DAULAH

A Very Wrong Moment

Cheers to new beginnings, fresh starts, and beautiful possibilities! As we step into the new year, let's leave behind the regrets and mistakes of the past and embrace the future with positivity and hope. With a renewed sense of optimism, let's strive to live each day to the fullest and create the life we've always dreamed of. Happy New Year, and here's to making 2024 a year to remember!

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MUKHTAR

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I don't believe there's a woman who can beat my cooking. I thought, taking pride in the first bite of my pasta-turned-stir-fry, relishing the burst of flavors on my tongue.

I love food. Not just any food, but good, fantastic, fabulous, and mouthwatering food. Living alone for years with a discerning taste has led me to learn how to prepare what I want, exactly how I want it, making me exceptionally skilled.

My phone rings beside my plate, interrupting my good moment. It is an unknown number, and I have lost the right to be skeptical about unknown numbers because it could be anyone, a customer, a client, or a reason that should call for skepticism.

"Assalamu alaikum," I greet.
silence lingers on the other end before the voice I'd always recognize answers.

"Wa alaikum salam,"

It is the latter, a reason that calls for skepticism. I close my eyes partly in regret, and guilty for feeling so.

"MK?" She calls in a low tone like she isn't certain. Not of the person she called, but the call itself.

I force a smile like she can see me. "Ammah. How are you doing?" I ask, my voice lacking confidence.

"Do I seriously need to call you with another line for you to pick up my call MK? Is that how much you are determined to cut us out of your life?" Her voice though low, reasonates with pain, echoing loudly in my heart.

"Don't say that, Ammah?" I utter weakly, lacking words to refute her accusation.

"What happened, MK? I just need an explanation because, no matter how I try to brush you off, I can't. It doesn't make sense. I understand your issues with Baba and maybe with Mummy, but what about us? We're your sisters. We used to talk every day when you were away, and now you have no desire to talk to us at all. Why are you doing this? Why cut us out when we've only shown you love?"

What is worse than her words cutting deep is I have no response for them. So I remain quiet, and when she realizes I don't, she takes a long breath. One that signals her impending final note.

"Maamah had surgery yesterday, she suffered appendicitis. Just like you do with us, now she doesn't want to speak to you as well; she won't allow me to mention you. I believe you've broken her heart too much. Come home and see her, MK. There might be a chance for forgiveness if you do. Come home."

With that, she concludes the call, the emphasis on her final words indicating this is the opportunity for me to rectify my wrongs.

For a moment, I ponder the offer, contemplating a return home for them. However, the thought is swiftly followed by the realization of its consequences. My veins feel ablaze, my flesh burning, breath choking my throat. I clutch my neck, attempting to release the sensation, but it persists, threatening to keep me alive only to subject me to repeated agony. Seeking mercy, I abandon the idea, and my breaths come out forcefully, the fiery sensation receding to warmth, and myself is given back to me.