She grew up in a kolba made of mud outside the village. Her father put her there.
Have you told her, Mariam, have you told her that you are a harami? Well, she is.
But she is not without qualities, all things considered. You will see for yourself, Laila jan.
She is sturdy, for one thing, a good worker, and without pretensions. I'll say it this way: If she were a car, she would be a Volga.”
Mariam was a thirty-three-year-old woman now, but that word, harami, still had sting.
Hearing it still made her feel like she was a pest, a cockroach.
She remembered Nana pulling her wrists. “You are a clumsy little harami.”
“This is my reward for everything I've endured. An heirloom-breaking clumsy little harami.”
“You,” Rasheed said to the girl, “you, on the other hand, would be a Benz. A brand new, first class, shiny Benz. Wah wah. But. But.”
He raised one greasy index finger. “One must take certain... cares... with a Benz as a matter of respect for its beauty and craftsmanship, you see.
Oh, you must be thinking that I am crazy, diwana, with all this talk of automobiles. I am not saying you are cars. I am merely making a point.”
For what came next, Rasheed put down the ball of rice he'd made back on the plate.
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