The Untamed Storms~ On hold~

Chapter six- Umma's duplicates

The old truck pulled outside the enormous house. The three floor house was truly big.  With a large zaure(compound), three living rooms, two dining rooms, a prayer room at each floor, and massive bedrooms. Our house was a rathole compared to this.

But I'm content with what I have. No matter how small our home may be, the homey atmosphere is priceless.

I walk-ran inside the house, with Ya Abdul following suit, making sure I entered the house safely.

I met Luba, my cousin, her silver eyes were an amalgamation of happiness and surprise on seeing me. "Halima! Oh its really nice to see you here" she beamed happily, hugging me tightly.

I removed my niqabi and went to Auntie Naazi's room to surprise her, while Ya Abdul sat on the small carpet in the living room.

"Khala!" I called out, standing outside her room 

"Halima jan! Is that you" she spoke, opening the door widely.

Auntie Naazi was the complete duplicate of my mother. Those who didn't know them well always confuse them as twins. From the long black locks, the extremely white skin, the silver orbs, the jaw-dropping smile. Even their body structure

Auntie Naazi and Umma hailed from Afghanistan. From the history I heard, the Bakhtawar family moved to Lagos, Nigeria in 1969. The head of the family, also my paternal grandfather died six months afterwards, leaving a depressed wife, and two daughters.

Umma, being the first child of the family, met Baba, in the year 1971, In Lagos, when baba was sent on a mission, and had instead met his Juliet.

Their love story was very intriguing, Umma already engaged to marry a highly successful young business tycoon back in Afghanistan.

Umma left a 'billionaire' for a one star soldier . Baba didn't have much then. A small inherited farmland, a two bedroom brick apartment and a rusty old car. You could imagine the strong love between them.

The same year both Umma and Auntie Naazi married, the lost their mother to diabetes. It was a hard year for the Afghans sisters.

I have heard the tale of my mother so many times, that I have it memorized. Sometimes, I sit and think about umma. How would it be if she never married baba, or if she never came to Nigeria. Maybe she would have married the politician, and I would have been an afghan.

I greeted her and she kept staring at me, her big black rimmed glasses hanging loose over her nose. Her silver eyes began tearing up. She kissed my knuckles and my cheeks, and I did the same. I sat down next to her sewing machine, and trailed my fingers down the handmade embroidery on the dupatta.

"Oh Halima, you've grown so much...How I wish Fariba was still here.."

I watched as she wiped the tear that had escaped and hugged me tightly. "Welcome dear" she spoke, her voice cracking.

Iftaar was more like a small festival. Almost twelve different cuisines, set up by the two maids who wore identical dress.

The men filled their plates and glasses in the dining room, chatting loudly while filling their tummies, whereas the women settled in a room with a spread out sofrah ate together with their children running up and down.

Arranged on the sofrah was loaves of bread, bowls of qurma, platters of mastawa, skewers of lamb, aush soup with kidney beans and fresh yoghurt.

After the iftaar feast, We prayed isha and the guests retired to their home. I sat in Luba's room upstairs.

The walls in her room, like the rest of the house, had a floral wallpaper that looked new. Carpets were spread out on the cemented floors and thick curtains were put surrounding the area where women stayed. By women, I mean Auntie Naazi, Luba, and the six maids.