TWO MOTHERS CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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*Theme songs:
Noak Kahan: False confidence
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ANOTHER LIFE

The interior décor was modest but classy. It was befitting for a man like him; he tried to keep things simple, but wealth wasn’t something easy to hide. He reeked of the home he had come from, but he was independent, and had been able to make something for himself. A cold emanated from inside my chest, but was embraced by the warmth of his home. “Feel at home.” He had said for the umpteenth time, but this wasn’t my home, and no matter how much the warmth embraced me, it only reminded me of how temporary it was.
Everything in life was temporary, nothing remained forever.
My son had a bright look in his eyes as he marveled at the new space. This was all new to him, and unlike me, he was very happy about it. I stood transfixed in time, staring at the walls, this was me for the first time in a very long time letting someone into my life again.
The rain pelting down on the rooftop, and on the concrete sheets outside reminded me of Halimah. Right now, I was wearing her shoes, and Mohammed was taking me in.
I knew I wouldn’t last here, and I wondered if she had the same thoughts back then as well. Did she plan this from the beginning? Did she know she was going to abandon a sick child with me and run away? Just like I am plotting to leave when I get back on my two feet very soon, did she plan the same?
I saw Mohammed move about the house quickly, trying to make what already looked perfect even more perfect for his guests. We might have known each other a very long time, but I stood like a stranger in the middle of his living space. My Son had jumped on him to show him around the house, but I was frozen, I couldn’t move.
When my son returned, he came to tug my arm. “Momma, can we stay here? Please?” his wide lovely eyes told me he loved it here, and the smirk on Mohammed’s face showed a culprit who had enticed a little child into the vanity of life.
“Till we get our own place.” I told him. “This is only temporary.”
I saw the disappointment in Mohammed’s eyes. He ran a hand through his hair but I had my mind made up. The difference between Halimah and I was, from the very beginning, I stated my intentions.
I finally let myself take one step at a time. Mohammed’s house had four bedrooms with four full bathrooms. He had replaced a big bed with a small one in one of the rooms for my son, but I didn’t want Imran to feel so attracted to the worldly things that were presented before us. I didn’t want him to believe in it so much because life was a fickle mistress. I insisted that my son and I would stay in the same room which was farthest from his but Mohammed won by telling me the room was very cold, and the heater was not working. My son had just recovered, and he needed to be well rested in a warm environment.
I on the other hand had spent weeks over weeks living off hospital food, sleeping in my son’s hospital room, and taking cold showers in the hospital toilet stalls. I had lived like that even though Mohammed was against it at first. I later conceded because I needed my son to be hale and hearty, and if Mohammed’s home would aid his quick recovery, I would put my ego aside and live.
            For my son, I would live.
The hospitals got flooded with victims from the insurgence, and my son had to be discharged so other fatal victims could take the bed, and Mohammed had to work more shifts and drive long hours to get home.
That night, Mohammed made dinner while I bathed my son. He was picky about food sometimes so he barely ate anything but fruits before going to bed. He ran a little fever from exerting himself but when he slept, he calmed like the loving breath of God.
I cleared the table but Mohammad insisted that he would do the dishes. He thought I’d sit around and loaf while he did all the running around. I didn’t have any money to pay for his kindness and generosity, but I could wash and clean the place. He said he had someone who came to do that for him on the weekly basis, and there was no way he would let me do that.
So, I told him to hire me instead. That way, I wouldn’t have to fend entirely off him. He argued that it was just insane if he hired me to do the chores but I won that argument; nothing was sane around us anymore.
“You are difficult.” He was too tired to even go into another subject. “You are just so difficult Zainab. I hope you know that.” He left me to do the dishes while he went to bathe himself so he could have a sound sleep, and prepare for another rigorous work the next day.
When I cleaned myself, I lay beside my son who opened his eyes just immediately. “Momma.” He called gently, very calmly.
“Yes potato.” I smiled. It has been a while since I’ve called him that.
“Is he my daddy?” The question hit me squarely in the chest but before I could respond, my son closed his eyes and drifted off into another long sleep.
***
When I opened my eyes, my son wasn’t beside me anymore.  Alarmed, I rushed out of the room to the living room, and there they were, talking and giggling. I rushed to Imran and scooped him in my arms. “Hey, easy!” Mohammed was shocked at my sudden response.
“Why did you take him from my side?!” my heart slammed against the walls of my chest, refusing to calm. I had alarmed everyone, and even now Imran's face squeezed, threatening to cry.
             "I was going to head out, and I saw him coming down th corridor. He was hungry, so I made him breakfast."
That was when I notice the pancakes and milk on the table. I calmed a little, breathing a little as well. I felt stupid all of a sudden, but I couldn't be blamed too much. Many nights, I had nightmares of waking up not to see my son again.
I set Imran back in his seat, and scratched my head in puzzlement.
Mohammed stood to his full length, held my gaze for long seconds before he spoke.     "You have to trust me." He said calmy. "Whatever happened to you, I won't pressure you to tell me about it. But for the sake of your son, you need to trust me." He swung his jacket over his shoulder, picked his briefcase on the kitchen countertop and left for work.

My son continued eating his breakfast like nothing just happened.

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Will Zainab open up to Mohammed about her past? Find out in the next chapter of Two Mothers by Okunola O. Zain

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