Once we installed ourselves in the back seats, the music started. Warda. My brother and I hated her. She was my mother’s favourite. I thought that she even imitated her outfit and made-up her face with the same colors. She never went out without make-up.
We were still savouring our cakes when my mother asked us to stop talking. She looked scared. She asked us to slip down in our seats in a way that our heads be unseen. She kept checking her front and rear mirrors. She said somebody was following us.
The car wandered the streets without a clear destination, and all that we could see from our back seats was my mother’s anxious eyes in the front mirror trying to find the culprit.