The Baby Cousin

Reemo Bobeemo. Nineteen years between us. On my way home from Uni, I’d go to my uncle’s to see her, walk in and singsong Hiii-iiii.

It became her first word. With the song of it.

She’s the one who this weekend successfully called bullshit on my idea that I might be happy living apart from my man. She is one of my best friends, and to say that I love her doesn’t fkn come close. Love seems like a cheap word where she’s concerned; I have been in love with her since the day I held onto her in the hospital. And I will burn cities down to keep her safe. Though her husband would beat all of us to it in the event that he had to.

Like last night when his babiest baby decided to stop, drop, and roll down the stairs. I lunged for the small tax dodger only to be cross-checked by his father out of the way so that he save him. Lucky the drywall is so strong that I didn’t leave any kind of imprint.

The best part overall though? It’s the lightness of blood, which is the Arabic way of saying that someone is naturally funny and light on the hearts of those around them. It runs in our family. Legit, we are all funny. Even in the most serious of moments, there is always laughter. Because how else are we going to make it through this world’s long heartbreak if we’re not laughing with it? Our homes are all filled with laughter, alhamduliLaah.

Man, I know. I know how blessed my life is. My gratitude is immeasurable. There is not one thing for which I have been making du3aas these last years, that I haven’t watched unfold near daily. Only one ask remains / that He let me watch the sunrise from inside of the right arms. It’s coming. Allah’s got me.

Last night we stayed awake until 330. Deema, Reemo’s younger sister, came home from Occupied Gaza and she walked us through the sht-show of checkpoints and border controls. The humiliation, and attempted degradation. Me, near 20 years ago, I swore that I wouldn’t return until I could land on my own country’s soil. I just don’t have the temperament to keep calm. In fight, flight or freeze, I am a fighter. Up against guns that is not good counsel.

Though the story was full of trauma, we found it’s funny bone. I nearly broke a rib laughing as hard as I did. I’m sure the neighbours either hate us or want to marry into our family. Welcome! There is always room!

When we were wrapping up at around 3, it began to rain. Everyone went to bed and I decided to stay outside a little longer to write out the three things for which I was grateful yesterday. Beneath the umbrella on the back patio, I reached number 13 with Sade next to me.

When I looked up, I found that I’d lost myself long enough that the day had begun to break. The sky’s blush became number 14.


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