eyes wide. The soup has gone thick and stuck to the bottom of the pot. I totally forgot about it, and I don’t need to look at Badr to know that he’s upset. I move to the sink to get some water, only for him to drop the pot with a loud clap.

I jump back. “Ah ah na.”

He glares at me, then turns to leave. But Ummu Badr is standing by the door, arms folded. He bows his head, “I’m so sorry, Ummi, Meena will prepare something for you now.”

She watches him, then scoffs. “I won’t be surprised if you did it to punish me. It won’t be the first time.”

I gasp. Badr sighs, “That was a long time ago.” He hisses and rubs his eyes. He must have fallen asleep. I want to hold him but I know he won’t like it.

“Let me prepare something else, ma.” I say, standing before her. “What would you like to eat?”

Ummu Badr smiles, and I smile back. If there’s one thing I’ve learned so far, it’s that Ummu Badr keeps grudges, even with her family. I’m not sure whether to be disappointed in her, or to feel sorry for her. That’s a hard life to live.