YOURS, JANNAH

#FIVE

Jannah curled up in one corner of the acre-wide bed, fuming over her husband and worrying about her daughter until she finally drifted into a fog of oblivion. But there was no peace to be found in the sleep, only a bizzare dream that became increasingly sinister. She blinked her eyes open to pulverize away the past from behind her eyelids, her gaze firm on the frost ceiling aloof.

She stood up from the bed and made her way to the bathroom to perform ablution. It has become a routine for her now waking up in the middle of the night around three in the morning. Same nightmares slithering and gliding through her hypothalamus like a morass.

After she's prayed endlessly for the next hour and still isn't sleepy, she went downstairs to get some things done. It's four in the morning and in an hour or so, the Adhaan will call for Fajr prayer. If she sleeps now, she won't be able to wake up and pray, all thanks to the devil.

She microwaved the fried rice —basmati— she made her husband earlier filled with sausages, chicken as protein and so many other vegetables —carrots, green beans, green pepper, peas, capsicum, onions, corn and chili hot red pepper. All cut in cute brunoise, time consuming in other words.

She turned on the large curved television in the living and sat down with chilled Pepsi beside her, she's been obsessed with it since she married Adnan. And just like that a reality show started playing, one she's started watching in her mother-in-law's place just few days ago of a woman named Fatma Al-Amr, a self made millionaire.

Jannah watched with utter interest because the woman's got this fashion sense that could pass up as Hijabi-long-lost-Hadid sister. She is currently wearing on army green straight skirt, a white button up shirt and wool knitted cardigan on top of it. She's got an opera necklace around her neck that swung down to her mid chest. She tied a matching head tie around her neck in cute turban then a tan trench coat hung by her side. Her feet clad in Nike snow sneakers.

"And this is the house I bought recently in New York. I got tired of Afghanistan and decided to get wild here too in New York City, a rampant change huh? Yeah, I'm looking forward to it..." Fatma Al-Amr kept saying to the camera while walking around the gorgeous house.

By the end of the one hour show, a ruthless, klutzy and prodigious thought had already glissade it's way into her head making it augment from it's intensity. Something barbaric, wild, uncultivated, fierce and savage that overwhelmed her entire being. She shivered at the mere thought of the images that flashed behind her lids, her heart warming up to the idea and her brain? Already jumping to conclusions of how it should be freaking done.

That her pre-frontal cortex!

She prayed Fajr and made breakfast for her daughter because she's already decided to work on this one wild thing for the first time in her life thinking only about herself and her daughter, no one else. If this is what it takes to get everything under control, then she'll do it. She just needs more advise on the boondocks of the city she isn't used to and she's got that one person she could always go to with her problems, her mother-in-law.

Maybe Mallam Sani was right, after all. Sometimes the humble modest ones just don't cut out the real superabundance, they must be agrarian and vicious to cut out the myriad pact with more percentage. And seems like that is just the kind of thing that'll help her tainted days. You live once and life is too short as it is. She's wasted many years already, it's time for work and some action.

She's sat down in the kitchen and browsed all about her husband in her daughters MacBook. She's got a phone, latest one at that but she doesn't know how to use it. The technician that brought the MacBook thought her how she could comb through the net for her daughter's choice of animation if it is not showing in the television so she followed the same way and instead of browsing one of her many cartoons, she went for her husband's name.