He changed into a shirt and trousers. He loved fragrance in his life—ever since he could remember, if he saw perfume in Daddy’s room, he would ask to take some. That was why Daddy always bought him various kinds of perfumes, some of which Nawfal hadn’t even opened yet. Now he sprayed two different ones on himself, then left the bedroom and entered the living room—only to bump into Khalid, who was holding a cup in one hand and a plate in the other. Inside the plate, Nawfal noticed, was something like fried dough.

“Nanna made jollof rice…” Khalid said as he handed him the cup. Nawfal took it and looked—it was tea, the type nicknamed ice tea, with ice cubes inside. Khalid was the only one who knew he didn’t take hot things. Even with food, he let it cool before eating. He could eat straight from the fridge but never straight from the pot. Everyone in the house knew he didn’t eat spicy food. If he said he didn’t like pepper, people would think he just disliked heavily spiced food. But his case was different: even a single chili pepper could ruin an entire stew for him. One spoonful would feel like fire in his mouth, and within an hour sores would cover his lips. He could suffer like that for a week.

Since childhood, everyone had known it—he was allergic to pepper. Still, it gave Nanna an excuse to torment him, since everyone else in the house, including Daddy, loved spicy food. But in Daddy’s presence she pretended to cook separately for Nawfal. Daddy never questioned her. On days when she cooked plain rice with stew, Nawfal would just add Maggi seasoning and eat. On school days, he often ignored food altogether—eating once was enough, then he would continue with his activities. His body had already adapted to hunger.

“I don’t know if the sugar is okay for you. Drink it and see,” Khalid said, handing him the plate of fried dough.

“Does Nanna know you took her fried dough?” Nawfal asked.

Khalid shrugged. “There are many things Nanna doesn’t know…”

Nawfal only smiled faintly. Khalid always risked himself for him. Nobody in the house got beaten by Nanna as much as Khalid, and most of the time it was because of Nawfal.

Nawfal sipped the tea. The coolness gave him a pleasant feeling. He loved cold things—they brought him a calm he couldn’t explain. He nodded to Khalid.

“It’s perfect… Thanks.”

Then he took the plate of fried dough and sat down on the armrest of a chair. Khalid also sat.

“I’ll go to Daada’s house after Asr. Maybe I’ll spend the night there. Tell Daddy when he comes back.”

Khalid shook his head. “Leave it till Daddy comes back. We’ll tell him tomorrow—you don’t have school, I do. When I return, they can take me there too. I also want to go; it’s been long.”

Nawfal looked at him until he finished talking.

“Even if Daddy allows, you know Nanna won’t. I’m going today. If you want, you can ask Daddy and follow me later.”

Khalid opened his mouth to protest, but Nawfal cut him off.

“I’m going today. I won’t sleep here tonight.”

Khalid fell silent. He knew anything he said would go through one ear and out the other. So he stayed quiet, finished his tea, and munched the fried dough while watching Nawfal.

Nawfal picked up his small bag. Together they went out for Asr prayer at the mosque.

---

He entered Daada’s house with a greeting. One look at his face and you would know it had changed from just a few hours ago. If you could peer into his heart, you’d find three people there, and Daada was one of them.

“Nawfal…”

Daada said his name warmly after returning his greeting. At the doorway he slipped off his shoes and entered her room. She sat on the carpet though there were chairs inside. She rarely sat on them anymore, saying:

“How can I sit on chairs? My legs are full of blood clots, and my old body…”

If Julde was around, he would laugh and say:

“Daada, if you call yourself old, people will think you’re over eighty.”

And she would laugh too.

“Even if I’m not eighty, I’m no longer young.”

Today she had only just returned to the sitting room. She usually went to the neighborhood Islamiyya school from ten in the morning to twelve noon. When she came back, she cooked plain rice and stew, then napped after Zuhr until around three-thirty.

“Good thing you came. Go pick up Madina from school for me. I was just about to get up—it’s almost four-thirty.”

Nawfal looked at her.

“Right after I arrived, Daada? Do you know how tired I am?”

“That’s laziness, not tiredness. Put down your bag and go fetch her…”

He dropped his bag on the chair. For Madina’s sake, Daada would never listen to excuses. He knew she wouldn’t let him rest until he went. Luckily, Madina’s school wasn’t far. Once you crossed the main road, it was right there, joined with the Islamiyya school. That was why their closing time was four-thirty, sometimes even six. He didn’t dwell on it—he went straight to get her.

As per the school’s rules, he was held up by a few routine questions at the gate. Madina hadn’t yet spotted him when she suddenly cried out:

“Hamma!”

Then she ran to him and wrapped her arms around his legs. He gently pried her off, holding her hand as they walked out.

“When did you come? Are you sleeping at our house?” she asked. At her age, he was always amazed at how clearly she spoke, unlike her peers who still lisped or fumbled words. The only words she mispronounced came from Fulfulde, since Daada often spoke it to her—so Madina’s accent sometimes carried that trace. She was also very talkative, but most of her talk was in the form of endless questions.

“Hamma, what’s this? Why are you wearing these clothes today?”

Her endless questions always astonished him.

“If I sleep over, what will you give me?” he asked.

She thought for a moment before answering: “Tuwo.”

The laugh he hadn’t had in days burst out of him.

“Of all the sweet things in the world, you choose tuwo?” He picked her up and swung her onto his shoulder as they reached the road.

“Tuwo is sweet! Daada makes it for us,” she said with complete conviction. Tuwo was indeed her favorite food, followed only by meat. If you served her a plate of food, her hands would go straight for the meat first. Only after finishing it would she touch anything else.

“That’s because you live with an old woman, so tuwo tastes best to you.”

She frowned in confusion. “I live with Daada, not an old woman.”

He chuckled.

“Who’s the old woman, Hamma?”

He sighed. All the way home, every answer he gave turned into another question from her. Yet every time he came to Daada’s house, it felt like a heavy stone was lifted off his chest. Sometimes he came even if he wouldn’t sleep there. It was as though his patience and strength were batteries, and Daada alone knew how to recharge them. That was why coming to her house was a necessity. She made everything feel lighter.

There were only three people in his life who truly cared for him—Daddy, Khalid, and Daada. And that, to him, was no small thing.