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MidReal Story
7:00 a.m. in the United States in Africa it's 2:00 p.m. peaceful oh peaceful dreams
Scenario:7:00 a.m. in the morning the birds chirping the Sun rising kids getting ready to go to school breakfast to be made somewhere in Africa it's 2:00 p.m. the kids getting ready to get out of school the people walking in traffic moving the birds chirping it's almost 4 hours till dinner time peaceful dreams it's 7:00 a.m. in the morning in the United States I say my five-time praises up to Allah before I go to bed the kids in the United States getting ready for school and the kids in Africa getting ready to get out of school oh peaceful oh peaceful peaceful dreams it's time for me to ball up and go to sleep like I was in my mom's tummy.
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Aisha's Mother
She is a nurturing mother living in the United States with her children. She is caring, gentle, and patient. The mother prepares meals for the family and manages household chores with ease. She guides her children through daily routines, offers emotional support, and encourages them to develop good habits. Her warmth nurtures a closeknit family environment.
Aisha
She is a young girl growing up in the United States with her brothers and sisters. She is imaginative, lively, and affectionate. Aisha enjoys spending time with her family, often participating in activities with her siblings. She looks up to her mother who teaches her important life values and cares for her with gentle guidance and support.
Iman
She is a mother living in the United States. She is devout, loving, and contemplative. She wakes up at 7am to pray and spends her day caring for her children, preparing meals, and managing household chores. She reflects on her journey from being born in Africa to settling in the United States. Iman values her faith and grapples with the idea of her children growing up while cherishing family bonds and quiet moments of solitude.
In Africa, children wake up early in the morning to go to school.
Their parents wake up before them to prepare breakfast.
I wasn't born in Africa, but my parents were, and I guess you could say some of their habits rubbed off on me.
I wake up at 7:00 am every morning to pray, even though I'm not required to do so.
It's just something I feel comfortable with, and it helps me start my day on the right foot.
After I finish praying, I go back to my bed and lie there for about twenty minutes, just thinking about what I need to do that day.
At 7:20, I get up and start getting ready for the day.
The first thing I do is take a shower and then get dressed.
After that, I go downstairs to prepare breakfast for my family.
I crack a few eggs into a sizzling pan and add some salt and pepper for taste.
I stand at the stove, watching the eggs bubble and firm up in the pan.
The kitchen fills with the aroma of toast browning in the toaster.
Upstairs, I hear the familiar creaks of footsteps - Jad and Aisha getting dressed for school.
I slide the spatula under each egg, checking their doneness.
Perfect - whites set, yolks still runny, just how they like them.
The toast pops up with a mechanical ding.
I arrange everything on three plates, adding a sprinkle of parsley.
The morning sun streams through the kitchen window as I move to the bottom of the stairs.
"Jad, Aisha, breakfast is ready!" I call up, my voice echoing through the hallway.
"Mom, can we talk about something before we eat?" Jad's voice comes down, a hint of hesitation in his tone.
"Of course, what's on your mind?" I reply, sensing the weight behind his words.
I turn off the stove and wipe my hands on my apron, giving Jad my full attention.
He shifts from foot to foot near the kitchen doorway, not yet entering.
Behind him, Aisha peeks around his shoulder, her usual morning chatter noticeably absent.
I pull out their chairs at the breakfast table, gesturing for them to sit.
The eggs steam on their plates, untouched, as both children slide into their seats.
Jad's fingers drum against the wooden table, his eyes fixed on his plate.
I remain standing, my hand resting on the back of his chair, waiting for him to find his words.
Aisha glances up at me, her eyes wide with a mix of nervousness and anticipation.
She nudges Jad's arm lightly, encouraging him to speak.
I lean against the counter, watching the sunlight dance across the table.
The morning light casts a warm glow on the untouched breakfast plates.
Finally, Jad takes a deep breath, his fingers stilling for a moment before he speaks.
"Mom, we have something important to tell you," he begins, his voice steady now.
"It's about school."
Aisha nods in agreement, her eyes never leaving mine.
I smile reassuringly at them both.
"Go on," I say softly, my hand moving to gently pat Jad's shoulder.
Jad reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.
He smooths it out carefully on the table, his movements deliberate.
The paper is a bright shade of yellow, decorated with colorful handprints that remind me of their kindergarten days.
I recognize the artwork immediately - it's from their school project. "This is it," Jad says, his voice filled with excitement.
"Our art project. We've been keeping it a secret for weeks."
Aisha leans forward, her eyes sparkling with pride as she adds, "We worked on it during lunch breaks and after school. It was so much fun!"
I glance down at the invitation, my eyes scanning the colorful text and illustrations.
It reads:
"You are cordially invited to our Art Project Ceremony!
Join us today at 2 PM in the school auditorium as we unveil our latest creations!
Refreshments will be served. We hope to see you there!"
My gaze shifts to the clock hanging on the kitchen wall - 8:30 am.
I nod, feeling a swell of pride and anticipation for the day ahead.
I lean down between their chairs, wrapping one arm around each child's shoulders.
The familiar scent of their shampoo mingles with the aroma of breakfast as I pull them close.
"Of course I'll be there," I say, squeezing them gently.
Jad's tense shoulders relax under my touch, and Aisha giggles, pressing her face against my arm.
The morning sunlight streams through our kitchen window, illuminating their relieved expressions.
I release them with a final pat and gesture toward their cooling eggs.
"Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold. You'll need energy for your big presentation today."
I walk through the front door with Jad and Aisha, their certificates clutched proudly in their hands.
The afternoon sun streams through our kitchen window, casting a warm glow on the countertops.
I pull out ingredients from the fridge - fresh chicken, vegetables, and their favorite spices.
Jad places his artwork on the counter while Aisha shows me the proper way to display her ceramic bowl.
I begin chopping onions and garlic, the familiar rhythm of the knife against the cutting board matching their excited chatter about their classmates' reactions.
Their laughter fills the room, a joyful reminder of the day’s triumphs.
I pull out the ingredients for chicken biryani, a dish that reminds me of celebratory meals from my childhood in Africa.
The familiar motions of washing rice and marinating chicken pieces in yogurt and spices ground me as Jad and Aisha continue chattering about their art show.
I measure out cardamom, cinnamon, and bay leaves, letting their aromatic scents fill our kitchen.
The children hover near the counter, Aisha carefully arranging her ceramic bowl on the windowsill while Jad props his painting against the wall.
As the spices sizzle in the pan, I realize that today, like this meal, is a blend of cherished memories and new beginnings.
Standing at the stove, I motion for Jad and Aisha to join me.
I hand Jad the wooden spoon, guiding his small hand as we stir the fragrant mixture together.
The steam rises, carrying the scent of saffron and cardamom.
"This dish reminds me of my village in Africa," I tell them, "where mothers and daughters would cook together for special occasions."
Aisha climbs onto a kitchen stool, leaning in close to watch the rice change color from the saffron.
Jad's arm gets tired, so I help him pass the spoon to his sister.
I place the marinated chicken pieces into the hot oil, watching them sizzle and brown.
The sound takes me back to my mother's kitchen, where the smell of cooking meat filled our home.
As I flip each piece with practiced care, I tell Jad and Aisha about helping my mother cook for Eid celebrations.
They lean against the counter, their eyes fixed on the browning chicken as I describe the way my siblings and I would crowd around our mother's stove, just as they do now.
Aisha looks up at me, her eyes wide with curiosity.
"Did you ever get to add your own special touch to the dishes?" she asks, her voice filled with wonder.
I smile, nodding as I sprinkle cumin over the chicken. "Yes, and that's how I learned that every meal tells its own story."
I pull two small plates from the cabinet and scoop a spoonful of biryani onto each.
Standing at the counter, I watch Jad and Aisha's faces as they take their first bites.
Between mouthfuls, I point to the golden saffron threads.
"Did you know these came from India?" I ask, my voice filled with excitement.
"Long ago, traders carried these precious spices across ancient routes."
Aisha picks out a cardamom pod, examining it curiously.
"These pods grow in the mountains of East Africa," I explain, "just like where my mother taught me how to cook."
Jad finds a cinnamon stick, holding it up curiously.
I scoop another helping of fragrant biryani onto Jad's extended plate, watching the steam rise from the saffron-tinted rice.
Aisha picks out a bay leaf, holding it up to her nose before setting it aside.
"Your mother must have been very good at cooking," she says, her voice filled with admiration.
I nod, smiling as I remember those early mornings in my mother's kitchen.
"She would wake before dawn to grind the masala fresh," I tell them, "mixing cardamom and coriander and a few secret ingredients she never shared with anyone outside our family."
The children lean closer, their eyes wide with curiosity as I describe the sound of the stone grinder, the way spices would coat my mother's hands with color, and how she'd test each blend by smell before adding it to her pot.
"What were the secret ingredients?" asks Jad, his voice filled with wonder.
I sit down at the table with them, lifting a spoonful of steaming biryani.
"This yellow color comes from saffron," I explain, pointing to the golden grains.
Jad picks out a whole spice, holding it up to his nose.
"What's this?"
"It's star anise," I reply, "all the way from China."
Aisha discovers a cardamom pod, rolling it between her fingers.
"Where does this come from?" she asks.
"Those grow in the mountains of East Africa," I tell her, "just like where my mother learned to cook."
I separate pieces of chicken with my spoon, explaining how my mother taught me to marinate it in yogurt and ginger before adding it to the pot.
As they taste the dish, their eyes light up with recognition.
Jad leans forward, a thoughtful look on his face.
"Do you think your mother would have shared those secrets with us?" he asks, his voice hopeful.
I pause, considering the question before replying, "If she saw how much you both love this food, I'm sure she would have."
I wipe my hands on my apron and walk to the kitchen cabinet where I keep my mother's worn leather recipe book.
The binding is cracked, and loose pages stick out at odd angles.
Returning to the table, I set it between our empty plates, careful not to disturb the remaining grains of biryani.
Jad leans forward, trying to read the faded handwriting while Aisha traces the oil stains on the cover with her finger.
I open to the first page, where my mother's familiar script lists her special masala mix.
As I turn another yellowed page, a cream-colored envelope slides out and lands between our plates.
My hands freeze on the edges of the book, and Jad looks up at me with a question in his eyes.
The envelope is addressed to me, but not by my name.
Instead, it reads "To my little princess" in my mother's distinctive handwriting.
Jad reaches for it, but I stop him gently, noticing that the seal is still intact.
The paper feels delicate under my fingers, as if it's been aged by years hidden between recipes.
I carefully pick up the envelope, feeling its weight in my hand.
Aisha watches me intently, her voice soft with curiosity, "What do you think it says?"
I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as I reply, "I don't know, but it's from a time before she taught me everything."
Jad nudges me gently, his eyes wide with anticipation, "Maybe it's the last secret ingredient she never told anyone."
With trembling fingers, I carefully open the sealed envelope, trying not to tear its aged edges.
The children lean closer as I unfold the yellowed letter inside.
The scent of cardamom still clings to the paper, reminding me of my mother's presence in the kitchen.
I read the words aloud, my voice barely above a whisper.
A small key is taped to the corner of the letter, and I gently remove it.
As I hold it up, the brass surface catches the light from the kitchen window.
Aisha points to a series of numbers written at the bottom of the page, and I recognize them as coordinates to our old family home in Africa.
The message reads:
"To my little princess,
This key unlocks a treasure passed down through generations of our family's women.
It's a golden necklace that holds stories and memories of our ancestors.
After putting the kids to bed, I sit at my kitchen table with the brass key and letter laid out before me.
Using my phone, I search the coordinates from the letter and find they point to a small village near Mombasa, Kenya.
The street view shows a familiar blue-walled house, though the color has faded over time.
The carved wooden door is still there, just as I remember it from my childhood.
Next, I check flight prices to Kenya and calculate the costs in my notebook.
Under the kitchen's dim evening light, I hold the letter closer, squinting at something unusual in the margins.
Turning the paper sideways, I notice faint Arabic script carefully written along the edges, previously hidden by the fold of the envelope.
My hands tremble as I recognize my mother's cursive, different from her usual writing.
Using my phone's flashlight, I shine it on the words, trying to decipher them.
The message begins with "Our family's true name..."
I sit at my computer, the early morning sunlight streaming through the window.
The children are still asleep upstairs, and I have a few hours before they wake up.
I open a new tab and cross-reference flight schedules to Mombasa.
The brass key lies beside my keyboard, catching the glow from the screen.
I open another tab and check my savings account.
The cost of three tickets is substantial, but I can't leave Jad and Aisha behind for this journey.
My fingers hover over the "Book Now" button for a flight leaving in two weeks.
I take a deep breath, thinking about the discovered Arabic writing about our family name.
After a moment of hesitation, I click to purchase our tickets.
I sit in my kitchen with my phone and the letter.
The morning sunlight casts a warm glow over the table.
I dial my sister's number, waiting for her to answer.
After a few rings, she picks up.
"Hello?"
"Hello, sister," I say, my voice trembling slightly.
"I found something. A letter from Mother."
There's a pause on the other end of the line.
"What does it say?"
I take a deep breath before reading her the message about our family's true name.
My voice cracks as I finish.
"It was hidden in the margins, written in Arabic."
She goes quiet for a moment, and I wonder if the line has disconnected.
"Sister?"
"I'm here," she says finally.
"I received a similar letter years ago. But I was afraid to tell you."
"Afraid? Why?"
"Because I didn't know what it meant. And I didn't want to stir up old wounds."
I sigh, running my hand through my hair.
"Well, now we have answers. And we need to go back."
"Back where?"
"Mombasa. To our childhood home."
"How? We can't just—"
"I've already booked our flights," I interrupt, opening my laptop to show her the tickets on video chat.
"We leave in two weeks. You can meet us there." There's another pause before she responds.
"Okay. I'll be there. And I'll bring something with me."
"What is it?"
"It's a journal Mother left me," she replies softly.
"I think it might have more clues about our past."
I nod, feeling a mix of anticipation and dread.
I spread three suitcases on my bedroom floor while Jad and Aisha are at school.
Starting with the largest one, I fold their summer clothes—light cotton shirts and breathable pants suitable for Kenya's heat.
Next, I pack my own clothes: simple dresses and a few pairs of jeans.
I also include the blue headscarf my mother gave me years ago.
In the side pocket, I place the brass key and letter inside a plastic bag to keep them safe.
At my dresser, I pause in front of the mirror, looking at the photo of my mother wearing her golden necklace.
I carefully wrap it in tissue paper and tuck it between the clothes.
Packing reminds me of watching my mother prepare for trips when I was young.
I zip the last suitcase shut, double-checking the brass key and letter are secure in the side pocket.
Standing over the packed bags, I touch the embroidered tag Mother sewed on my old suitcase years ago.
The afternoon sun streams through my window as I hear Jad and Aisha return from school downstairs.
I haven't told them about the tickets yet.
My hand lingers on the leather handle, remembering how Mother gripped it when we left Kenya.
I stand in my bedroom doorway and call out to them downstairs.
"Jad! Aisha! Come upstairs, please."
Their footsteps echo up the stairs as they approach.
Jad leads the way, Aisha close behind.
They stop at the entrance, their eyes widening at the sight of three packed suitcases on my bed.
"Come sit with me," I say, gesturing for them to join me on the mattress.
The afternoon light streams through the window, casting a warm glow over us.
Before I can speak, Jad points to the airline tickets peeking from my purse on the nightstand.
Aisha touches the embroidered tag on the old suitcase, asking, "Where are we going?"
I sit on my bed between Jad and Aisha, holding the plane tickets in my lap.
"We're going to Kenya," I say softly.
Aisha bounces excitedly, while Jad stares at the suitcases with uncertainty.
I pull out Mother's photo from my purse and show it to them.
"See this golden necklace your grandmother is wearing? She lived in Mombasa, Kenya. We're going there."
Jad touches the brass key taped to the back of Mother's letter.
"Will we find her necklace there?"
I nod, smiling at him.
"Yes, and we'll stay in the house where I grew up. You'll meet your aunt."
I stand in my bedroom at dawn, checking the packed suitcases one last time.
Mother's letter and key remain secure in the side pocket, while her photo stays cushioned between my clothes.
Jad appears in his travel clothes, dragging his backpack behind him.
Aisha follows, clutching her favorite stuffed animal.
I help them put on their shoes, double-check our passports, and turn off all the lights.
The morning silence breaks when my phone buzzes - the taxi has arrived.
I grab the handle of the largest suitcase, directing Jad and Aisha to help with the smaller ones.
I lock our front door and guide them down the porch steps.
The sky is still a dark shade of blue, with the first hints of morning light peeking over the horizon.
Jad struggles with his rolling suitcase, while Aisha clutches her stuffed giraffe tightly to her chest.
The taxi driver opens the trunk, and I help load our bags.
I make sure the suitcase with Mother's letter and key goes in last, so it's easily accessible.
The morning dew dampens our shoes as we stand on the sidewalk.
When the driver asks if we're ready, I look back at our house one last time.
Jad tugs my sleeve, asking if we'll be back before school starts next month.
I smile at him, knowing this journey is just the beginning.
I slide into the backseat between Jad and Aisha, the worn leather cool against my arms.
The driver adjusts his rearview mirror, catching my eye as I buckle the children's seatbelts.
Aisha clutches her giraffe tighter, while Jad stares out the window at our darkened house.
The familiar scent of Mother's letter drifts from my purse, mingling with the taxi's air freshener.
When the driver asks for the airport terminal, my voice catches slightly before I answer "International."
In the taxi's dim interior, I turn to Jad, who keeps staring at our shrinking house through the rear window.
His fingers grip the seatbelt tightly, and I notice his lower lip trembling.
I reach for his hand, feeling its slight shake.
"Remember how brave you were showing your art project?" I whisper, making him look at me.
"This trip will be like that - something special to share with your class."
Aisha leans forward, waving her giraffe in front of Jad's face until he cracks a small smile.
I lean closer, my voice barely audible over the engine.
"Let me tell you about our house in Mombasa," I begin.
"It has a big wooden door with carvings of waves."
My hands trace patterns in the air, showing how the designs swirl like ocean waves.
Jad's grip on my hand loosens slightly.
"Inside, there's a courtyard with mango trees. Their branches are so heavy with fruit that they touch the ground."
Aisha hugs her giraffe tighter when I mention real giraffes wandering near the city.
The taxi turns onto the highway, and I continue describing our home.
"I used to climb those mango trees and watch ships sail into the harbor."
Jad's eyes widen, and he asks, "Will we see the ships too?"
Aisha chimes in, her voice full of wonder, "And the giraffes? Can we feed them?"
I nod, smiling at their excitement. "Yes, we'll see it all, and maybe even more than I did."