Fifteen

The first day of Eid came bright and early, I'm cutting up Vegetables for the salad we'll eat when Abdul, Amal and my mother-in-law return from Eid prayers.

The door buzzes downstairs and I rush to pick my phone, call the doorman downstairs to allow the caterer bring the food upstairs. I slide on a longer hijab and wait at the elevator door for the caterer. The door swishes open and in comes a slightly heavy set fair skinned woman, she's Yoruba, cooks food for small occasions like this one.

"Hello ma'am." She smiles at me and hands me the full bag, when I take it, my hand drops, the bag is heavy. I thank her and pay her balance and watch the elevator doors slide shut behind her.

When I get back to the kitchen, I set out big foil plates covered with cling film platters of Jollof, fried rice, and pepper soup. I turn each into a microwavable plate and put the pepper soup in the microwave to get hot again in time for the Eid prayers goers to return.

Just as I shut the microwave's door, my