ZAMAN HOSTEL COMPLETE BY RAHEEMA.txt

<p>She entered the house with a smile, and the gatekeeper, who was sitting by the entrance gate, said, “Mamy’s daughters, you’re back from Islamiyya (Islamic school)?”</p><p>Politely, she replied, “Baba Musa, I’m back. Thank you for your hard work.”</p><p>Without waiting for his response, she continued walking, her eyes taking in the sight of the luxurious cars parked in the compound, gleaming and captivating from a distance. She approached the second gate, opened it, and entered. There lay the main house—a beautiful, well-constructed home worthy of the name. Although not very spacious, it was adorned with colorful, vibrant flowers that enhanced its charm.</p><p>In the compound, she found the household members seated—two older women and a young girl who appeared to be her peer. With a warm smile, she greeted them. Nabiha, who was engrossed in her phone, quickly looked up upon hearing her friend, companion, and confidante’s voice.</p><p>“Mawahib, you’re back? How was Sayyadi’s Quranic recitation?”</p><p>Playfully, Mawahib let out a beautiful smile, her dimples adding to her charm, and replied, “The recitation went well, and numbers were exchanged, especially since you decided not to come today.”</p><p>Hajiya Kilishi, seated on a plastic chair nearby, gave Mawahib a sharp glare that could almost make her eyes fall out. With arrogance and disdain, she said, “So, the children of workers are back? I see the wonders of God! Me, Kilishi! Wandering about has ended, and now you’re back. Honestly, I’ve seen the husband of this girl. And yet, it’s in this state one seeks a good husband…”</p><p>Mawahib’s body immediately felt cold. Nabiha lowered her head, clearly displeased by Hajiya Kilishi’s words about her dear friend. With subdued energy, Mawahib turned to Hajiya Kilishi. The older woman, in her mid-fifties, was fair-skinned without a blemish. Her well-maintained appearance made her look younger than her age, but her face bore an expression of bitterness and unhappiness. Mawahib humbly greeted her, “Good afternoon, Momy.”</p><p>Hajiya Kilishi turned her face away without responding to the greeting.</p><p>Mawahib forced a painful smile and then turned to the other woman seated beside Nabiha, who was closer in age to her own mother. She greeted her, “Mama, good afternoon.”</p><p>The woman, addressed as Mama, responded warmly, “Good afternoon, Mawahib.”</p><p>With a heavy heart, Mawahib made her way to the kitchen, knowing it was her mother’s turn to cook today. She was also aware that her mother hadn’t returned early from work and was likely still busy in the kitchen. True to her guess, she found her mother standing, checking on a pot of spiced tripe stew whose aroma had filled the kitchen. One look at her mother, and it was evident she was a classy, elegant woman—educated and stylish. Her gold rings, three in number, adorned her fingers, while she wore a matching blouse and wrapper made of lace, her head wrapped in a scarf. Despite this, her long braided hair fell to her back. She was a strikingly beautiful dark-skinned woman, quite different in complexion from Mawahib. However, their gentle nature and mannerisms were alike. Gently, Mawahib greeted, “Mamy, well done with your work.”</p><p>Without looking at her, her mother replied, “Welcome back. How was school?”</p><p>“School was fine, Mamy. Let me go change and come back to help you.”</p><p>Her mother glanced at her for the first time, noticing the worry etched on her daughter’s face but chose not to comment. With wisdom, she said, “No need. I’m done with everything. Just take this salad and slice it for me. Your father asked for salad to go with his meal when he returns.”</p><p>Mawahib let out a quiet sigh of relief, removed her hijab, and revealed the gown she wore underneath—a form-fitting Ankara dress that accentuated her curves, especially her well-defined hips. She opened the pots to see what her mother had prepared: the spiced tripe stew, fried rice, potato pudding, and fried cabbage with meat. Carefully, she took the salad and left the kitchen, heading toward their section of the house.</p><p>Hajiya Kilishi followed her with her eyes, observing how her pronounced hips swayed with every step as though she were intentionally flaunting them. With a sharp glare, she muttered, “I see the wonders of God! Me, Kilishi!”</p><p> </p><p> </p>