Laila Ahmad

My name is Laila Ahmad, and I come from the line of the prophet. Most people do not believe this and neither do I because it feels too good to be true. Just like the rest of my family I have long black hair, a hawk-like nose  (which I hate to admit), larger than life eyes and creamy white skin. My father is the richest person I have ever known.

When I had turned nine, my father asked us all to come with him to the Gambia –it was something about expanding his business.

My primary school days in the Gambia were the most tormenting days of my life. My school and class mates kept looking at me like I was an alien from Jupiter. Some kept poking and pulling my hair which I always gather into a pony-tail. Some were friendly whilst others always showed me the cold shoulder.

There was a girl in our class; I can’t remember her name, she hated the mere mention of my name all through our sixth grade.

“Why are you very beautiful?” she retorted one day during break time with a knowing sneer on her face.

“I am an Arab,” I replied matter of-factly, grateful that I do not have an ebony skin like hers.

Words came to her lips, but she took them back and walked away with drooping shoulders.

Poor thing I thought, she could have been my friend I would be more than glad to share my food with her because I knew she was one of those students who did not know if they would have their next meal.

My glory did not last for long because I seldom get this lucky. I was usually at the receiving end of their tongues and hands. They beat me to a pulp for no reason- or for the simple fact that I was the most beautiful girl in the school.

Sometimes in their presence, teachers and older students would purr, “Oh what a beauty!” “Isn’t she the most beautiful creature you have ever seen?” “Oh my, she is a sight for sore eyes.” I could feel the jealous ones’ hatred a mile away.

One day after school before the driver came to pick me up, a group of girls from my class suddenly surrounded me they called me all sorts of names, but I kept my mouth shut. They went on and on until one of them looked at me carefully, concluded that I had sufficiently subdued, and crooned dryly, “Let’s go and leave this dirty hawk –like nose of an Arab. She is not worth our punch.”

I only needed those words to send me flying toward her. This time I manage to split my knuckle to the bone on her yellow front teeth. Then I kicked her in the ribs. She eventually curled into a ball and the others ran away. I knew they had been singing, “I want my mummy” when they saw that.

The news of my beating that girl reached the four corners of the school and I spent the rest of my school days in school in peace. I was nick-named the daughter of Rambo. The name did stuck and I grew proud of it.

Now that I am older, my beauty does not fail to turn heads wherever I go. Some people fix their gaze on me till I am out of their sight.

I now enjoy VIP treatments wherever I go, and others do not hide their open admiration.

They openly admit that I am the most beautiful lady they have ever seen. I always bask in the glory of my beauty and I must admit it is quite intoxicating.