She was not one of those that prayed for the war to end soon. She wanted it prolonged. Her tweets and Facebook posts said so for they were ladened with various shades of satirical remarks against the government. Her sarcasms also never lacked grace. They were always nicely baked and smoking hot, straight from Hate's oven. Her intention was to start an online war. To make her words fight battles her hands could not. Her name was Hadiza.
She was not your everyday girl and for a twenty five year old, she had ridiculous choices of pleasures. Her triangular day would often begin in the mosque beside the children's playground, continue in the community library and end at home. On cold nights, she would be caught hanging around cemeteries, under a full moon with a torch in hand, reading epitaphs and making memoirs by the graveside. Her collection of horror movies gave her a sense of sweet satisfaction and she admired them every morning as she would a shelf full of trophies. They were priceless. She was nobody's 'buddy', but kept a pet rodent in her living room so she wouldn't have to stink of solitude.
The librarian took note of 'the Lady with flowing hijab' and her awkward demands. She was the damsel who didn't always read the latest because her requests were usually out of stock; almost 'extinct'. She was the belle who rarely talked but was sure to always reply a compliment with a radiant smile, revealing the space between her upper incisors. It was her way of saying to concerned folks that she was fine, still sane, still hanging in there. Her crazy mystique had people loving and dreading her at the same time. It was unexplainable.
As the war sustained, so did her hate. She knew she loved the rebels and so stood with them, for they were the real heroes. They hated what she hated- the government, the 21st century, the unbeliever, and injustice. When the rebels finally invaded the community and razed the library, she began to use the mosque and there she studied the Intifadas, Aristotelian logic and Jannah.
Yesterday, while the sun scourched the hell out of men, she drove a rickety car towards the community market where humans outnumbered the pigeons that littered the area. There, she laid to rest her grievances. For some minutes, the earth stood still when she punched that button with sweaty palms. The birds flew and so did her ligaments.
"Her sarcasms also never lacked grace. They were always nicely baked and smoking hot, straight from Hate's oven."ReplyDelete
Well written, well written.