Alara
I wonder what would happen if I got caught. When the plates food stop showing up in the afternoon, my mother might think I've given up and abandoned her.
Brilliant jewels and lanterns shine like an ocean of colour and light. I used to know this life; I used to be a part of it. But that was a long time ago, and there is no time for reminiscing when hunger is eating a hole in my stomach.
Nobody notices me in the bustle of the souk. My rags blend into the stained brown bags of rice and salt. It's easier this way, to not be noticed. Safer.
Soft flute music floats through the air along with the playful laughter of children trying to catch each other, their parents shouting after them to slow down.
Everything is different here in Quadura. The air smells like aromatic spices instead of raw fish. The ground is layered in cobblestone instead of sand. If these people, coated in their luxurious shawls and thobes, were to step foot in Wadi, their clothes would be stolen right off their backs.
The glimmer of light on a ruby-studded bracelet catches my eye. In the sun, the inclusions of the gem make the bracelet chatoyant. It will be enough to feed mama and I for over a month, if any merchant will trade with me tomorrow.
Attached to the bracelet is a woman embellished in jewels of emerald, jade and even pearls. Her skin is fair, from not having to do labour out in the sun. I doubt she'll miss a bracelet that she could most probably replace with the flick of her wrist.
I step up beside her, pretending to admire the most intricate silver lace brocaded slippers displayed in the stall. My feet will never find their way into something so beautiful.
I assess the clasp of the bracelet as she hands a purse heavy with coin to the merchant. His eyes wrinkle with joy at the sight of it. "Shukran," he repeats over-and-over, until she is turning away to find more unnecessary items to buy.
I step forward, ready to brush against her and slip the bracelet off without hesitation.
Before I get the chance, an intimidating figure in a hooded garb, shifts her out the way and grabs my wrist with force. His face is hidden in the shadows of his hood. The attire he wears is maroon and lined with gold, the colours of royalty. If he is part of the royal guard, I am never going to see my mama again. "What are you doing?" His voice is deep and rough, like the low growl of a hungry animal.
My heart lifts up into my throat, making it impossible to speak. His fingers tighten around my wrist, and he drags me into a dark corner. He stands tall, his body towering over me. The hint of a dagger can be seen beneath his clothes.
Nobody can see us here. If he were to shove my limp body into a potato sack, nobody would notice. I wonder if my mom would try to look for me; if she would get off the sofa for her daughter.
"What do you want?" I ask, my voice barely audible. I try to pull out of his forceful grip, but he doesn't release me, knowing I'll run.
"That's a dangerous question." He uses his free hand to tip his hood back. His desert brown eyes trail over me. He won't touch me, not when I'm wearing rags and have soot coated in my skin and hair.
His olive skin is smooth and clean. His beard is groomed closely against his strong jaw. Not the signs of a royal guard, but of a—
His face shifts closer to my ear. The strong, earthy scent of oud hugs me. "If you're going to steal, don't ever get caught." He holds out the ruby-studded bracelet between his index finger and his thumb. It looks tiny in his grip. My stomach does a somersault, making me feel nauseous. "Tell me, what will you do with it?"
My eyes fall to the bracelet. It's colours are muted in the shadows. I'm not sure if it's worth the vulnerablility of the truth because, in a world like this, having someone you care for is dangerous. "Feed my mama." Fear is stopping me from forming correct sentences. My Abu would be disappointed.
He opens my hand and drops the ruby bracelet onto my palm. The piece is cool against my skin. His lips turn up at the corners as he finally releases my wrist.
I push away from him, and sprint through the souk, tucking the bracelet into the pouch on my waist. My shoulders brush against blue of people passing through. They reprimand me for my rude manners, but I don't look back until my lungs are burning and my legs are aching with fatigue.
My fingers wrap around my wrist, mimicking the stranger's action. I've never seen anyone so well groomed, even here in Qadura.
Shaking my head, I pick up my pace and follow my usual trail through the narrow pathways that weave between the large, stone mansions. Fairy lights are strung up overhead. I imagine they must be beautiful when turned on at dusk, but I would never risk being out here that late, not after hearing the stories of Jazaar—the slaughterer.
I reach the mountain peaks that seperate Qadura and Wadi. My Abu, my father, always taught me to persue intelligence instead of beauty. Most traders and merchants wanting to cross between the two lands have to go around the mountain, but I have found a way to go through it.
The sun scorches the stone, making it impossible to climb. I wrap my hands in the cloth that was tucked in my waistband and begin the ascent up the rocky terrain.
Near the top of the peak, a small arch is carved directly through the mountainside. The inside has begun to wither, the roof engraved with strange marks, hidden by moss and dirt.
The air smells damp with age and lack of sunlight. The further in I step, the darker it becomes, until I have to trail my fingers along the rugged stone walls for guidance. Sometimes the darkness can be a tranquil escape, because it allows me to imagine myself having more than the life I am living.
A day where I might be able to wake up late in the morning, and do nothing but read books and sip on camomile tea. Maybe my home will be hidden up in a canopy of trees in Ardifa, or carved into the mountains north of Qadura.
A girl can dream. At least until I step out the other end of the mountain, into the air that seems to suffocate me. It is warm and arid, the sun baking my skin from the inside out. The view is barren, aside from the tan brown sand and cramped, unfinished houses.
The only thing of value here in Wadi was deemed of value by the people of Qadura. Uncoincidentally, it is also the only thing that has been fully constructed here. The Docks. It is where I will be going tomorrow, to barter the ruby bracelet for whatever I can get. Mama will be so happy—or maybe happy is a push. She hasn't been happy in years. I hope she will smile.
I unravel the cloths from my hands and use them to cover my hair. Being covered makes me feel safer; makes me feel like nobody is looking at me.
My head dips as I slip into the shadows of the homes, hiding from the blistering sun. My skin becomes sticky from the heat.
Many of the houses I pass are made from scraps or mud. They smell of waste and mildew. Clothing hangs from the holes in the walls, made as make-shift windows for light during the day.
Curiousity gets the best of me when I pass a home where the 'windows' are cut too low into the tin walls of the house. Inside, a family sits on a rug eating a meal and laughing together. An older lady presses a kiss to her child's temple as she hands him his bowl of food. The sight warms my heart. Even when the people of Wadi have nothing, they find something to be grateful for.
I reach my home. The sight of it makes my chest feel like it is caving in, the way the roof is. In a way, mama and I are lucky, because her cousin gave her this place—and it has a tap, which is more than most people have. Many come by to use it.
Inside, the dishes are unwashed beside a black bucket on the floor. My eyes adjust to the dull, grey lighting. The air trapped in here is stagnant and filled with dust. Mama sleeps on a small couch in the left corner of the room, her body hidden beneath a thin, fraying blanket. The space is mostly empty, because we sold what Abu left us for food.
Untying my pouch from my waist, I slip it underneath the mat that I sleep on. I'll take it out tomorrow, to barter the piece of jewellery.
I kneel beside my mama's sleeping form and gently brush the back of my fingers against her cheek. Her skin has softened with age. I was made in her image; kinky curls, cocoa brown eyes, and as short as a childrens book. Her face is serene when she's asleep, and filled with worry and unending sadness when she is awake.
I love her with all of my heart, because when my Abu left, she could have abandoned me. It would have made things a lot easier, not having a six-year-old to feed.
Her eyes flutter open for a moment. "Habibi?" Her voice is hoarse and broken. Habibi. That used to be a word that represented love. It was what she called my Abu. Now that word reminds me that love has never mattered. The only thing that matters is survival.
"Ana bidahrik, mama." انا بضهرك. I've got your back.
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I'm so nervous and excited and in love. Mostly just happy to be learning.
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