The Ineligible

Chapter 1; Plot.

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
Present!

Malika

"Guess what?" Zahra's voice carried through the house as she walked into the sitting room, the space typically claimed by the girls of our family. "Daddy's friend, the one who mistook Malika for a maid, is here, and he brought his son. Boy, ain't he dreamy?"

Her words made Adila choke on the food she was eating, and Bushra, our older cousin, couldn't help but smile, her lips twitching as it slowly dawned on her why Adila had been insisting on doing her fieldwork at the same company where their father worked.

"I wouldn't blame him, though," Adila said, recovering quickly, but her voice had a biting edge. "She does kinda look like a maid and not an Al Balawi. I mean, there are a bit too many reasons to pass her off as one!"

She said it with a smirk, trying her best to look unaffected by the mention of the mysterious man sitting with his father and theirs in the parlor, though the tension in her voice suggested otherwise.

"Right?!" Zahra said, her voice full of excitement, much to Bushra's disbelief.

"Can you two stop?" Bushra asked, giving them both a pointed look, her eyes darting between them.

"I think it's the shape of her body!" Zahra chimed in.

"Nah, I think it's the color of her skin!" Adila countered.

"Could be the clothes she wears, too!" Zahra added with a grin.

"Or the nose! It's always the nose!" Adila laughed.

"Hair, too! Trust me, it must be the hair!" Zahra insisted, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Having had enough of their banter, Bushra stood up and shooed them out of the room. Zahra and Adila ran out giggling like children, sticking their tongues out at her as they went. Bushra turned to face me, a look of disbelief etched on her face. She strode lazily toward me, sat beside me on the prayer mat where I was still sitting, and let out a loud exclamation.

"I'm sorry about them," she said softly.

I shrugged, not particularly bothered. "It's okay. Do you need to pray?" I asked, hoping to change the subject. Because, really, it was fine. I'd lived with Adila for 25 years and Zahra for 20. I knew them like the lines in the palm of my hand. They were like those loud, yappy dogs—bark a lot, but harmless.

She shook her head. "It's that time of the month for me," she said with a soft chuckle.

I smiled at her and returned to my Tasbih, continuing with my usual dhikirs.

"Malika," Bushra said, nudging me lightly. I frowned, a little annoyed at the interruption. If she wasn't going to pray, why couldn't she leave me to my peace?

"Does aunt Fiya know? That they say these things?" She asks looking at me in the eyes.

I don't answer as I continue whispering my dhikirs, I just wave her off. I hear her murmur a small apology before she stands up and leave the room.

Why was she sorry? I wonder to myself. I have been called worse.

Abidi!

Sudi!

Mswahili!

It wasn't only Zahra and Adila calling me these names but most of our family members. There wasn't one person who did not acknowledge how different i was from the rest of our family. There were days that guests would mistake me for the house help, ie; Ami's friend.