BETROTHED (15)

The walk down the ‘nice path,’ as Mena had called it, was not quite as nice as she had made it sound.

The path narrowed quickly, swallowed by overgrown shrubs that brushed against their arms as they walked. Dry leaves crunched beneath their feet, while stubborn roots rose from the earth like quiet warnings. Yet, there was life everywhere; wild, untamed, and quietly beautiful.

Ziba smiled as she watched Mena and Amena playfully push one another near a cherry tree, its branches heavy with small, red fruit. She felt a warmth settle in her chest, a warmth that seldom came, and even more rarely stayed.

“What’s going on in your mind, Ziba? Walk faster.”

Ziba hastened her steps and joined the two girls.…Friends? She smiled to herself.

The path, though bushy, was rich with life. They passed clusters of cherries, soft hibiscus blooms swaying gently in the breeze, and rows of leafy vegetables stretching toward the light. It was as though the earth here refused to hold back its goodness.

Mena showed them her father’s cows grazing lazily in a fenced corner, the chickens pecking busily at the ground, and a well-structured barn standing proudly nearby. They were wildly impressed, and Mena beamed with joy, her happiness as full as the land around her. She was glad her friends could see what her Papa had built, what he cherished.

As they strolled back toward Mena’s home, Ziba gently slipped her hand into Mena’s and pulled her aside for a quieter walk. Behind them, Amena lingered, leisurely plucking ripe-looking cherries and dropping them into her scarf, which she had cleverly tied at the four corners to keep the fruit from spilling.

“Thank you for being an incredible host,” Ziba said with a soft smile.

Mena nodded, her own smile wide and sincere.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I know you meant well… at least I know now.”

Ziba saw the emotion rise in Mena’s eyes, like a weight finally loosening its grip.

“I never meant any harm,” Mena added quietly. “I just wanted you to know—you have a friend in me.”

Ziba smiled. She knew. And for the first time, she was truly grateful.

Papa Mena was waiting for them, holding out plastic cups filled with a cold, milky drink. They smiled, taking turns to say thank you as they each received a cup. It was thick, creamy, and unexpectedly delicious.

“Fresh milk, with a signature touch from me,” Papa said proudly.

Mena laughed softly and pecked his cheek.

“It is time we take our leave, sir. It has been quite an eventful day, and we are truly grateful for your hospitality.” 

“Call me Papa,” he replied warmly. “I have been looking forward to seeing you, Ziba. My deepest condolences… and my love. God be with you, in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

Ziba smiled. She had heard words like these before, many times, but this felt different. Warmer. Deeper.

“Thank you, Papa… Amen to your prayer.”

Mena and Amena exchanged a quiet, knowing smile.

Hearing Ziba say “Amen” was a step, small, but meaningful, in the right direction.