Inside the room, Rahama picked up her Qur’an and sat beside her sister on their thin foam mattress.
Softly, she said,
“Yaya Hajara, for the love of the Prophet, please obey.”
Hajara sat up angrily.
“Wallahi if you mention marriage to me again, I will break your head! Idiot! If you want him, go and marry him yourself!”
“Haba yaya, how can I marry while you are still at home? There’s a five-year gap between us. You are the one who should marry now. You’re not getting younger.”
Hajara flung a cream container at her. Rahama dodged and hugged her Qur’an tighter.
“Your mother is the one aging, not me! Foolish girl! Your mother’s daughter who drinks kunu and cold water!”
“Me, with my class and education, lower myself to marry a cripple? Never! Even if his father is rich, I won’t marry him. Their wealth is nothing—who even knows them in this town? My husband is coming! You’ll all be surprised when he arrives in his car, clearing the street!”
Rahama simply stared at her. She knew there was no wisdom in arguing. She opened her Qur’an and began reciting calmly.
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