Crescent Moon : Volume 1 (The Short Story Collection.)

A stranger in his home.

Introduction;
        Out there, under the bright desert skies, I met a man and he told me a story. A story of sacrifice, love and unimaginable persistence. I decided to share his story, his life because probably nobody else ever would. Friend, I wish you all the best in your life and may you finally have many priceless memories in that beautiful palace you call home.
Yours, J.K.W.

A stranger in his home.

    I once met a man. A long way from home, far far away in the lands of sand dunes and desert storms. Here women wore pitch black hijabs and men flourished in brilliant white. This was Arabia, the land of black gold, where unskilled labour paid way more than professional employment in my motherland.

     Thus we worked hard under the scorching desert sun. Our backs ached, our fingers grew numb, and our brows furrowed as salty beads of sweat stinged our weary eyes. After a while we saw it wise to rest our sore limbs under a small make up shed. We drank from dusty recycled pepsi bottles in earnest although the lucid warm water did little to quench our parched throats.

      Then he asked me this. How long had I been working. How long had I endured these fiery foreign lands. I still do remember my answer, seven months, three weeks, two days. Two hundred and thirty six days away from my home country, away from my family, friends and loved ones. You see I was rather proud of this accomplishment, it spoke of my unbreakable will.

His soft rather pitiful laugh had me rethink my milestones. And then this man told me a story of a man and his home.

"I have been away from my kin and country for roughly seventeen years. I have worked all over this planet we call home. Sixty months in Russia, thirty months in South Africa, I did another thirty months in Saudi Arabia, sixty months in Bahrain, twenty months in Dubai and now I am four months here in Qatar."

Up to now legend has it I am still picking my sorry seven months, three week, two days jaw up from the desert floor.

This fete was truly astonishing. The devotion, the patience, the sheer effort it took.

"Haha mudhir , I'm talking to a rich man and I didn't know." I remember laughing.

"Ooh no son, I have not a penny to my name."

Now the larger than life respect that was rightfully due just by the mention of his incredible devotion quickly de-escalated to utter dismay.

"Huh.? , whaaaat.? But why.? I don't understand.?" I stammered

"Oh I built a beautiful house for my entire family."

Then with pride he proceeded to show it to me and Lord was it breath taking. Simply an architectural two-storey wonder. Magnificence.

The huge main gate was pale blue, the colour of the sky on a beautiful morning. The paths leading to the home were intricate against the backdrop a perfectly mowed lawn. Two huge flower vases welcomed you to the front door.

Inside was even more breath taking, its four classical bedrooms each glimmering with the diversity of its occupants, his lovely wife, two beautiful daughters and his proud graceful parents. Family portraits adorned almost every wall and they spoke of a warm, loving family. Happiness.

This was his house, no his home, no his palace fit for a king and with each zoom, with each flick of his phone, he came alive as he explained to me every innate detail of every corner and every room.

Much later on, as all of humanity slept, I took a walk in the cool desert night. I thought of him. I could just only begin to fathom the devotion, the patience, the will, the dogged determination it took him.

Seventeen years. Even jotting this down barely gives it justice. This man gave his all. He held nothing back. Literally his blood, sweat and tears held that home together in all its elegance and glory.

Was it worth it?

To the proud parents maybe. They raised a good man, one who took care of his family through and through. What more could they ask of him?

To his beautiful wife, I'm not sure. He provided for her and their daughters as a man should but did she have a husband? For better or for worse? As the sun slowly set on her life, did he feature in it? As she sat down neath her splendid balcony and watched Lord knows how many beautiful sunsets, as she reminisced on the sweet memories of life, was he there besides her?

And of his two beautiful daughters, again I am unsure.

As I walk under the starry desert sky, I picture him sitted on his thin two inch mattress, squinting at his 'new' android phone, his eyes tired from the unrelenting desert sun as he video calls them. He tries to listen to their teenage drama of what happened at school, of their best friend Laura who is no longer their best friend because she sat next to their crush, of the upcoming school trips, the need for new outfits and in trend shoes because wedges are so last century.

Of course he will promise to send more money for the crucial shopping sprees and of course he will promise to remember the dates for the school trips of which he has already forgotten. Then he will fade off to sleep looking at the thousands of pictures they have sent over the years, smiling to himself at how much they have grown. But his smile is bittersweet because in as much as these pictures are his main source of joy, they are also his main source of anguish as they testify of how he became a stranger in his own home.

I find myself standing still, gazing into the bright, starry desert sky. Thinking about him. Thinking of a man and his home.

I sigh at the stars. I should probably go back to sleep. And I should probably find a cure for my inquisitive mind that is increasingly becoming fond of nightly walks and starry skies.