Barakah

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The haunting was no longer the past she saw in his gaze. The haunting is what she cannot miss in them. That her very personal grief was not so lone. Once, he had called them binary stars. Bound perpetually to be the most aware—recognized to the other. How comforting to be so seen. How awful to be so despicably, hideously seen.

-Barakah Amal,
From the distant future.

6/10/2024.

Barakah

The kochi dress on her daughter is a myriad of different vibrant colors. Munah is being passed back and forth amongst relatives. The pleasantness in the air is copious, jubilant. One that is only common to kinship. She sees her father embrace Munah. He has reached the phase of old age that is affectionate. Barakah isn't surprised when he squeezes the girl's cheek.

"Danejo am." He says.

The aunties are singing in Pashto from a side of the house. There's the blended fragrance of spice and turare. It is familiar as her childhood. It is one of those rare days Barakah Amal feels fervid for a heritage she did not really exemplify through her life. Then, she had never really been a traditionalist for either pashtunwali or pulaku.

Having left home so green. And having lived in a country where culture altered with life. She had realized it wasn't so much of a bedrock as much as it was a vestige after a collection of time. Just two generations before her were Afghans. Now, her tongue was not theirs and neither was it that of the northern people of Nigeria. Her intonation was decidedly the twang of westerners.

She could not speak Pashto. She did not trademark the pale skin of her aunts, the waves or straightness of their hair. There would be indications here and there. The honey of her eyes. The shiny loose curls of her hair. The profile of her face sometimes at certain angles. And her daughter, Munah did not favor Barakah in any way. She was cut from her father and his family. So much so that she bore more resemblance to Asma'u than Barakah.

She was however, satisfied with the unity it bought. With the family it grounded. Just as now. Her hands were being beautified with a style of Moroccan red henna.

"That boy is clingy." Farouk is situated at her side. His hand wrapped around her elbow.

"He gets shy around girls and women." Bara'a says to the circle of young girls and women.

"Or the one particular girl that's been trying for his attention." Ameenah snickers, "She doesn't know she's older than him."

Laughter fills the space. Farouk is burying his head even deeper into her shawl. He was positively tall for his age.

"Does my boy like her?" Barakah glances at the girl, she couldn't be more than seven. A niece or cousin from the folk.

"Stop mammy." He's almost whining his embarrassment and that only cajoles more laughter out of her. Where Munah was her sun child, Farouk was reserved as the many phases of the moon. Only ever full in their home. He was never fond of being apart from either her or his father at gatherings. And he was always content with playing with Munah or keeping an eye on her. He was her sweet boy.

"If you tell me, I'll talk to her mammy." She nudges his side.

He faces her with an almost enduring look and tells her that he thinks girls are icky. That when his father is old and frail, he'll take her away and they'll live together. She asks him about Munah and he considers her question for a moment before shrewdly looking at her to say: Munah will take care of Abba.