I held Ammah with difficulty; she was holding a metal cane given to her at the hospital. I helped her to the floor where she sat and leaned her back against the wall. When she finished, she called me back and I asked, “Ammah, should I support you?” She laughed and said thanks. “Did the doctor tell you anything?” I asked as I took a few steps. I smiled, which made the small white gaps in my teeth show; my dimple appeared and she squeezed me and we went out together.

At that time my younger sisters, Meenat and Ma’eeshah, went out dressed for Islamic school. They looked neat and tidy; their clothes were freshly washed. It made me happy — I wished I could also go like that every day but I rarely get the chance. Alhamdulillah, since my younger sisters now go, it’s not a problem. Ammah looked at me with sympathy and said, “Mufeeda?” I snapped back from my thoughts with a forced smile and said, “Ammah, rest. Let me finish my work; I’ll go and buy some milk sweets. You see, tomorrow morning, kosai (fried bean dough) will also be waiting. But I think selling awara is more profitable.” Ammah said, “This week they’ll give polio vaccines and they’ll bring children for vaccination.” Mufeeda said, “Oh Ammah, life is not easy — I get angry at rich people in the GRA (government residential area). They belittle us and make us struggle. Some houses are so guarded by security that it’s difficult to enter; the work goes on.”

I continued my work and chatted with Ammah, my mother. I cleaned the house and lit some perfume despite the house’s condition — cleanliness is something we don’t hide; God made cleanliness for us so no filth is found in our home. I cooked dried okra soup and prepared corn fufu, placed them in an old cooler. I bathed and dressed in a neat blue blouse with white stripes and a brown skirt; I put powder and Vaseline on my lips and wore a sleeve-length hijab that reached past my knees. I said to Ammah I would go buy the supplies then come back and start frying the awara at night since maghrib (sunset prayer) would come soon. She smiled widely and told me to return safely.

“Ameen,” I said and left, playing with the money in my hand as I walked down our street. I walked a long way to a small market where they sell food items and fruits — where I always buy my kosai beans and other trading supplies. Everyone there was familiar with me because I come every day. I paid and gathered everything I needed, put them into a large jute sack that I could barely lift, and I walked slowly, panting. An old man said, “Girl, bring it, put it on your head so it will be easier.” I smiled and thanked him and continued on with difficulty. After some distance I reached a street with the big houses of the wealthy — the GRA. I always pass this way because in my work we often go for compulsory polio vaccinations and we need permission to enter; sometimes neighborhood leaders or police must allow entry for the job.

Several cars — at least eight — were parked in a row, roaring and revving like they would take off, and they were the first time I’d seen anything like it. They parked in front of the most beautiful house in the street. I watched and admired God’s power.

Soon soldiers came out of other vehicles and surrounded a very famous and expensive car. An old man came out wearing white and he spoke proudly — money had evidently changed him. Nearby another famous young man came out quickly, also proud and with honor. He looked like an Arab or a foreigner; everything about him was bright and handsome. I thought his presence outshone the others — I felt ashamed, especially how he looked at the entrance and showed no welcome for an Almajirai (a street/ itinerant Qur’anic student or poor child).

The young man looked no older than 35. His hair and haircut were attractive and charming; his eyes were open, I don’t know when I said “wow” in my heart — his eyes were like milk in some gentle closure, and his face seemed to glow. He had a small mustache and a well-kept beard that beautified his face and a very fine nose — not too sharp. His mouth — masha’Allah — had pink lips. Though my own lips were red, his seemed more beautiful. I felt a little darkness toward him, as if wealth and money had possessed him. He wore brown pencil jeans, a pale top, and a brown jacket over it, and white half-cover flat shoes. He was neither very short nor very tall, not fat nor skinny — just fine. Masha’Allah, he looked like someone from a dream, like a spirit.