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My Name Is a Gift.

As an independent writer, she worked as an editor in a number of Alexandria websites, and her novel Rathways of Gods won the Prize


My name is a gift

I was called a gift like , a feast we never saw, and he forbade us to ask about it. I hated the name and did not tell it to one of my friends. I forced everyone to call me Pisa because I loved that name.

When I saw a woman standing in the cover of a magazine my mother was always busy with, I tried to say the name.

When I was born, that big house was always booming. Invited friends, relatives, staying with us. I knew later that I was gonna be there.

They were staying with us as a charity. I find them in a place where women sit comfortably messing with young girls everywhere, but I can stop them from breaking into my room.

My room was my kingdom only I allowed to enter. I was the first sister later to learn that my father had another son who had been born to me, but that he had a severe fever and left his mother. I don't know. Did he like it or dislike it? But I've always spoiled him.

I could hear the women wink at my mother, angry at her, and speak to her like that when she did nothing for them. When I yelled at them to leave my house immediately, they looked at each other, but my mother smiled at them in the embarrassment and told me to go back to my room. She got mad at her and hated her that day because she was sad, crying in weakness.

In our vast house, we always had many rooms. I used to entertain myself by running between what was available to me except my father's room, which he never allowed to enter. I formed a world of puzzles about what was happening and what was inside and another one at the end of the corridor on the second floor. My father had a valet who only allowed him in.

A small bell I knew its sound when it rose with certain beats means entering three I made two coffee you can enter. Yes, I was doing so night after night while the others were in deep stability.

Only my mother would stay up late waiting for him. I would go back to my room, lightly plunged into my bed, and pairs of bright eyes pierced my back.

The days passed in such a way that only the women with the children, who my mother used to sit with, spoke aloud, exchanged strange words. How can you accept all this? The simple branch of the family always rotated among the women's rooms, staying for days, before they left with fruit and birds in their cages, only a month later coming back.

You hated their eyes that sore down the walls of our house, wanting every piece of it, but the tooth could never tell. I just saw and just got scared and hated.

I never understood my mother. She was silent, but she had a great voice when she spoke, and everyone listened to her. This is how she always managed the vast house until the end of her life. Although I hated her for many years for leaving that house after a class reported to me and moving to my distant school and spending years of learning inside, I finally forgave her.

The stages of my acquaintance with her began when Josephine, my most beloved teacher, entered my heart in the courtyard. In my heart, I felt anxious, thinking of the mistake I had made and revealing myself.

She was a beautiful blonde woman, not even my mother, sitting quietly, looking at the house around her until I looked at it for seconds, smiling in dignity. Poor Josephine heard my mother's voice tell me to step forward, your teacher, Siza, from today you will be taught her, your father told you to be a polite girl.

I understand from her strict tone: I cannot make a mistake.

I made the best lessons I will ever receive. I promised myself that day that I would listen to her. But what happened to her last day, until I found myself running around the courtyard watching my flowers bloom as I harass Safiya and give her my big tongue, while I forgot that he had to start regular classes from morning to lunch every day without intermission except for the weekend. I had to take French lessons to speak and read, and he had to learn culinary and embroidery. My mom used to say, Girls grow up faster than boys. I don't know, we didn't have a boy until I beat him.

Every word I've learned has meaning, and every letter I've understood has meaning that can change people from now to now at the hands of my first girlfriend, Josephine. She was quiet and beautiful, I never met anyone prettier than her before. Her thick braids braided on her shoulders.. Her clothes that don't look like other people's.

I pranked her when she ran and grabbed the mud in my hand to throw her. I was so intrigued by her braids that I could be punished without fear. She smudged her face and hair, but she came back.

My mother was blushing, asking her to try that stubborn boy again. I could hear them telling her that no family son-in-law could marry me.

I decided to go into the room for the first time. The room where none of my sisters ever managed to get into. Mother's room. That was what I thought, locked in my room, that was the punishment for being denied mortality for three days, three days without my flowers or the sun.

Cursed... Cursed, she spoke that word in her face, pale, screaming, who taught you how to say that to your mother? The pale face of their people. Get confused. You saw a girl screaming at her, repeating a word that she didn't understand, but she did what she wanted, and she angered the mother enough.

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