𝕭𝖆𝖚𝖉𝖔𝖚𝖎𝖓: 𝕿𝖍𝖊 6𝖙𝖍 𝕬𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝕽𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖘

K

"When it hurts and destroys its follower, Love is worse than Hatred." - Chrétien de Troyes

Which one is this!? Allspice. Astragalus? So deep in her mind she doesn't notice the looming figure behind her. She reaches for one but changes her mind and goes for the other.

"Is this what you've been doing all this time woman!"

Zahara flinches out of focus so hard the grinder flings from her grasp. She adjusts her vision eagerly to pinpoint her teacher's eyes. Professor Adil sneers grumpily, his bottom teeth tanned like the Arabian dunes, overlapping one another greedy for space in his compact mouth. She swipes her dress to ease her sweaty hands and settles on counting how many beads were on his pointed shoes.

"Rather than being an imbecile, consider double checking the textbook to know which one needs to go into this mixture. We are focusing on how to treat diarrhoea and stomach pain, not headaches!" He continues to downgrade her in Arabic, her form so still even the urge to wipe the specks of spit that landed on her face was unlikely.

"Sorry Professor Adil!" She announces bashfully and in order to get him to stop spitting his words at her, literally, she flounces, or escapes to retrieve the discarded grinder that luckily hadn't injured anyone.

Upon returning to her station, through cloudy vision she proceeds with the task in hand, her shoulders raised tightly as she moves her hands to grab the objects around her. By the time she had refocused and completed her task for the lesson, grinding up the spices with the herbs to create medicine, the professor along with most of the students had gone, some lounging around to do extra work.

"Zaharaaa!" A rackety voice calls. She remains unmoved, her focus prioritising the unfinished task before her. The sandy sound of sandals making its way to her dares her eyes to roll to the back of her head. Here he comes to annoy me. Again. She sighs dramatically.

"What." She says in Arabic. Her brother Amir makes a defensive sound and in her mind she knows he has raised her hands theatrically. He peaks over her shoulder.

"You need to hurry, father's waiting for you to return and cook. And I want Kebabs again!" He speaks loudly and in response she shoves her elbow into his lower abdomen to which he winces and retorts.

Can't that old hag cook for himself?

The more Amir nags the more she wishes to throw him out the window of this second floor.

By the time she was finished more energy was drained than usual.

She packed her textbook into a rough crocheted bag she had made a couple years ago using feather grass now dried up and hardened and sturdy.

They made their way through the night of Saudi Arabia, the dampened sand from the cooler breeze filling her sandals and sticking between her toes. Her scarf was a makeshift eye protector against the occasional breeze that lifted sand into her eyes. She hasn't gotten used to that yet.

The door could only be deciphered when Zahara was right up front to it as she fumbled with the keys, her brother still yapping as he had been throughout the journey.

"Zahara, is that you!? Do you know how long I had to wait for you to get here!?" Just a few minutes. It's a fact because she has been in this cycle long enough to know this man's routine. Illegally reselling stock like fake jewellery and other explicits through bribery and then going home just before her, that is after a couple of drinks. The money he makes is barely enough for the three of them. Her mouth tastes sour as she greets him, mumbling Father, Amir casually greeting him but with a smirk.