Tale In The Red Sand

Chapter Thirty - Three

"Why, what's the matter?"

"You pick up when I call, but you never call me first." Warsame made a tutting noise.

"Then you should call more often, no"?

"Why, you - " Warsame laughed. "Alright, I'll give you that, but don't complain when I start calling too much."

"I think you already kind of do." Ercole replied jokingly.

"Well don't complain when I call too less!" Warsame retorted.

"You wouldn't." Ercole gasped.

"Well then hurry back, we miss you."

His gasp suddenly lodged in his throat at Warsame's words. His body tingling excitedly at the slightest notion, the slightest possibility that 'we' could've meant that perhaps Hibaaq had missed him too. Was missing him?

"Hello?" Warsame voiced on the other line when he was met with prolonged silence.

"I might." He finally replied.

...

Warning ⚠️
This chapter contains a sensitive topic. (FGM) If this triggers anyone, you have been warned.

...

In Somalia, the air was cool as summer came to a gradual end and the scorching days had eased, but in the Horn of Africa there was really no telling for it was always so balmy, even in autumn. Hibaaq lounged in the swing chair on the back patio, facing the garden. She had an old English novel in her lap that she attempted to read, but couldn't bring herself to focus. Like most days, she was distracted, swept up by her abyssal thoughts, dreaming of a time when a timid girl met a brilliant man. They would talk and laugh and bask in each other's presence, as if they were married for a lifetime.

Hibaaq groaned and snapped the flimsy book shut. Anytime, she tried to simply relax and have some alone time for herself, her traitorous mind had other plans. It would spin a long a film about an Italian man she once knew. When she was alone, she was never really alone. He was everywhere, in her home, in her thoughts, in her heart. Sometimes, she would stare at a spot and her iniquitous imagination would conjure up a scene where he once stood there or walked past the area, existing as if he were a phantom.

"He's not dead." Hibaaq told herself, picking up the cup of tea she had prepared, though it long since ran cold from abandonment. She was summoned from her thoughts by the shrill ringing of the house phone in the hallway, shortly after, it was pursued by Ayeeyo Warsam's cane softly tapping the floor.

Hibaaq rose from her seat and entered the house, bemused. Ayeeyo Warsam never got phone calls and she rarely made any if it wasn't to call her eldest son in Boroma, though he rarely answered anyway.

"I'll see you later." Ayeeyo Warsam hung up hastily as Hibaaq's footsteps neared. The old woman loudly cleared her throat, tapping her cane along to the drawing room. "Bring my shaa." She ordered, speaking over her shoulder before she proceeded into the room. Hibaaq, with her eyebrows still furrowed inquisitively, went to heat up her grandmother's afternoon shaa. She couldn't figure out whether her estranged uncle up east had called or not, but she decided not to think too much on it, she was doing enough of that already.

When she entered the drawing room, the television was blaring the evening news channel, and her grandmother was eased back on the leather armchair in front of it. Hibaaq placed the teapot and matching cup on the side table next to her chair and went to leave sooner Ayeeyo Warsam's voice halted her movements.