Once Upon an Eid Read online

  I imitated her mousy voice. “You don’t speak Mandinka? No French? Only English? Ha-ha-ha.”

  “I didn’t mean it like—”

  I continued to mock her. “You’re the only child? Africans don’t do that! Ha-ha-ha.”

  “I didn’t say that to your mom!”

  “You said it to me, and you all laughed, and she heard you! At least we don’t have a bajillion kids in one little apartment!”

  “Wait a minute!” Fanta snapped.

  “At least we’re not too good to eat your greasy food! You and your mom didn’t even touch Mom’s food last time, and she was up all night making it! We ate your nasty, oily plantains anyway!”

  “Stop! Stop! Stop! That’s not nice!” Fanta yelled, flailing her arms. A cupcake flew onto the bed, right smack-dab in the middle of my abaya.

  She gasped. “Oh! I didn’t mean to!”

  With a growl, I lunged at her. She turned to run, but I tackled her fast. I mashed cake into her face again and again.

  “Get off!” Fanta threw me off of her.

  She swiped the cake from her face and held me down as she smeared it on mine. I twisted around to get free, dropping my plate.

  I leapt to the bed. Standing on top of it, I grabbed two gobs of cake from my abaya and wound up my arm like a pitcher.

  “No!” Fanta shrieked.

  I lobbed both chunks at the outfit hanging on the closet. She snatched my plate from the floor. I dodged one chocolaty throw, then another, but one hit me square in the nose. Fanta pointed and cackled.

  I wiped my nose. “Well, you look a mess too!”

  She touched her face, smearing even more icing on it. I laughed then.

  I scooped cake off of my face. Licking it, I said, “You cook as good as you throw.”

  We both laughed then, laughed until we fell onto the bed, laughed until we were crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said.

  “Me too.”

  “No, not just for this. For last year. We didn’t know much English when we met you. I said some mean things so I wouldn’t feel stupid.”

  “We were embarrassed too, so we didn’t talk. I’m half Mandinka. I should know some words.”

  “You’re lucky to have two cultures.”

  “My mom says I need to love both of them.”

  “Your mom is smart—nice too. I said that thing about Africans having lots of kids because I was jealous. You get your mom and a whole house to yourself, and we’re all crammed into this apartment.”

  “Mom can’t have kids easy. I’m her miracle,” I said quietly.

  “We learned that later. Uncle Amadou was so upset. We’ve been trying to make it up to Aunt Amina . . . and you.”

  “Well, what do we do now?” I asked. Chocolate was on the walls and floor. My abaya and her gown were ruined.

  “Our parents are going to kill us!”

  “Not if they don’t know anything. Where do you keep your cleaning supplies?”

  We scrubbed the floor and walls, and the room looked normal in minutes. I washed the stains out of Fanta’s purple gown and my abaya in the bathroom sink.

  Fanta wrung them out and sighed. “They won’t be dry in time for tomorrow.”

  I had an idea and ran into Fanta’s room. I took down the lapa that had been behind her gown and placed it next to my untouched shimmery jacket. Cute!

  The next morning, Fanta spun around in her purple lapa and my coral jacket, which came down past her knees. “I’m beautiful like you now!”

  “Me? You’re the pretty, perfect one!”

  “Oh, please! Everyone knows you’re the pretty one, Hawa,” Fanta said, and she meant it.

  “Squat down low,” she said while wrapping my lapa as tight as possible. When I stood, the skirt was wound tightly around my waist, but I walked easily. I looked amazing in Fanta’s full-length mirror, and yet something was missing. I found the turquoise shoes and matching purse in my suitcase. Their color popped with my African outfit.

  We celebrated Eid in a park in the Bronx where many other West Africans went, wearing dazzling colors against dark skin. Food was spread out on tables—many African dishes and sweets and also Hawa’s cupcakes and the bean pies Mom had made from an old family recipe. Mom was radiant as she laughed with Aunt Mariama and Mama Dusu, who was eating her third slice of bean pie. And I knew then what Mom meant about loving all of me.

  Fanta introduced me to two of her friends, whose looks reminded me of Sanaa and Khalilah.

  Without thinking, I said, “Tuh-nahn-tay la?”

  “Tanasté!” they replied.

  Fanta smiled. At first I thought she was mocking me, but then I realized her smile was warm and kind—maybe it always had been.

  Fanta spoke: “The way you said that . . . it was . . . perfect.”

  Eid lights twinkled along the curved entrance of our family room. Our last Ramadan meal now behind us, everyone was hurrying to finish up last-minute preparations for Eid. My father arranged the wrapped presents by the fireplace. My nani sat on the rocker next to him, hemming the kamiz my big sister, Roshan, was wearing the next morning.

  And me? I was helping my mother make our traditional Eid brownies for brunch the next day. Roshan stood across from me on the other side of the island, layering blueberries on the tart she’d spent all evening working on. This was the first year she wasn’t making Eid brownies with us.

  It was her loss, I reminded myself. The tart would probably taste fine—as good as a dessert with fruit in it could—but it wasn’t exactly a secret that Eid brownies were our family’s favorite dessert.

  “Ready?” my mother asked me. A red apron was tied around her waist, and she held a white mixing spoon in her hand.

  Roshan glanced over at us. “Eid brownie time?”

  “Feeling jealous?” I teased her.

  “Yeah, I’m jealous when I’m the one who decided to move on,” she retorted.

  “Come on now, the more dessert the better, in my opinion,” my mother said. She pulled her cooking binder off the shelf and flipped to the brownie recipe.

  “We don’t need that,” I told her. “I know the recipe by heart.”

  “Can’t be too careful with one of the most important items on the menu.”

  Well, that was true. We got to work quickly, sifting the flour and cocoa, cracking eggs, and melting the butter before stirring it all together. My mom liked to pull out photos from when I was a little kid with powder all over my face from the mixing, but now I was eleven and there wasn’t so much as a speck of dust on me.

  “How’s it going?” my father asked, stepping into the kitchen. He looked over my sister’s shoulder. “Roshan, that dessert looks too pretty to eat.”

  “The blueberries won’t stay still.” Roshan frowned. “They wiggle every time I try to pick up the tart.”

  “The cream will set in the fridge, and you can readjust the berries in the morning,” my mother called out to her.

  “But we all know the brownies will taste the best,” I said with a grin.

  “Do you hear him?” Roshan complained.

  “Yusuf.” My father reached over and mussed my hair.

  “What?” I asked. “No one’s ever made a tart before. Eid brownies are called Eid brownies for a reason.”

  “Roshan worked hard,” my mother said. “I’m sure it’s going to taste delicious.”

  I didn’t reply. It made no sense. How could she just decide she was suddenly too old to be part of a family tradition from as far back as I could remember?

  “I think the batter is ready to be poured into the pan.” My mother put a hand on my shoulder and looked down at the metal mixing bowl. “Are you sure you don’t want to bake them now? Tomorrow’s a busy day.”

  “Brownies fresh out of the oven taste the best,” I said. When I was little, she had baked the brownies the night before, but for the past two years I had tweaked the tradition and baked them the day of Eid. The smell of cocoa drifting through the house
had a way of making the whole day feel a little more special.

  “Fine. But that means the brownies are your responsibility tomorrow, got it?” she said. “We’re hosting close to fifty people this year, so getting them baked, cut, and set on the dessert table will be your job.”

  “I can do it,” I promised.

  I poured the brownie batter into the pan and covered it with plastic wrap before tucking it in the fridge behind the marinating chicken for biryani tomorrow and the sweet round gulab jamans my grandmother had spent the morning frying.

  In just a few hours it would be Eid.

  I couldn’t wait.

  The prayer hall was packed by the time we got to the masjid the next morning. People mingled and chatted and talked over one another while two men walked through the aisles with orange Fitrana donation boxes. Even with the crowds I still managed to find my best friend, Eesa, and his father sitting on their prayer rugs toward the front of the room. As soon as he saw me in the distance, he waved us over. My father and I spread our rugs next to theirs and settled down.

  “Coming to our place after this?” I asked him.

  “Yep! Right after we open our gifts, and”—he leaned in—“I’m pretty sure my parents got me the Nintendo Switch for Eid!”

  “No way! How do you know?”

  “It’s the only thing I asked for. And I said it could double as my Eid and birthday gift since it’s so expensive. I did all my homework on time, I got one hundreds on my last two math tests, and I’ve cleaned out Tesla’s litter box all month without even being asked. And this morning there was a wrapped package sitting on the dining table with all the other gifts that’s the exact same size as a Nintendo Switch box. So . . .” He shrugged and grinned.

  “And it’s portable,” I told him. “Maybe you can bring it to our house?”

  “Definitely!” he replied as Imam Yaseen rose to begin Eid prayers. We lined up shoulder to shoulder. The thought of possibly playing Super Mario Odyssey and eating fresh-baked brownies in just a little while meant this was shaping up to be one of the best Eids ever.

  When we arrived home, the smells of cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves tickled my nose. My grandmother had stayed back to finish making the biryani, and now the freshly layered onions and rice and chicken resting on the wide serving pan made my mouth water.

  The doorbell rang. My father’s sister, Phupo Saira, had arrived. My twin cousins squealed as they ran straight for the family room and my box of old toys.

  Roshan pulled her dessert out of the fridge, and I winced. My mom had said the cream would set in the fridge, but the tart looked like a Salvador Dalí creation of droopy blueberries, kiwi, and strawberries. The thing about brownies—I pulled my pan out of the fridge—was they didn’t need to look pretty. They tasted great just the way they were.

  I set the oven to 350 degrees and stuck the brownies in as the doorbell rang and more and more people arrived, the house filling with the sounds of conversation and laughter. I glanced at the clock: 11:00 a.m. on the dot. At 11:25, I’d pull out the perfect Eid brownies.

  In the dining room, I grabbed the serving platter, and the doorbell chimed again. It was Eesa and his parents! And in his hands was the Nintendo Switch box. I set down the tray and hurried upstairs to the loft. We flipped on the television. It took a while to figure out how to get the Switch to cast to the TV and to get our Miis to look like us, but it was worth it, because when we began the game, it actually felt like we were inside the game.

  “This is incredible,” I said under my breath as we dove further and further into Mario’s Odyssey. “My dad doesn’t think we need the Switch. He’s too attached to his Super Nintendo where Mario is just eating mushrooms all day long . . .”

  I lowered the control.

  I looked at the wall clock over the television.

  I read the time: 11:35 a.m.

  That couldn’t be right.

  “I’ll be back,” I said before jumping up and racing down the stairs.

  I flung open the oven door and grabbed the mitts.

  I yanked out the brownies.

  But it was too late.

  They were burned.

  The edges were charred black.

  Instead of being springy and soft, the top layer of chocolate cracked under my fingers like a potato chip.

  This was the one dish I was in charge of. The most important one. And I’d ruined it.

  Just then, my grandmother came in from the dining room and put a hand on my shoulder. “What’s with that face?” she asked me.

  “I messed up the brownies.” A tear slipped down my cheek. “They’re destroyed.”

  “Well, they’re definitely a bit black on the edges.” She studied the pan. “But destroyed? Hardly. I know the perfect way to fix them.”

  She went to the pantry and brought back a container of chocolate frosting. “Yours isn’t the first dessert to hit a snag,” she told me. “But frosting makes most desserts taste better. Spread some along the edges, and no one will know a thing.”

  I pulled a knife out of the cutlery drawer and edged the brownies with frosting. They didn’t look quite so burned now, but they still didn’t look edible.

  “Yusuf!” a voice gasped. “What did you do?” It was Roshan. She stared at me. My chest tightened. I had teased her yesterday about her dessert, and now I’d ruined my own. She looked down at the tray and shook her head. And then, before I could reply, she walked away. Probably to tell our mother. I’d be on pots and pans cleanup duty until I was eighteen now.

  Just then my father walked into the kitchen holding a half-empty tray of biryani.

  “What’s going on?” he asked me.

  “No brownies this year,” I said softly. My father loved Eid brownies. He normally dove into them before he’d even had his meal, like I did. “I lost track of time. Nani said the frosting could cover up the black edges, but they still look awful.”

  “Hmmm.” My father scratched his beard. “Frosting is good, but whipped cream helps too.” He walked to the fridge and brought back a container of Cool Whip. “Add some dollops in the middle, and between that and the fudge edges, I think it’ll be just fine.”

  I pulled out a spoon and added puffs of whipped cream like he said. He was right. With the iced edges and the whipped cream center, it looked like I was trying my hand at decorating. You couldn’t tell the brownies were burned anymore. But how would they taste?

  Just then Roshan walked back over and stood next to me.

  “You sure messed that up.” She looked down at the brownies. “Take this.” She handed me a ziplock bag of M&M’S.

  I stared at the bag. “Why?”

  “It’s my secret stash.” She rolled her eyes. “If you make a pattern with them or just sprinkle them on the Cool Whip, it’ll add a little extra sweetness to each bite and make it look like you did all this on purpose.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Well, it is Eid.” She poked me with her elbow.

  “Thanks,” I told her. “The tart looked good.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say, Yusuf.” She sighed. “But it definitely doesn’t look like the Pinterest picture, and no amount of M&M’S will fix it.”

  “It doesn’t have to look like that picture,” I told her. “You can get one like that photo at any old bakery. Yours looks like art. It’s one of a kind.”

  “One of a kind, yes. But art?” Roshan shook her head. But she laughed as she carried the tart over to the dessert table just outside the kitchen.

  Just then my mother walked in.

  “How’s it going?” she asked. She glanced at the brownies and tilted her head. “Went for a different look this year?”

  I knew she’d notice. How could she not? Brownies were part of her childhood Eid tradition. She had baked them with my grandmother each year since she was a kid.

  “I burned them.” I looked down at the counter. “I lost track of time. Nani gave me icing. Abu got me whipped cream. Roshan shared her
M&M’S, but it doesn’t matter. They’re not the Eid brownies we make, and they definitely won’t taste good.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry I ruined our tradition.”

  My mother picked up the butter knife resting on the counter and cut out a small square. She took a bite. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked at me.

  “Have you tried them?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Go ahead.” She cut another square and handed it to me.

  I took it from her and prepared for the worst, but . . .

  “They taste good!” I exclaimed. “They’re different.” I glanced down at the tray. “I burned them so bad I thought they were destroyed.”

  “When I was not much older than you are now, I also messed up the Eid brownies. After that, your grandmother always made sure to have plenty of adjustment tools on hand, just in case.”

  I sliced the brownies, placed them on the serving platter, carried them out to the dining table, and set them next to a tray of chocolate chip cookies and my nani’s gulab jaman.

  Roshan was standing by the table.

  “Trade you a brownie for a slice of tart?” I asked her. I glanced over at her tart plate—but the plate was empty!

  “That fast?” I said. “Must’ve been pretty delicious.”

  “You can tell me yourself,” she said. “I saved you a slice.” She pulled a plate out of the china cabinet and handed it to me.

  I took a bite. “Wow. It’s fantastic,” I told her. And I meant it. “Who knew fruit in a dessert could taste so good?”

  “Seriously?” She frowned. “Everyone here’s going to tell me it’s good because they don’t want to discourage me, you know? Do you like it? Honestly?”

  “I do,” I said. “It’s creamy and sweet and just a little tangy. Maybe we could have it again for next Eid.”

  “Make it a new part of the dessert tradition?”

  “Yeah.” I hesitated. “And maybe next time we could make our desserts—both of them—together?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “Maybe we could.”

  I finished the tart and grabbed two brownies before hurrying back up to the loft, where Eesa was waiting for me.