‘Nah, Dad’s Egyptian, Mum’s British,’ she explains. ‘I’ve spoken it forever. I arrived thinking my Arabic was fine but apparently I had a terribleMasriaccent.’
‘A what?’
‘An Egyptian accent. Eaman, my husband, said I sounded awful.Khaleeji’s.’ She shrugs. ‘What can you do?’
‘I have no idea. You’ve completely lost me.’
‘Gulf Arabs. They can be a bit of an elitist bunch, not all of them, and not that it bothers me. I’m well balanced—got chips on both shoulders, me. Are you thinking about lessons?’
‘Maybe at some point.’ I’m laughing again; her candour and wit remind me a lot of Niamh. She has the same amount of sass. ‘You could straighten something out for me if you don’t mind?’
‘Absolutely, what do you want to know?’
‘Habibti—’
‘Yes, my sweet?’ she interrupts, batting her eyelashes in my direction.
‘Okay,’ I say, laughing. ‘But what exactly does it mean?’ Kai has used it repeatedly, citing it as overused, but what does itactuallymean?
‘It means my dear, my love. Or darling.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yeah, pretty generic, too. From your husband, to the girl packing your groceries, to the guy trying to pick you up at Starbucks.Habibti’,she intones, hand dramatically clutched to her heart, ‘please, you have stolen my heart. You are too much beautiful!’
‘That really happens? Guys try to pick you up?’
‘Guys are guys wherever you are, and apparently, no matter what you are wearing. I mean, I wearniqaboutside—a full face veil. It still doesn’t stop them, it’s ridiculous. I could be a right dog under my nose-bag!’ As she giggles, her expression becomes suddenly wide-eyed. ‘Oh, and if you ever meet my husband, don’t mention Starbucks lotharios or I’ll never get out of the house on my own again.’ My own smile falters as hers deepens. Yikes! It gives housebound a whole other meaning. ‘Yeah, everyone calls each otherhabibti. Or rather,habibtifor girls,habibifor boys.’
A generic term of endearment is a bit of a letdown. I wonder if it’s usually used in the bedroom, not that I’m going to ask. Not yet at any rate.
We chat for a while longer about the Arabic language, the school, and of course, the weather. She’s a hoot and has a fantastically dry sense of humour. And she’s not as young as she looks, though still pretty young to be married. And a mum.
‘Bugger, look at the time!’ Gathering the unmarked papers from the desk, I stand, realising I haven’t finished one thing I’d set out to.
‘Don’t panic, Sadia will be there, though I suppose I’d better be getting back myself. It’s almost time to get the little darlings ready forwudu.’ She grimaces as she stands, straightening herabayawith a deft shake of the wrist.
‘Ready for what?’
‘Wudu, the ablutions beforesalat? Before heads down, bums up?’ She half smiles, holding her hands palm to palm.
‘Oh, prayer time! You have to get your class ready for prayer.’
‘Yep, it’s that time of the day again,’ she says as we walk shoulder to shoulder through the exit.
‘Do you pray along with the class?’
Asma, the Arabic teacher, supervises my class’ prayer. I’m there, but I try not to watch. It feels intrusive somehow, even though they’re only small, giggling girls just at the gates of their religious instruction.
‘Nah, I pray later or else I’d never be able to concentrate. That’s the whole point of prayer, isn’t it? Emptying your mind of everything but your devotion. We don’t have to pray when theadhanis called. You know, the call to prayer? It’s recommended, but it just doesn’t work for me in a class full of four and five-year-olds. I make up the prayer later in the day. I like to be alone when I call on the Almighty. Besides, you can’t take your eyes off them for a minute, can you? Little monsters would probably draw on the walls.’
‘Probably,’ I agree, reaching my classroom door. ‘Thanks for the chat and good luck with the ablutions thingy.’
‘Thanks. You have a good one.’
‘I’ll try,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘You, too.’
What a cool girl!
