𝓜𝔂 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂, 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮

10# HOTELS AND BIRDS

HERA PALACE HOTEL,
ABUJA.
DECEMBER, 2020.

By the time the birds had come around that morning, settling on the branch just outside the window of room 4D, there was yet another visitor.

The birds had stories to tell, if only humans would comprehend.

They'd seen a whole array of people in that room. From senators hiding in the bossom of their escorts from task forces, on account of their laundering money, to shy brides losing all shyness sometime into the night, to boring families that just wanted to spend the night before going on their precious way.

They'd seen it all.

What they hadn't seen, however, was Jamilah Abubakr.

For one, she was the most beautiful person to have ever stepped foot in the room. A blessed sight from years of seeing pot bellied, ugly politicians and brides with several layers of make-up.

Another thing that struck them about the female was the way she slept.

She stuck to one corner of the bed, curled tightly into a tiny ball.

She looked tired, exhausted even. But more than that, she looked sad.

Even in her statel
of slumber, her lips were set in the shape of a frown, the sides of her eyes crinkled slightly in a way that would cause whoever stared at her to feel sorry for her.

And then she opened her eyes.

And the birds could swear they'd never seen a more wondrous sight. Not even their tree with all its plump, red fruit and sweet, sweet nectar. Not even with its lush green leaves and smooth bark, nor the nests. None of it could compare to the lady.

And that was saying something, seeing as they had the biggest, most beautiful tree, located in the best part of the hotel.

***

Jamilah stirred from her sleep, not quite recollecting what she'd been dreaming about.

There was a man, like in most of her other dreams, and there was a canvas, and a paintbrush like in the others too.

She'd had the same dream over and over again, and each time, she forgot what it was she'd dreamt of. After several months of the same dream, she'd still only managed to confirm the existence of a paint brush, a canvas and that there was a man she couldn't even picture.

If frustrated her more than she'd like to admit, but she was learning to cope with it. She'd regained a bit of her memories, a few snippets here and there, she'd learnt to read too, and found that pronouncing the really big words had become easy once she got the basics out of the way.

She'd started trying to learn Arabic too, but seeing how Bola couldn't help out with that part of it, she was kind of stuck there.

But she didn't stop trying, she'd pick up her Qur'an, trying to articulate the words, but she never could get them right.

Again, she'd learnt to cope with the frustration, reminding herself that it wasn't her fault and that she was doing her best.

It just got a little too much for her sometimes.

Loud chirpings from her right pulled her out of her thoughts.

There was a wide window to her right, deep red curtains pulled to either side of the frame.

The light that streamed in wasn't bright, just soft morning sunlight that looked like it'd feel nice on her skin.

And of course, who was she to deny her skin that pleasure.