A Plate for the Neighbour

The scent of banana stew filled the whole house. Baby Mo and Baby Ais were already sitting nicely at the table, spoons in hand, eyes shining.

But Umi didn't serve it right away. She prepared one more bowl, covering it neatly with a clean cloth.

"Who's that for, Umi?" asked Baby Mo, a little worried his share was shrinking.

"For the grandma next door," answered Umi. "She lives alone. When we cook something nice, we share a little with the neighbours. That's a good habit in this house."

Baby Mo looked at the covered bowl. Honestly, he wanted all of it for himself. But then he remembered the next-door grandma's face, always smiling whenever they passed.

"Mo will deliver it!" he suddenly cried.

So off the three of them went. Baby Mo held the bowl with both hands, ever so carefully, as if carrying treasure. Baby Ais knocked on the door, "Knock knock!"

The door opened. The grandma's face lit up at once like the morning sun. "Masha'Allah! For me?"

Baby Mo nodded proudly. Grandma stroked both their heads and prayed something gentle over them — a prayer they didn't fully understand, but that felt warm all the way to their chests.

On the walk home, Baby Mo felt something odd. His bowl was empty now, yet his heart felt fuller than before they left.

"Umi," he said, "sharing… it fills you up too, doesn't it?"

Umi laughed softly. "That's the most delicious kind of full, sweetheart."

Jibril kept advising me about the neighbour, until I thought he would make him an heir.

That night the stew tasted twice as good. Because the sweetest thing, it turned out, wasn't the sugar — it was a plate shared with a neighbour.