How To Hate You

chapter 4

"What is wrong with me?"

~•~•~•~

April,
2015

Sameera seldom stops to ponder things. With her, it was always do, move along, and subsequently forget. That's why when she was in Jss 3, her parents chose for her to go to art class. She didn't mind. And when she graduated, they got her enrolled in an elite school to study accounting online. It has all been their choice, not her's. And she had never stopped to speculate.

Two months ago, a beautiful brown-skinned lady had rung her bell. She had smiled at her and baked her a whole casserole of beef stuffed pie. Again, Sameera didn't think twice before inviting her to binge-watch Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire. And ever since then, Sameera's mind was strange and hurling out thoughts. It has been a constant rumble of them, ever since she caught a glimpse of a man standing in the shadows.

Sameera shakes her head. "What is wrong with me?" She mumbled to herself. Then shakes her head again, devoid of any answer to her hapless question. She shakes the duvet off her body, drew her feet across the floor and entered the toilet.

In the toilet, she hears the indistinct click of her mother's stilettos as she moved to and fro, forgetting her car keys, forgetting to kiss her son goodbye, forgetting to tell her daughter she loves her, forgetting she has a life other than work and wearing fancy over-priced dresses. She waits for her to barge into the room, she hears her let out a frustrated sigh.

"Sameeraaaa." She calls. Her mom always draws her name, and she hates it. Sometimes, she thinks naming her was the only choice her mom didn't have the luxury of making. Perhaps she would have gone with something short and precise, like Badr for starters.

"In the restroom." She answers.

"Oh!" She could picture her glancing at the screen of her watch with narrowed eyes. "I'm getting late, heading out now, bye!" She called, already halfway out of the house. Not waiting for a response, like yesterday. Like every other day.

Sameera comes out five minutes later, thoroughly brushed and still in her pajamas. She settles on her reading table, tapped her laptop awake and clicked on Instagram. She stares at the search bar for a few seconds arranging her thoughts. Then quickly, with ten fingers hovering over the keyboard, she types in 'Nabeel'. A bunch of profiles popped up, and she goes through them, clicking on the ones with no profile picture just in case.

After a whole lot of profile clicking in vain, she erased the search and typed in 'Nabil' with an 'i'. A bunch of profiles came up but not the one she was looking for. She pushed her chin on the table and closes her eyes, inhaling deeply.

Then she stands, heads to the kitchen and makes herself a cup of coffee. She kisses Amman goodbye as he heads to school. When she came back and sat back on the chair, she typed with a determined speed. 'Nabeeeel' this time with e's more than necessary. It loads and loads, then pinged with a number of profiles. The one she was searching for was right at the top.

~•~•~•~

On Friday, Ikram dials Sameera's number. She tells her to come over, as quickly as possible. Sameera walks the short distance between the houses with a tight stomach. Ikram's voice rings and rings in her head. How bubbly and relaxed she had sounded, as though they had been friends for two years and not months.

She mustered a smile as Ikram opened the door. She engulfed her in a hug and she pushed her lips to part even farther.

Ikram dragged her to the sofa and she held her hand and it was as though that grin was etched permanently on her face. She let out a sound from the back of her throat before saying. "Guess what?!"

Sameera had no idea what to guess about. It was like being asked 'Tell me about yourself by someone you strongly respected. I am perfectly okay with you not knowing anything about me thank you.

So she lets out a chuckle and looked at her friend-because that was what she was, really- like she was being silly and acting like a child. "I hate guessing." She rolled her eyes. "Just tell me!"

"Okay." Ikram giggled. "Here it is." She giggled some more. "Nabeel and I are now a couple!"

"Oh!" Sameera feels something drop in her stomach. "That's great. When did that happen?" She hates how she was addressing her friend's happiest moment with 'that'. She arranges her face briskly with a smile.

"Yesterday. I thought about it. He's a good guy, and he did mention marriage so that shows how pure his intentions are. But we're not like, getting married tomorrow. I need to get a few things off my radar. You know, packing up, moving, my mom's wedding... so definitely no wedding anytime soon." She finishes talking and Sameera has to nod her head several times to convince her she was listening.

"That's great!" She says again, but even she could hear how fake it sounded. "I'm so happy for you." She added.

"Thank you." Ikram smiled.

"So is that why you called me?" Sameera pushes through the silence.

"Yes." Ikram nods. "That, and I need your help choosing a wedding gift for my mom."

"How about a dress?" Sameera suggests. Her mom would love anyone who buys her a dress as a gift.

"My mom doesn't really like dresses. She's more of a blouse person." Ikram says tapping at her phone. "I was thinking of getting her a frame." She showed Sameera a picture of a canvas painted in black and washes of gold, the name of Allah was calligraphed in the foreground. "This one or..." She swipes to the right. It was another black canvas, but with The Throne Verse in swift swirls of gold against the background. "Or this one." She finishes up, glancing suggestively at Sameera.

Sameera clears her throat. "This one." She points at the current screen.

~•~•~•~

Returning home, Sameera slumped on her bed and buried her face inside the layers of its bedding. She had no excuse to feel what she felt. She hated how sour her heart felt. How yearnful and adamant it was on getting what it wants. But it wants what was prohibited from its clutch, and she should caution it. But she is reminded of the firm voices of her parents, always making every decision for her, always speaking for her as though she possessed no voice of her own.

"It's a good school, you'll go there." They never cared whether she wanted to go there. If they liked it, she will do it.

Yet for once, her thoughts were spiked with the idea of her own choice. Of something she wanted which wasn't enforced by her parent's firm yet subtle conclusions.

So she stood firm on the ground. This once, she was going to be the Sameera who does what she likes. This once, she was going to be selfish.

She clicked on the 'message' icon on his page and typed in, forcefully, a 'Hi' and hit send.

Then she saved all of the twenty-three posts on his profile and tucked them away in a folder named with three large red hearts.