From Aliya to Hafiz

Four.

Hafiz.

That girl was tiny.

She was tiny but had so much sass and attitude.

My eyes trail after her petite body clad in some sort of off white dress that covered everything.

Abaya, I think. That was its name.

I would admit I was stunned when I saw her. Not because she was insanely beautiful or something, I had been with women a million times prettier than her.

There was something so very...pure, about her that just drew in my eyes.

Her honeycomb pupils looked to be shining against the crystal whites of her eyes. I never really gave much thought to a person's eyes before, but hers were definitely the most good looking ones I had ever seen.

And her lips...well, they looked like they were asking to be kissed. They were all pursed and pink and soo soft.

They looked soft and moist. I wouldn't know.

Even the light bronze of her skin seemed to add a certain feel to her body.

"Too bad she's Muslim," I mused, a bit disappointed.

I might look down on ignorant weirdos who just decided to live such a suppressive lifestyle, worshipping something they couldn't see and feel but I respected diversity.

Do I find them stupid and mock them? Well, yes.

Would I make them feel stupid and degrading because of it? No. Because I knew how that felt.

With reluctant footsteps, I followed in their direction to a nicely furnished living room with warm colours. Directly across the seaters and facing the entrance was a wall entirely made of glass that overlooked the garden.

There was a mahogany dining table big enough to sit seven placed by the wall and it was where father and the others were seated, waiting.

A frown of distaste settled on my face when I saw how father was hovering over that woman and whispering heavens knew what into her ear.

Since they were sitting with their backs to me, I let the annoyance and disgust show blatantly on my face. That tiny girl and who should be her mother sat opposite father and that left me with the option of sitting next to that lowlife or the tiny girl's mother.

I choose neither.

Walking to the head of the table, I schooled in my features into a blank expression and sat down, with father to my right and the girl to my left.

A twisted sense of satisfaction settled in my guts when I saw that woman's face crumble. I hoped she could feel my rejection and disgust of her clearly.

Ignoring father's scathing glare, I dropped my eyes to the spread in front of me. It was rice and chicken.

At least they didn't cook anything weird.

Without waiting for them at all, I served myself and started eating, pausing mid chew from the explosion of flavours in my mouth.

I had heard that Nigerians had a particularly strong taste for flavours. Eating this made me realise why they considered our food (not that there are that many in the first place) to be bland.

I would give them this one, they beat us hands down.

"How do you like the food?"

I frowned in irritation. Just when the food was getting tastier, the idiot had to sound her sickening voice and make me lose my appetite.