CHAPTER FOUR

PRESENT DAY

June 24th

Mama Umma had just finished her subhi prayer(early morning prayer). She had heard Ahmad leave for prayer because she was already awake. He normally greets her after he returns from the mosque.

She was sitting quietly on her prayer mat whispering her supplications when she heard somewhat of a baby's quiet cry. She turned to look at her granddaughter Habiba who she had left sleeping on the queen sized bed they both shared. Her curly brown hair was all over the place. She had a head full of hair, just like her mother. The baby's cry lasted only for a few seconds as she moved her head and smacked her lips settling into a peaceful slumber once again.

Poor thing, Mama Umma thought as she turned her head away from the bed. It was around five fifty in the morning and she had just completed her prayers.

Mama Umma could not continue her supplication, something deep and hollow sat at the bottom of her heart. She felt very sad for Habiba. Being alone with no motherly love and guidance was one of the greatest ordeals. A mother's place could rarely be taken by anyone, and it left a gaping hole that could never be filled.

Mama Umma sighed as she thought of how cruel life could be. She thought of all the suffering she herself had to endure in her life.

She remembered all too well how it took her five years of struggle and humiliation to give birth to Ahmad's older brother, Shakir. How before that her husband had gone ahead to marry another woman just three years after her own wedding day. Her husband, Mustapha Yazar didn't even honor her by telling her the news himself, she found out three days before her husbands wedding day from somebody else.

She remembered the day her co wife gave birth and the day she had to attend the naming ceremony. It was one of her worst days, having to smile and congratulate Zuwaira, her co wife. How she had to hold the baby girl in her arms to prove to prying eyes that she was indeed happy for the new mother. She had celebrated with them whilst she mourned inside.

As they laughed and ate, she cried and died. To her, the gathering was nothing but a funeral, to bury all the parts of her that had hoped there was a dawn waiting in enerst to save her.

As Hajiya Umma looked down on baby Fatima’s face, she saw how the baby resembled her father, and in that moment baby Fatima wrapper her tiny fingers around Mama Umma’s thumb. That little action was all it took for her heart to finally crumble, and a single tear fell from her eyes.

Giving birth to Shakir, her first son was the best day of her life. It was proof that she could like any woman birth a life. She wasn’t useless, she wasn’t an empty purposeless barrel like her laundry man called her after she sacked him for stealing her clothes. She had named him thankful, because she really was grateful to God, he had listened to her and accepted her most persistent prayer. Finally it was her turn to be accepted, to matter.

If only she had known how it all would turn out, if only she had known life wasn’t so giving. So good. She wondered if she would’ve changed the events of Shakirs birth. If she had known the kind of child he’ll become, would she have let him into the world?

A brief flash of a pregnant woman intentionally falling of a flight of stairs flashed before her eyes. Astaghfirullah (God forgive me) she said as she shook her head. A child was his mother’s child, and she would have never done it, even if she had known what he’ll turn out to be. After all a mothers love was the one thing that was unbeatable, unconditional.

The bad luck seemed to have followed even her favorite child, just when his life was getting better he lost the love of his life.

Mama Umma heard Ahmad’s movement as he closed the door, he was back from the mosque. She got up and folded her prayer mat. Life might have been unfair to her family, but she prayed with all her heart that life would be good to her granddaughter.

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