Foundations
The clinking of crockery and the rhythmic banging of brooms and mops against skirting boards disturbed my peaceful sleep far more than the afternoon sun streaming through the fluttering net curtains of our pink bedroom. I was a teenager, after all. And teenagers can sleep with the abandon of babies, spread-eagled across a bed, utterly oblivious to the world and its expectations. Mum flipped back the toasty duvet covers as I opened my lazy eyes and surveyed the room. I had once again slept until an ungodly hour. Yikes! The smell of braised sausage lingered in the air. Lunch was ready. Her tired eyes offered a gentle reprimand. The afternoon prayer was approaching, and I had once again slept through the morning prayer. Prayers, it seemed, were challenging to youth. I emerged from my mountain of linen, sporting tousled bed hair and crusty eyes, hunger gnawing at me. I was ravenous and restless. In the kitchen, Mum was setting the table. Dad was making his usual rounds of the h...
