Alnihayya

||M e t a l||

So it was clear now. The airplane Zeyara took me to Pakistan on, did not belong to Alnihayya.
And just like this air hostess said, it can only belong to a mafia.

The thing I have to find though, is that which mafia is Zeyara working for and why?

All this huge load of tension and stress made my temples ache and I yearned for some relaxing remedy.
Thankfully, Qatar airways, along with the music, also had a Quran playlist on every seat.

So I put on my headphones and closed my eyes to let the soothing recitation of Surah Taha in Omar Hisham's beautiful voice to calm me down.

After about 5 hours and 55 minutes of
The direct flight,we finally landed in Manchester. The landing made me want to scream nonetheless but still I managed Alhamdulillah. I think I might be the first person to have an airplane landing phobia.

After being checked and getting my passport stamped, I walked put gracefully being the only passenger without any luggage. As soon as I stepped out of the airport, the waves of the frozen winter air hit my skin. The sky was painted grey without any sign of the sun and the footpaths were laced with ice.

"Welcome to Manchester." I mumbled to myself as white snow fell gently on my black hijab like dandruff.

I took a taxi and let the window remain open. The cold blast of air on my face was refreshing but it was very hard to ignore the dulness that it carried.

Zeyara wasn't here. Ibrahim wasn't here. I was back to being 'an oppressed, veiled Muslim woman' in the eyes of people.

After rolling for about half an hour, the wheels of the taxi halted on Ranford Street and I got out, taking in a deep breath. Winter had turned the trees naked and the pure snow had covered the rooftops elegantly.
Nonetheless, I was standing outside the house I had spent my whole life in. The house where it all started.

But I turned away, knowing that I didn't come here for this house.
I came here for the house just across the street, the house of my Muslim neighbour, who had become much more than that in so little time.

I crossed the street and stood on the threshold, biting my lower lip, thinking whether I should press the door bell or not.
I gave in after a minute of debating with myself and pressed the bell with 'Bismillah' on my lips.

Hurried footsteps followed the sound of the door bell before the door opened.
"Metal!!" Marwa shrieked so loud that I'm sure the whole street could hear it.
The little girl in the blue frock wrapped her arms around my legs, hugging me so tight that it made all my worries go away.

In that moment I didn't even care of the fact that she had just changed my name from Mashal to Matal and now a Metal.

It's okay Mashal, even gold is a metal.

I bent down on one knee to reach her height so that she could actually hug me and not my legs.
I kissed the black hair on the top of her head as a lone tear escaped my eye.

It was just a tiny drop of water but so laden with emotions that it felt heavier than the Pacific ocean.

Marwa was a female version of Zeyara. She resembled him so much that they looked like twins. Holding her made me feel as if I was holding him.

Just then, uncle Suleiman appeared. His grey-white hair and beard along with the tiny smile and warm eyes made him a perfect father figure.

I straightened up, breaking my hug with Marwa and mumbled, "Assalam o alaikum" to him.

"Walaikum Salam binti! Come in its freezing outside." He exclaimed joyfully as if everything was perfectly fine.

I hated the fact that I would be the one to erase his joy when I tell him about Zeyara.