It was a very large compound filled with attractive plants and trees. The moment you looked at the courtyard, you could tell money lived there. The wide compound was divided into three sections painted the same color, with a long distance separating each section from the other.
The first section—the one you encounter immediately after entering through the main gate—was the largest of them all. It was a very big duplex with a spacious parking area by the side.
Kneeling beside a tap in this first section was a fair-skinned young girl who could not be more than eighteen years old. Although she was kneeling, it was obvious she was tall. Water from the tap was flowing into a bucket she was filling, and she kept rubbing a pair of socks in her hands as if pitying them. Vests, caps, and three pairs of socks were the clothes she was washing there, and she had been at it for almost an hour.
When she heard the entrance door open, she froze instantly. Her eyes widened in fear because, to her knowledge, there was no one in that section except her. All the occupants had gone to a wedding, and she had seen them leave. If they were around, she knew she would never dare come there to wash clothes.
She slowly turned to see who had come out. It was a very tall young man, not more than thirty-three years old, standing right at the entrance, wearing a milk-colored jalabiya. She lowered her head and continued washing. Calmly, he folded his arms and said, “You.”
She turned to look at him, almost in tears. He asked, “What brought you here to wash?”
She opened her big eyes and replied, “Our tap got spoiled yesterday and—”
He cut her off sharply. “Get up and leave this place.”
“But I’m almost done,” she said.
Raising his voice slightly, he said strictly, “Pack your things and leave here before I get to where you are.”
She lowered her head, pouted, stood up, poured out all the water, gathered the buckets together, put the washed clothes inside, and carried everything away, leaving without looking back. After she had gone a distance, she twisted her mouth and muttered softly, “Allah is sufficient.”
She stopped at the second section, which was a large combined bungalow with its own parking space that could take three cars. She looked at the remaining clothes she hadn’t finished washing, almost crying, wondering what she would do with them. If her mother, Ammi, noticed she hadn’t finished, she would scold her. She looked toward the last section, knowing it wasn’t certain the owner there would allow her to use the tap. Still, she moved toward the last section.
That section was also a bungalow, though smaller and differently designed. She gently placed her buckets beside the tap opposite the parlor entrance, stealing glances at the door. Carefully, she opened the tap so the water wouldn’t make noise, positioned the bucket so it wouldn’t splash, and continued washing. Suddenly her heart skipped when she heard footsteps; she thought it was the owner. It was the same man from earlier approaching. She avoided eye contact and kept washing. He didn’t look at her either and hadn’t entered the parlor when they heard an elderly woman’s voice saying, “Why do I feel like someone is touching my pump here?”
She quickly turned off the tap and was about to grab her things and run when the old woman appeared. Opening her mouth wide, she stared at her and said, “Who is this? What are you doing near my pump?”
The girl pouted. “Our tap is spoiled…”
The old woman cut her off. “Did I spoil it for you?”
The girl replied, “Didn’t you tell me earlier to come and fetch water for you to take to the bathroom? That’s why I came.”
The woman glared at her. “You? You think you’re the one I would ask to fetch water? My name isn’t Aisha. Don’t try me in this house. My water is not free—don’t ever come here again. You spoiled yours and want to spoil mine out of wickedness? It’s your mother that will fetch water for me if my tank finishes. I won’t leave my pump and let diseases catch me. You, Bukar’s daughter, are very wicked.”
The girl stood there almost crying. The woman shouted, “Take my water and pour it into the bathroom, or should I call Bukar right now?”
The girl quickly carried the water inside. The old woman locked the tap and muttered, “Better I stop it than let people keep taking my water.”
Inside the parlor, the old woman saw a young man sitting on a chair pressing his phone. Angry, she continued cleaning and said, “You’ve come back to finish the mess you didn’t complete yesterday. Anyone you did yesterday wasn’t enough for you. I don’t care—leave my parlor. I’m not a free servant today.”
He didn’t respond, just kept pressing his phone. After a while he stood up and said, “Abba asked me to come and apologize to you,” and he walked out angrily.
Later that evening, Imaan was called by her father, scolded, and broke down crying. Confused and hurt, she ran to the old woman’s section, crying uncontrollably. The old woman confronted her parents angrily, defending her and warning them never to insult her granddaughter again. The tension in the family grew worse.
That night, after more accusations, Imaan was forced to return an item the old woman accused her of stealing. Humiliated and heartbroken, she went back to her room, locked the door, lay down, and cried silently, pouting in pain.
It was a very large compound filled with attractive plants and trees. The moment you looked at the courtyard, you could tell money lived there. The wide compound was divided into three sections painted the same color, with a long distance separating each section from the other.
The first section—the one you encounter immediately after entering through the main gate—was the largest of them all. It was a very big duplex with a spacious parking area by the side.
Kneeling beside a tap in this first section was a fair-skinned young girl who could not be more than eighteen years old. Although she was kneeling, it was obvious she was tall. Water from the tap was flowing into a bucket she was filling, and she kept rubbing a pair of socks in her hands as if pitying them. Vests, caps, and three pairs of socks were the clothes she was washing there, and she had been at it for almost an hour.
When she heard the entrance door open, she froze instantly. Her eyes widened in fear because, to her knowledge, there was no one in that section except her. All the occupants had gone to a wedding, and she had seen them leave. If they were around, she knew she would never dare come there to wash clothes.
She slowly turned to see who had come out. It was a very tall young man, not more than thirty-three years old, standing right at the entrance, wearing a milk-colored jalabiya. She lowered her head and continued washing. Calmly, he folded his arms and said, “You.”
She turned to look at him, almost in tears. He asked, “What brought you here to wash?”
She opened her big eyes and replied, “Our tap got spoiled yesterday and—”
He cut her off sharply. “Get up and leave this place.”
“But I’m almost done,” she said.
Raising his voice slightly, he said strictly, “Pack your things and leave here before I get to where you are.”
She lowered her head, pouted, stood up, poured out all the water, gathered the buckets together, put the washed clothes inside, and carried everything away, leaving without looking back. After she had gone a distance, she twisted her mouth and muttered softly, “Allah is sufficient.”
She stopped at the second section, which was a large combined bungalow with its own parking space that could take three cars. She looked at the remaining clothes she hadn’t finished washing, almost crying, wondering what she would do with them. If her mother, Ammi, noticed she hadn’t finished, she would scold her. She looked toward the last section, knowing it wasn’t certain the owner there would allow her to use the tap. Still, she moved toward the last section.
That section was also a bungalow, though smaller and differently designed. She gently placed her buckets beside the tap opposite the parlor entrance, stealing glances at the door. Carefully, she opened the tap so the water wouldn’t make noise, positioned the bucket so it wouldn’t splash, and continued washing. Suddenly her heart skipped when she heard footsteps; she thought it was the owner. It was the same man from earlier approaching. She avoided eye contact and kept washing. He didn’t look at her either and hadn’t entered the parlor when they heard an elderly woman’s voice saying, “Why do I feel like someone is touching my pump here?”
She quickly turned off the tap and was about to grab her things and run when the old woman appeared. Opening her mouth wide, she stared at her and said, “Who is this? What are you doing near my pump?”
The girl pouted. “Our tap is spoiled…”
The old woman cut her off. “Did I spoil it for you?”
The girl replied, “Didn’t you tell me earlier to come and fetch water for you to take to the bathroom? That’s why I came.”
The woman glared at her. “You? You think you’re the one I would ask to fetch water? My name isn’t Aisha. Don’t try me in this house. My water is not free—don’t ever come here again. You spoiled yours and want to spoil mine out of wickedness? It’s your mother that will fetch water for me if my tank finishes. I won’t leave my pump and let diseases catch me. You, Bukar’s daughter, are very wicked.”
The girl stood there almost crying. The woman shouted, “Take my water and pour it into the bathroom, or should I call Bukar right now?”
The girl quickly carried the water inside. The old woman locked the tap and muttered, “Better I stop it than let people keep taking my water.”
Inside the parlor, the old woman saw a young man sitting on a chair pressing his phone. Angry, she continued cleaning and said, “You’ve come back to finish the mess you didn’t complete yesterday. Anyone you did yesterday wasn’t enough for you. I don’t care—leave my parlor. I’m not a free servant today.”
He didn’t respond, just kept pressing his phone. After a while he stood up and said, “Abba asked me to come and apologize to you,” and he walked out angrily.
Later that evening, Imaan was called by her father, scolded, and broke down crying. Confused and hurt, she ran to the old woman’s section, crying uncontrollably. The old woman confronted her parents angrily, defending her and warning them never to insult her granddaughter again. The tension in the family grew worse.
That night, after more accusations, Imaan was forced to return an item the old woman accused her of stealing. Humiliated and heartbroken, she went back to her room, locked the door, lay down, and cried silently, pouting in pain.