LIFE OF A MUSLIM BLACK MELANIN

The theif

Chapter One: The Thief

*(Rahma's POV)*

I hid inside the kitchen, hoping and praying to God that they wouldn't find me. I sat in a corner, attempting to stop my tears, but it was futile. They streamed down my cheeks endlessly in a meandering flow. The kitchen was dark; the lights were off, providing a temporary sanctuary. My body shook vigorously as I called upon Allah to protect me. My life has never been beautiful, far from the easy existence others enjoyed. Each day was torture, and the nights were even graver. I had no knowledge of my real parents – whether they were alive or dead. All I knew was that I was a lonely, abandoned, cursed black Melanin, and someday, I was determined to change that.

I sat there, trying to calm my racing heart. My tears had dried up, and I felt uncomfortable due to the bruise on my skin. My cheeks stung from the unexpected slap I received minutes ago. Well, who was I kidding? The slap was entirely expected; it had become a norm in my life – beatings, insults, accusations of theft, and disgrace. My eyelids felt heavy, and just as I was about to succumb to the peaceful darkness, the kitchen door banged open, revealing the demon in disguise of a human.

I looked at the woman who adopted me when I was five. Initially, I was happy to leave the orphanage, but the moment I stepped into this house, I regretted ever existing. I might have considered suicide if not for the fact that it's forbidden in my religion.

"You thief! Did you really think you could run away from me in my own house?" Mrs. Monroe's anger was evident on her face. Yes, you guessed it – I'm a black Muslim girl living with Christians. Practising my religion in this house wasn't easy. Practising anything I loved was close to impossible as long as I lived here. I still wondered why I ended up in the hands of such evil and ruthless people.

*(Here we go again)* I thought, waiting to endure whatever hell was about to befall me. Mrs. Monroe approached, dragging my seventeen-year-old body off the floor. My veil fell off my head while I was trying to run and hide, making my thick black hair visible. An afro, long and curly, the only thing I admired about my body.

"You dark, ugly witch! Tell me where you hid my golden bracelet!" The 41-year-old woman demanded.

"Mom, I swear I didn't steal..." My sentence was cut short by a slap across my left cheek. Could this get any worse? I internally asked myself. Of course, it did. She roughly pushed me to fall on the hard kitchen tiles.

"How many times do I have to tell you never to use your filthy mouth to call me your mom?" She asked, and for a moment, I wondered whose mouth was really filthy – hers or mine. Obviously, it was the former.

She yanked me up from the floor and pulled me out of the kitchen toward the living room. There stood her two daughters and her handsome 20-year-old son. Her daughters glared at me, Veronica and Margaret, the daughters of the kind-hearted demon that raised me in a brutal way. The two always hated me, just like their mother. At least her son Richard wasn't a pain in the ass, well, not a pain in my ass. Trust me, I get kicked in the ass a lot.

"The sight of you, ugly goat, still disgusts me," Veronica said. *(The feeling is mutual)* I thought to myself, wishing I could say it out loud, but I've received enough slaps for the night. Veronica walked over to me and spat on my face – disgusting, but at this point, I was used to all their maltreatment.

"Now, tell me where you kept my bracelet, Ram." Mrs. Monroe said. Also, my name isn't Ram; it's Rahma, a beautiful name with a beautiful meaning, but brainless people like them can't understand that. I looked at Mrs. Monroe before repeating myself one last time.

"I promise I didn't steal your bracelet. I will never do such a thing," I said, meaning every word. She was about to slap me again, but Richard stopped her.

"It's okay, Mom. She keeps denying it, so maybe she didn't steal it. Just forget about the bracelet; I'll buy you a new one." (Phew, that was close), I thought, silently releasing the breath I had no idea I was holding.

Mrs. Monroe looked at her son, speaking languages with her eyes before dropping my body to the floor.

"Don't sleep in the kitchen tonight. Either sleep in the backyard, or the visitor's toilet, or the backroom store. I don't want you getting my kitchen dirty with your filthy body." *(Oh, how generous of her to give me options)," I sarcastically thought, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

She finally left me, making her way toward the stairs to her grand master room. Her daughters walked off toward their own room

How did a black girl like me end up in a house filled with whites? And how is the life of a Black Muslimah? Trust me; it's not the best, at least in my own opinion. Oh, yeah, you're also wondering how my social life is. Well, although Mrs. Monroe doesn't treat me well. At least she sends me to school. You'll be surprised if I tell you that I'm popular; well, I am popular in a bad way. I have really dark, shining skin with a lot of marks and bruises all over my legs and my back. You might have guessed how I got them. Well, I used to believe that I was pretty when I was young because my best friend Sarah always told me that I look like a beautiful black Barbie. Well, she was wrong because ever since I entered this house and this life, I've had a lot of people tell me I am ugly. Even in school, they all give me a disgusting stare, and they are always cautious around me as if I will pull the trigger over their heads when they aren't looking, and they always bully me, which isn't really my problem anymore. It's worse because no one ever stands up for me, not even the teachers. Who am I kidding? Everyone I have met so far in my life HATES black skin, and I just have to be their amazing, outstanding victim.

Well, my life is hard; it has always been, but THEY don't know. They might have broken me, shattered me, abused me, BUT they seem to forget that MY NAME is Rahma, a proud Muslim black Melanin. I believe we all have the power to change our stories for the good or bad, and this is MY story, and one day, it will change for the good, or maybe not. Who knows? Well, I just have to find out.

*Author's Note (A/N):*
Well, Assalamualaikum, people! This is my first book about black Muslims. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope this book helps you see how some blacks live their lives and what black people can really do. Also, don't forget that this book is also in the romance category, so we will definitely meet a handsome bachelor soon. Follow me on IG @toprankingnovels.