Tale In The Red Sand

Chapter Thirty - Seven

"So what do you say?" Her father enquired, noting the swift connection in her eyes to her own question. Hibaaq's face instantly warmed, and her stomach continued to flip in a nauseating, yet exciting way. "How about you sleep on it tonight, the two of you can talk in the morning." He suggested smoothing the dark curls that framed her face and tucked some behind her ears.

"In sha Allah." Hibaaq agreed, watching her father leave the room before falling back onto her pillows, her hands covering her heated face as a slow smile spread onto her lips. All frustrations from earlier had expelled the moment she brought them up. She couldn't stay mad at him for long, and it furtively frustrated her that she couldn't, but it was all the more reason why she adored him. She didn't have to sleep on anything. Her mind was discreetly made up since he'd returned.

...

Hibaaq rose in the morning with the same thoughts  and grinning like a madwoman. She couldn't keep it out of her mind during her morning routine, her morning prayer, and while dressing for the day. The buzzing feeling had consumed her. She prayed that Allah keep her steadfast on her feet the moment she came to face him.

It was Friday, and her father and Ercole had gone to the masjid to pray in the congregation. Before they left, though, her father came to inform her that when they return, they would all properly speak and she may either give her reply then or whenever she wished. So, she paced anxiously in the foyer, having already prepared the tea and treats sitting on the coffee table in the lounge, Hibaaq had nothing to do but feed into the jittery ache that rested in the pit of her stomach.

Then the door opened as Hibaaq finished her umpteenth lap across the length of the foyer. She jumped at the clicking sound with a hand on her racing heart, but let a sigh of relief when she came face with the equally as startled gardener, gripping a tool basket to his side.

"Are you alright, effendi?" He enquired.

"Yes, I'm fine. Please continue." Hibaaq stepped out of the way so that he could pass her. "And please, adeero, just call me Hibaaq already."

The gardener, Liban, was a man beyond the years of middle age born to an arab father and a somali mother with a thinning bed of ashen grey hair, standing short and slender, yet he was lean and capable. The reason why their backyard looked as lush as it did was all due to the hard work of this man. He strategically arranged each assortment of batonical flowers in elaborate patterns, trimmed the crisp green grass to alignment, and tended to the sturdy coconut and guava trees; Xalimo would occasionally make a sweet treat out of. One wouldn't think a place so lush could exist on the sandy, palm treed landscapes of Somalia, but all the regions varied so much, it was truly fascinating.

It was amongst many things Hibaaq had learnt from him. As knowledgeable in gardening the gardener was, he had a habit of addressing Hibaaq and her father very formally, which Hibaaq didn't take a liking to and pushed hard for years to break the unnerving tradition. Though, he persisted politely despite her protests. Hibaaq always wondered why he was so respectful in this manner, especially being an elder. It wasn't the way of her people, and although he wasn't completely somali, he was part in blood. Even so, Hibaaq would always address him as adeero. Liban only nodded and grinned at her request like he'd always done before making his way to the garden. Hibaaq shook her head at the man's stubbornness, one way or another, she would break this gruelling habit and have him call her strictly by name.

She quickly decided that she didn't want to be seen roaming the foyer when Ercole and her father came back and opted to pass time in one of the back patio chairs, basking in the serenity of the early afternoon as the sun beat gently down on her face. She witnessed just how hard Liban worked as he trimmed the unruly hedges that lined their garden into neat and straight rows. The palm trees swayed in the light breeze, and so did the hem of her cream day dress, the neighbourhood cats that relished lounging atop the stone fence beside the hedges meowed at each other in a language she couldn't understand, but enjoyed listening to nonetheless.