« Once we installed ourselves in the back seats, the music started. Warda. My brother and I used to hate her at the time. 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 regularly. She said somebody was following us. The car wandered the streets without a clear destination, and all what we were seeing from our back seats was my mother’s anxious eyes in the front mirror trying to find the culprit in this inexplicable race against time. »
Roula Ayoubi