3:30 A.M.

It was 3 in the morning, and Willis was awake.

She awoke to the sound of the clock. Ticking slow and soft, tickling her ears as she roused from her deep slumber.

Her eyes adjusted at the darkness of the room. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table and sighed.

3.30

A habit since younger days, Willis would never find the guts to skip a morning prayer. But her withered body protested as she attempted to lift her head off the pillow.

Years of strength have left her to suffer in all her wrinkles.

Lifting a cup needed extra strength than it used to, and it was frustrating how sensitive her skin became when the day was too hot or too cold. It was annoying every time she woke up with an ache in her belly.

I will never grow too old. I will stay strong and sharp, even after I have grandchildren, she used to think.

But when people are younger they do not think they will ever grow weak, as if their youth and strength were eternal. They forget about the inevitable.

Then in their forties or fifties it starts. The back aches, the itches.

Soon enough climbing stairs will feel like hiking mountains, and their walking will turn wobbly.

Willis drew a long breath.

Her arms tensed and she heaved her body upwards so she could sit.

Succeeding, she felt the wall for a light switch and turned it on.

It was time to pray.

Though the oldest of habits would sometimes feel bothersome, it was always the memories behind it that reminded her of their importance.

3.30 was the safest time she had to hope. The safest period she had before sunrise where she could pray for her family and herself.

From the gunshots in the forest. From the white men. From the men with small eyes.

Trust yourself to God, her mother would say, Only to He will you trust yourself to and no one else.

She scooted off the bed and found her slippers. She put them on and took her cane, then headed towards the bathroom.

Even though in this time no such dangers were out there to threaten her family or herself, sometimes she could still feel the presence of an age-old fear.

Sometimes the hum of the washing machine sounded like a military truck, ones that stop in front of forests to shoot at protesters.

Sometimes the sound of her grandchildren’s shoes sounded like boots that thumped on wooden floors.

Sometimes the stove sounded like loaded guns.

She would never admit it, but deep down inside she was still a little scared.

But it was 3.30 in the morning, it was quiet, and she was safe.

Now fully dressed in her mukena, she reached for a Qur’an and flipped through its yellow pages.

 

 

Author's Note

Okay, so this my first attempt at writing after a reeeeaaally long period of time. English isn't my first language so critics about grammar and so on are very welcome!