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
My primary school days in the
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.
