The Puppets of the Marionettes

Chapter 4

A period of seven years lapsed and on one sunshiny morning, Fatema was at Layla's doorstep. She was a tall, slender woman whose smile was brighter than her thoughts and whose sweets were always sweeter than her remarks. She did, nonetheless, never fail to make Layla laugh with her exotic and dark perceptions of people and the future. The two laughed together for many years, cried for many more, and were, in each other's eyes, sisters bonded by time.

She stood holding a plate with one hand, knocking on the door with the other, and pitying the once thriving plants that were scattered around the lot. The door had opened before she had time to regain her poise.

"Fatema."

She snapped her neck, "Hello Layla, I brought you a plate of Basbousa," she was about to make amends but as it seemed, from such pink deeply dug eyes, Layla would not have able to see past her nose.

"Thank you. Why don't you come on in?"

"Thank you," replied the neighbour as she entered. Layla took the plate and escorted Fatema to the living room. She placed the plate on the coffee table and asked what drink Fatema would like, tea or coffee? The answer was tea of course and so she headed to the kitchen, Fatema only a couple of steps behind.

"Pardon me for being exceptionally forthright, but darling, you look like your neither dead nor alive. Have kindness on your soul Layla."

"And what do you think I should do, Fatema?" she smiled.

"How should I know?" she retorted.

"It always just seems this way doesn't it, you have something to say about everything, but no solution to anything you say," replied Layla. The corners of her downturned eyes wrinkled.

"Start by taking things easy on yourself. If I didn't know you any better, I would have said that Omar was the worst thing that has ever happened to you."

"Oh please, Fatema, stop with this nonsense," the corners of her eyes ceased to wrinkle.

"You asked for my solution, and I am giving it. Look at your skin, Layla, your hair, eyes, energy and... lot! One look at your lot is enough for a stranger to deem this house unoccupied!"

"I've left beauty for other people. As for Omar, he has given me purpose, to raise him as well as I could and to arm him with as much knowledge as I could. He will be a father one day and he will raise his kids. His children will raise their own children. Knowledge and decencies, just to name a few, are passed down to generations. It is all a domino effect. Society at its core, is merely made up of individuals," she passed her guest her cup of tea.

In silence, Fatema took the cup and drowned it in two heaping teaspoons of sugar. "Well, I commend you on such an inspiring speech," she said as she swirled the teaspoon round in her cup. "I don't mean to be pessimistic or anything but you, dedicating your entire life to him just doesn't seem like such a great idea. What if he doesn't reciprocate the favour? What will you do then? After all, like you said, he will have a family of his own, and you will not be his one and only like he is to you right now. And mind you these are not just some thoughts I'm having; I know of families who have gone through exactly what I have just mentioned. And they are very miserable. I am sure they wish someone would have given them sound advice such as what I am giving you before everything fell apart," she felt of their very pain as she spoke.

"Your intention in doing something is what matters and what will determine your response to any situation whether it be good or bad. I am not doing this so Omar reciprocates the favour. He is my responsibility, and I will be held accountable for it in front of God. That is why I do what I do."

"I really doubt all this coddling will do your son any good."

Layla began to sip her tea. Her guest had burdened her far too much. Was she a good mother? Was she providing the best she could? Was she fulfilling her promise to Mohammed? Would this matter at the end!

Images of Mohammed's last days flashed before her. Would all this matter at the end? She felt alone. The affliction of torment burdened her chest. God, I entrust my son to you. You have created him and the earth which he lives in, protect him and guide him. Do not leave him to himself even for a blink of an eye. She finished her tea, and it was during her last sip that she realized she had drunk an entire cup of unsweetened tea.

"Layla, are those tears I see?"

"Oh no," she aimed to smile as she wiped her eyes.

"Well, I certainty have not lost my sight yet Layla, why are you crying? Was it something I said?"

"It's just that...I remembered, Mohammed," her voice broke. Her hands covered the center of her face.

"Layla, dear!" unbidden tears fell on her dress. She walked around the table and wailed as she embraced her. "I know it must be so difficult for you."

"I just feel," she raised her head. Fatema broke her embrace; her tear-filled eyes made it hard to see the speaker before her. "I know that Allah is the best supporter, and I know that Omar is in Allah's hands, but Fatema it is so difficult to raise a child on your own. During the war I lost sleep waiting for any news of Mohammed. After the war I cried myself to sleep seeing him lay beside me crippled with an injured back and a lost eye, and after he passed away, I lost sleep not knowing whether what I'm doing is right. Not knowing whether Omar will pay a price just like his father did!" The clock struck three. She wiped her tears with her fingers. "Omar will be back from school soon. I don't want him to see me like this."

"It is as you said, Layla, Omar is in Allah's hands. We all are. You cannot control the future. Therefore, do not burden yourself with much thought. Mohammed did not pay a heavy price; he is a hero who died for his country."

"But would his country die for him?"

"What? What you mean?"