The old truck pulled outside the enormous house. The three floor house was truly big.  With a large zaure(compound), three living rooms, two dining rooms, a prayer room at each floor, and massive bedrooms. Our house was a rathole compared to this.

But I'm content with what I have. No matter how small our home may be, the homey atmosphere is priceless.

I walk-ran inside the house, with Ya Abdul following suit, making sure I entered the house safely.

I met Luba, my cousin, her silver eyes were an amalgamation of happiness and surprise on seeing me. "Halima! Oh its really nice to see you here" she beamed happily, hugging me tightly.

I removed my niqabi and went to Auntie Naazi's room to surprise her, while Ya Abdul sat on the small carpet in the living room.

"Khala!" I called out, standing outside her room 

"Halima jan! Is that you" she spoke, opening the door widely.

Auntie Naazi was the complete duplicate of my mother. Those who didn't know them well always confuse them as twins. From the long black locks, the extremely white skin, the silver orbs, the jaw-dropping smile. Even their body structure

Auntie Naazi and Umma hailed from Afghanistan. From the history I heard, the Bakhtawar family moved to Lagos, Nigeria in 1969. The head of the family, also my paternal grandfather died six months afterwards, leaving a depressed wife, and two daughters.

Umma, being the first child of the family, met Baba, in the year 1971, In Lagos, when baba was sent on a mission, and had instead met his Juliet.

Their love story was very intriguing, Umma already engaged to marry a highly successful young business tycoon back in Afghanistan.

Umma left a 'billionaire' for a one star soldier . Baba didn't have much then. A small inherited farmland, a two bedroom brick apartment and a rusty old car. You could imagine the strong love between them.

The same year both Umma and Auntie Naazi married, the lost their mother to diabetes. It was a hard year for the Afghans sisters.

I have heard the tale of my mother so many times, that I have it memorized. Sometimes, I sit and think about umma. How would it be if she never married baba, or if she never came to Nigeria. Maybe she would have married the politician, and I would have been an afghan.

I greeted her and she kept staring at me, her big black rimmed glasses hanging loose over her nose. Her silver eyes began tearing up. She kissed my knuckles and my cheeks, and I did the same. I sat down next to her sewing machine, and trailed my fingers down the handmade embroidery on the dupatta.

"Oh Halima, you've grown so much...How I wish Fariba was still here.."

I watched as she wiped the tear that had escaped and hugged me tightly. "Welcome dear" she spoke, her voice cracking.

Iftaar was more like a small festival. Almost twelve different cuisines, set up by the two maids who wore identical dress.

The men filled their plates and glasses in the dining room, chatting loudly while filling their tummies, whereas the women settled in a room with a spread out sofrah ate together with their children running up and down.

Arranged on the sofrah was loaves of bread, bowls of qurma, platters of mastawa, skewers of lamb, aush soup with kidney beans and fresh yoghurt.

After the iftaar feast, We prayed isha and the guests retired to their home. I sat in Luba's room upstairs.

The walls in her room, like the rest of the house, had a floral wallpaper that looked new. Carpets were spread out on the cemented floors and thick curtains were put surrounding the area where women stayed. By women, I mean Auntie Naazi, Luba, and the six maids.

Auntie Naazi's husband, Alhaji Tukur Usman ran a small business through the 1970's. He used to buy raw materials like limestone, from ashaka, a small village in Gombe state, and transport them to the southern part of the country where he would sell them at a profitable price. He was a young teenager when he started to export goods from Nigeria to the neighboring countries like Senegal, and Republic of Benin. His business flourished and he is now, indeed, one of the richest exporters in the country.

The curtains were lifted and Luba came in, holding a rabbit. She smiled at me before settling down on the bed beside me.

"Halima jan, it's been long, how's school going on" she asked with her learnt Farsi accent.

We spoke for a while before I mustered courage to ask. "Where's Ya Faqir?"

Fakir Ahmed, an intelligent young man that lives with his widowed mother and siblings across the street in a big mansion. A man with dreams and aspirations. Fakir's family, and the Tukur's have been neighbors for years and, they are now like family.

I could remember the first time we met, a year ago, When I came to spend my Eid with the Tukur's. The very first day we met, he had clearly expressed his wish to marry me. A week later, I had accepted his proposal.

Fakir insisted that he wouldn't send his parents to my place for the formal introduction until he is well settled. I think his excuse is overrated. Maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to marry me.

For the past two months, I haven't heard from him. His letters stopped abruptly. I just hope he is fine, even though I'm a bit angry at him.

"Ya Fakir has travelled, didn't he tell you?"She spoke petting the back of her white rabbit.

"Since when?" I asked surprised.

"Umm...last two months" she said before placing her rabbit on the carpet. "I have something to show you" she squealed jumping a bit before opening a small wooden suitcase and pulling out a small box.

She emptied the contents of the box on the bed. There were so many letters, written in expensive colored paper, and smelled of roses.

"Seems like you have another admirer" I said with a teasing tone.

********

Later at night, I sat cross legged on a carpet, with khala Naazi and Luba. We drank tea from expensive ceramic Chinese teacups. I sipped the tea slowly, holding the cup between my two hand, carefully not to drop it. It sure cost a fortune.

One old habit of Auntie Naazi, is she never misses a cup of green tea every night, even in the hot harmattan weather in Borno. Maybe because she grew up in the cold hills of Herat, and she is still accustomed to her childhood habits.

She started telling us stories of her childhood

"Back then, every Eid, Nana would invite the women of our neighborhood to celebrate. The women would share the work amongst themselves, some would grill lamb outside the house, some would knead doughs of flatbread and bake it by the tandoor. I and Fariba jan, we would sneak into the kitchen and steal berries and Nana would keep scolding us" she stared into the wall as if reliving the moment

"When we were kids, Nana always used to scold me, she said I was the troublesome one, and every time I would sit outside in the cold under a thick neem tree and sulk. Fariba jan, she would feed me my favorite soup. Carrot soup"

"And when we moved here to Nigeria, six months later Abbu jan died of asthma. Fariba was here for Nana and I. And the a year later, Nana died too. It was a hard year for us, but Fariba stood by me, she made me a strong person just as she was. She used to say, Life has trials and storms, taming the storms shows how strong you are"

"When she died..." she paused and wiped her face with a piece of fabric. "When she died, I couldn't sleep for more than twelve days, and when finally I caught sleep, I dreamt of her in a beautiful garden with beautiful things, and she was saying one thing"

"She was saying, Life is like an ocean, bitter and salty, with turbulent storms, untamed storms. But taming that storm, is all about living"

I retired to bed an hour later, after she taught me numbering in Farsi.

And when I closed my eyes and sleep begun to crept, I saw her in that beautiful garden, with white roses on her hair

I knew from that moment on, that my mother was alive, in me.

*******
Glossary:
Jan- dear
Sofrah- table cloth spread on the floor to eat
Qurma- meat dish
Mastawa- Famous dish of Irani cuisine
Farsi- Western Iranian language

*****

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