Barakah

- Naming

10/10/2021.

. . . . . . . .

Barakah

It struck her while giving the house an eyeful look. A lot had changed in the span of just six months. At one time, the house was a steel gray embellished with an evergreen greenery that glared so beautifully like jewels.

Now it was a creamy appearing domicile with a fresh pack of Honey Dijon Roses that glared fittingly with the new ambiance of warmness that totally carried Abdallah Ali Babai's home.

Barakah had a sneaking suspicion that he had finally taken her advice on a debate she'd delivered to him over a year ago on one chilly, frosty dead winter night about how much his house resembled a bewailing statue rather than the snugness it truly was on the inside.

"That is why we never judge a book by its cover. I suppose, you would know better considering you read your youth away." He'd remarked with an uneasy smile. An edge of hopelessness at the far end of his tone.

"I don't even read enough," Revolting against his ideas of her doing more with her youth than just idly reading novels, "Aside from physically looking like him, you only ever remind me of my father when you're stubborn."

She held her cup of tea tight in the embrace of her palms. It was her youth to do as she pleased with it. Barakah was honestly starting to tire from his earnest expression of utter disapproval about her lifestyle.

Her uncle was an exaggerator in more than one ways. In the way he exaggerated words, he loved to exaggerate life. He lived life like everything and all else was possible. He lived like joy and happiness were eternal. He lived like pain and hardships were nonsensical believes and all could be conquered.

"Bonne niut ma fille chérie, Amal." He'd sweetly said after her retreating figure towards the junction of her room.

"So annoying." She'd tsked about him shutting her door. He'd just returned from a trip to France a couple days ago and alongside the arsenal of gifts he'd bought for his wife and her, he'd also polished his French and made no hesitations to remind them he was a lover of the Romance Language.

She breathed in air, deeply. Pulling out her phone to check her face one last time. The little bits of stubborn hair she had pulled back into a bun under her scarf had disastrously ate her forehead once again. Her eyes were ill looking and the pinkness of her nose would tell enough that she was having it rough.

"I'm sure the moment my eyes set on little Mubarak, my happiness will bring health back to my face." She'd expressed herself breathlessly to a clueless Farouk.

Finally raising her hand to knock when the door propels open and she's face to face with a happy man. A new father. Of course, the swell-ness of her chest had doubled over even more. It was as if she could feel her heart all the way up her throat. But something else chilled a bit of her happiness with scanty drops of resentment.

Here her uncle was, happy and appearing to have even dropped a few years of his gathering age with how boyish he was looking. Dropping her good arm back to her side, Barakah felt as if she had aged by a decade at her view of him. She was hateful, he was happy.

"Now, you don't look well." He looked into her eyes for nothing longer than a quick moment before looking away, "I've been expecting you Amal. Took you long enough. I was just about to head out looking for you. Silly woman."