The Ineligible

Chapter 1; Plot.

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
Present!

Malika

"Guess what?" That man, daddy's friend who confused Malika for a maid is here and he brought his son. Boy! Ain't he dreamy." Zahra mused as she walked inside the sitting room that was most likely to be occupied by the girls of our house.

What she said made Adila to instantly choke on the food she was eating and Bushra, our older cousin sister couldn't help but smile really hard, trying her very best not to laugh as it slowly dawned on her as to why Adila had been continuously insisting on doing her field work at the same company their Baba was working for.

"I really wouldn't blame him though; she does kinda look like a maid and not an Al Balawi! I mean there are a bit of way too many reasons to pass her off as one!" Adila said, quickly trying to look like the mention of the presence of the mysterious man sitting with his father and her baba in our parlor didn't affect her.

"Right?!" says Zahra much to Bushra's utter disbelief.

"Can you two stop?" She asked eyeing them in turns

"I think it's the shape of her body!"

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

"Could be the clothes she wears too!"

"Or the nose! It's always the nose!"

"Hair too! Trust me, it must be the hair!"

Having being done with them, Bushra stood up and shooed them out the room, Zahra and Adila ran out of the room giggling like little kids and sticking their tongues out at her. She turned around to face me with nothing but a look of disbelief etched all over her face, she somewhat loudly exclaimed as she strode lazily towards where I was, she reached and sat next to me on the prayer mat I was still sitting on.

"I am sorry about them." She said softly.

I shrugged. "It's okay, do you need to pray?" I try to change the subject. Because really it was okay. I have lived with Adila for 25 years and Zahra 20. I know them like I know the lines in palm of my hand. They are like those white people house dogs, they bark much and harm less.

She shook her head no, "It's that time of the month for me." She said with a chuckle.

I smile at her and went back to my Tasbih, continuing with my usual dhikirs.

"Malika," Bushra pushes me slightly, I look at her with a frown on my face, she was now disturbing me. If she's not going to pray she should leave me.

"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.

My skin isn't fair like that of my cousins, sisters and brothers. My hair isn't long and as soft too. I have curly heavy hair that is very hard to maintain. I do not have the pointy perfect nose but a button small rounded one and honestly speaking, I don't like it one bit, if I had a way; I would Michael Jackson myself all the way through.