Short Story

AN INNER ODYSSEY

Bill Bennette, Sherborne Scribblers

A‘ bdullah! Please come and have your breakfast at once,’ Mother called from the next room in the tiny cottage we shared in Kabul. She has been so stressed since my father and elder brother were killed in a horrific explosion, which demolished our lovely family home that had served many generations. It was only two months ago, and I have not been sleeping well, imagining – in a recurring nightmare of great clarity – the devastation and shock of what had happened. I still felt guilty for leaving the house to help Mum instead of staying to help Dad. I could only imagine what nightmares my poor mother Amara suffered.

We had gone to our local market to collect the meat, fruit and vegetables for the celebrations of my parent’s silver wedding anniversary and needed masses of everything for the spectacular lunch Mum would cook. Whatever she made, it was always the best anyone had ever tasted. Dad and Tariq had been arranging the large garden balcony, where the table for twenty people would have been. Most of the street was destroyed by a huge bomb planted in an oil tanker outside the German Embassy. It was assumed by the authorities to have been carried out by the Taliban or Isis.

Having dressed hurriedly, I went into the kitchen – which was our only other room. We shared a bedroom that had two narrow beds, which we were grateful to have. Dad’s cousin Fatima had invited us to stay in this tiny space behind her house, when we had been left penniless. Mum was in a hurry to leave to get to one of the big houses in a good residential area, where she had found employment for the first time in her life and was practically in tears. She was trying so hard to be sure I was cared for before leaving to arrive at work at 6.30am. She was head cook and prepared breakfast for the family and stayed on all day to make lunch and an evening meal, as well as baking tasty cakes and biscuits for tea.

I hugged her, as I said, ‘I am only 14 years old but can look after myself Mama and promise to take care of you as soon as possible, so you won’t have to go out to work.’ I cannot remember whose eyes had the most tears at that moment. I vowed, there and then, that I would follow my dream to own the best restaurant in the city and have Mum in charge of all the cooks, who would work to her instructions. I had no doubt whatsoever that we would always be full, with people enjoying her scrumptious food.

A few days later, Mum asked me if I would help her as a waiter at the big house. The family were having a party and she had been asked if she could find someone to supplement the serving staff. I had been trained by my father how to wait a table and to make sure that no one lacked anything. I had to be aware so that their cups were always filled with fresh sweet

tea and their glasses with chilled water, served with a slice of orange and a leaf or two of mint. I brushed up well, wearing black trousers, well-polished shoes and a fresh white shirt, all borrowed from Auntie Fatima’s son – I made a good first impression at the party.

The master of the house, Sami Hussein, and his delightful wife, Maha, were so supportive of Mum and raved about her food. They were intrigued by the attention I paid to them and all their guests and expressed an interest in our family.

When I told them about the bombing where we lived, they were sympathetic. They had known some people who perished on the other side of the Embassy, which had been the main target of the ambush. That started a close friendship, with me working alongside my mother as often as my schooling would permit. My mentor assumed a paternal role and would often talk with me about my dreams and ambitions and encouraged me to work hard at my studies. He was fascinated by my wishing to own a beautiful restaurant in the city where Mum would reign supreme.

He guided me through a sea of opportunities to gain knowledge and experience working in the many eateries and cafes in Kabul as well as arranging for me to work in Beirut, where some of the finest French cuisine existed. The years flew by, as I matured and opened our first restaurant. My mother worked tirelessly with me to get it off the ground and make it a huge success. We later opened, under the direction and financial support of Sami Hussein, the same style establishments in several cities in the Muslim world. Mum’s amazing recipes and home cooking seemed to have hit the spot. We named our group simply Amara’s Table.

I was so grateful for having achieved my goal and was able to take care of my mother. We now had several restaurants in partnership with the wonderful Sami. I even married his beautiful daughter Khadiga and bought a lovely, large house for my family. Mother has her own wing and rules the roost, directing her kitchen staff with so much love, and enjoying her grandchildren. Our home smells delicious and warming like it always did before our lives were changed that dreadful day.

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