Can we try again?

Fourty-four

How have I been?

Hm . . . how have I been?

Well, should I say the real answer?

I've been struggling big time, trying to work things out on my own, feeling lonely, depressed, in despair, like a failure. Like everyone has turned their backs against me . . . even you.

Or the general answer everyone wants to hear?

"Fine," I said instead, settling for the general answer. "I've been fine."
My lips moved in an attempt at a smile. I couldn't tell if she was convinced by it, if she bought it or not.

Jameel who was still in her arms was beginning to get agitated. He was squirming and whining and reaching out to me. He was now at the stage where he'd started to register the faces of familiar people now. And unfortunately, Oma wasn't one of those people.

"Oh! Jam Jam, you don't recognise me anymore. It's me, Aunty Oma." She said as though that statement alone, would juggle his memory and he would automatically remember her. He struggled out of her grasp and she tried to pull him back to her. But he was having none of that. He continued to struggle, groaning and whimpering.
I could tell that she felt hurt that he was practically running away from her.

I smiled inwardly. Serves you right, I thought to myself. Yes, serves her right for not keeping in contact. She's now become the forgotten aunty.

"How would he recognise you, eh?" I mumbled, without meeting her eyes. "When you've not been around."

By now, Jameel had burst into a high pitched cry that Oma had no choice but to let him go. She put him on the floor, and immediately, he crawled back to me. Back to the arms of someone familiar. He clung to me tightly, burying his face in my chest.

Oma might have noticed the slightest bit of edge in my voice because she gave me one of her looks. Her 'what do you have to say?' looks.

I said nothing. Neither of us did. We just stared at each other.

"Is everything okay Mimi?" She asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Mmhmm," was my reply. I was more than willing to drag this on and make her feel as bad as possible. I ignored her, focusing my attention on Jameel, playing and laughing with him, as though she was invisible in the room.

She sighed deeply. "Samira?"

"Yes."

"What is going on?"

"What is going on?" I repeated, shrugging my shoulders. "I don't know what you mean."

"Why are you acting. . . like . . . I dunno. . .?"

"Like how na? How am I acting?"

"Mira stop playing, please." She took on a serious tone. "I know you, and it seems like you're angry for some reason."

I scoffed and rolled my eyes. "Like you really care."

She looked at me like she'd been slapped. " What is that supposed to mean, Samira? Where is all of these coming from?"

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about Oma."

"You'll have to be clear because I don't know why you're acting like this."

"You know what," I said to her. "I'm going to stop beating around the bush and tell you. I am angry. Yes. I'm furious." 

"Well, you don't say," she said sarcastically and rolled her eyes.

"I'm angry and furious and mad. At you." I stopped and looked at her. She furrowed her brows in confusion. She wanted more. She wanted an explanation. And an explanation she was going to get.