ORNAMENTS ✅

Chapter Fifty Three

Casablanca Mohammed V International Airport, Morocco.

2023.

It took a lot of convincing to get Abba and Nini to let him come to Morocco to meet his so-called grandmother. Before finding her, he was full of curiosity and had a million questions. But now, standing here on the soil of Morocco, He doesn't even know what to ask.

The plane landed, and as he descended, he looked around. Here goes nothing. He flagged down a taxi, and the driver dropped him at Sweet Home Airport V—the place Zakir had reserved for him He's also in Casablanca, Morocco.

As he looked at Morocco, he couldn't shake off the feeling that this place is his maternal home. The people here he too has their features, he scoffed at the realization that both Zakir and him are biracial.

Zakir is a mix of Egypt and Morocco while he was Nigerian Moroccan, Are the rest of his cousins biracial too? They could be since their parents accommodate different men.

After hours of rest, Zakir finally arrived, and they headed to the brothel—their grandmother's brothel.

He sighed. He hated being here. It made him cringe. As he walked through the place, his body grew more and more irritated with every step. Why wouldn't he be? If he remembers what's taken place and is still happening in this building over the years—decades.

There were women everywhere, wearing skimpy dresses, dangling anklets, and waist beads. They eyed him like he was fresh prey, making advances, but the look Zakir gave them made it clear that no one dared approach them. Still, by Allah, if any of them touched him, he doesn't know what would happen—He was on the verge of throwing up his intestines.

They moved deeper into the building, into the room that was supposedly his grandmother's. She sat on her bed, wearing a Moroccan jellaba, jewelry from head to toe. Her face instantly brightened when she saw Zakir and him.

"Marhabban Hafid, welcome, grandson," she said in Darija, the local language. Zakir, of course, knew how to speak it—he grew up in Morocco.

Hearing her call him "Grandson" felt like an insult. Don't get him wrong—He doesn't even know why he hated her so much. She had four children, none of them by the same father. Not his mom, not Zakir's mom, nor the other two daughters she had. She gestured to a mat, and they sat down as a young girl brought water, fruits, and drinks.

"I can't believe you're a son to our Amimar," His grandmother said, grinning.

"You don't look like you're about to die," He said, facing her.

"I was sick. In fact, I'm still sick."

"Doesn't look like it."

"—Teta" Zakir chirmed in. "I'll leave the two of you to talk. I'll be outside," Zakir concluded his gaze shifting to the girls in the room. They seemed to understand—he meant they should give them privacy .

"Nabeel," His Grandmother called. "Your mother didn't like this life. She protested every day that prostitution wasn't for her. No, she wouldn't do it."

"One day, she stole a valuable jewel from a man so she could sell it and run away. That's how she ended up in a detention center. And from there, she escaped. Never to be found by us again." She continued.

"Amimar... she didn't look for us. Ever again." She concluded

"So, you have four daughters. Don't you think it's time to leave this life behind?" He shot back. "My mother and Zakir's mom are both gone. And as you said, you're going soon. What have you ever accomplished, except ruining girls' lives and encouraging this?"