Serifa's Comfort [Fiction]

Serifa pulled the black hood of her hijab to cover her ears and partially her face so the specks of sand would not get into her eyes. The breeze stirred wisps of dust into the air in the desert. The fine sand was warm beneath her feet but she kept on walking.

She glanced up at the sun, noting its position in the sky and nodded to herself. She was close to Omar Ahmed's mansion, the well-known casanova in town. Serifa bit down on her wrinkled, dry lips as she remembered the times when she warned her daughter, Adija, to stay away from him. Many girls in her town flocked to Omar's mansion for many reasons.

If only Adija had listened. Maybe she would still be alive. Serifa worked her fingers to the bones to give her son and daughter a decent life after her husband passed away. The little she could afford did not seem enough for Adija.

"Ommi, you don't have to work so hard anymore. Neziha promised me Omar is kind to his workers. He pays well—"

"Does Neziha work for him?"

"That's what Omar's foreman says. Ommi, don't worry. At least a year's wage should make us comfortable. After a year, I'll stop work and we can start trading with my wages."

Her heart was in the right place but Serifa wished Adija did not go to Omar's mansion. A tear trickled down Serifa's wrinkled face as she reminisced on the hope and light in her daughter's eyes that day. It had been a year and seven months since she last glimpsed Adija's beautiful smile.

A message was sent from Omar Ahmed's mansion seven months ago that Adija, her only daughter, died from childbirth complications. Omar was the father of the child. Serifa was inconsolable but she was not granted access to see her daughter or the baby.

Serifa aged fast from the pain and sorrow of waiting every day that maybe Adija would return home. That the message was all a lie. She had no one to fight for her. Her efforts to see the Emir for help were fruitless. The wealthy were indeed powerful in her town.

Another message was sent the day before by the foreman that she can come for her granddaughter as Omar did not care for the child. Serifa wiped the tears off her cheek and trudged onto Omar's mansion.

She met the foreman at the large, black gate and he handed her a seven months old baby dressed in a fine, silk dress. The baby looked exactly like Adija when she was a baby —light, soft skin and curly black hair. The resemblance was striking.

The baby stared at the old woman, raised a tiny hand and patted Serifa's wrinkled cheek. Serifa held the baby to her bosom and sniffed her sweet scent. The embrace lightened her sorrow-laden heart.

"What's her name?" She asked the foreman.

The middle-aged man looked at her pitifully and smiled. "I named her Rahati."

Serifa paused for a moment, her eyes on the baby. "Rahati, my comfort." She repeated. The name was fitting. Adija may be gone but she had Rahati as her comfort.

She strapped the baby to her back and started her journey back to her home.

^{Also posted here}