Tale In The Red Sand

Chapter Twenty- Five

Hibaaq had awoken from an uncomfortable sleep, sweaty and umber skin striped with sleep lines. Her bones shook and cracked noisily as she stretched out the length of her body against her mattress, her ears simultaneously picking up the thrumming of muffled and yet loud voices through the walls. She perked up on her bed, resting her hands on the spot she had been warming all night long. "Aabo?" She croaked, hoarsely, knowing if she had called out to him loud enough he'd be able to hear her from his study directly below her bedroom. Although, her voice came out crackly like tires on gravel stone, she had not the energy nor urgency to raise her voice above it's current level.

When she finally got out of bed to see what the fuss was all about, a warning breeze caressed her neck, only then did she remember her hijab. Hibaaq kissed her teeth at her carelessness. She looked for anything to cover head before settling for a towel, neglected in a corner.

Her father rarely ever raised his voice, whether it was at her or anyone else. Hibaaq was certain it was his booming voice that she could hear and it worried her deeply. Warsame was not an angry man, ironically for he was also a businessman who dealt with men of that nature almost everyday. She treaded down a couple of steps as she strained her ears before soon realising she didn't have to. Their voices were as clear as it could get, as if they were sitting right beside her on the staircase. Hibaaq then registered how thin the walls really were in their home. Surely, it wasn't as if she were eavesdropping if she could hear the presumed argument anywhere she stood in the house. She wondered about the businessman who had the gall to cause her father to react this way, what he could have possibly said or done to make Warsame Cali raise his tone above his warm inviting one.

"Ercole!"

The name drop caused her to release a small gasp. Why on earth was he the receiving end of her father's wrath. Hibaaq listened on.
...

"That man can't be trusted Ercole, he could be playing a sick joke for all we know. Trust me, I've seen the way he plots." Said Warsame, grasping at his greying coils. He paced around the small area behind his work desk, worried and yet vexed. Worried for he didn't want to see Ercole hurt, and vexed for he couldn't stand Marco Rossi's treacherous stunts. He was the type of man to betray his own flesh and blood if it meant upholding his beloved empire. Whether he was planning to ship Ercole off to a desolate land or force him to marry an old mob leader's middle aged daughter, the man could not be trusted. "Why after all these years" —- Warsame paused, shaking his head, not wanting to speak too ill mannered about Ercole's father, it wasn't right no matter the prejudices he had.

"I'm not a child he can blindly trick, Warsame. I can handle it," Ercole remarked calmly, easing his worn out voice. "You fret too much, it'll be alright," He then reassured, exhausted. If he could sleep the day away he would, but there was no time for such leisure. As they had their doubts, his father remained bed ridden. "Besides, he sounded really bad the last time he rang, I've waited long enough," Ercole rose from his seat on the leather armchair with his mind made up. Though, his father was a force not to be reckoned with, in the end, he was still his father. As opposed to a drop of blood in the vast ocean, blood was seldom thicker than water.

Warsame breathed out tiredly, this battle he knew, he lost. "I understand, just know you are always welcome back here, son," His voice was devoid of the vexation he felt prior, although defeated, it slowly returned to its warm smoothness. "I'm sorry for the way I acted," He said lowly, rubbing at the heavy fatigue in his eyelids. He had been awake with not so much as a wink of sleep since the past morning, taking care of his sickly mother all the hours of the night before her quick discharge since she refused to stay any longer. Suddenly, Warsame felt even more distraught to be opposing Ercole to go see how his father was faring, wrongfully, as he out of all people should've known the wretchedness of having a frail parent. So unlike their usual selves, barely standing on their two feet. Marco was a callous and unrelenting man, sure, but he was still a parent. Warsame mentally scolded himself for overreacting the way he did.