The Way She Walked In

The restaurant was already half-full when Sanaa walked in, sunlight catching on the gold hoops in her ears. Her dress was long and loose, the color of ripe papaya, and her hair fell in thick twists down her back, each one shining like polished wood. She moved like she belonged—because she did. Because someone before her had made sure she could.

Behind her, her cousins trailed in—Tariq with his camera strapped across his chest, Amina in all denim and lip gloss, and little Jamal holding a bag of dried hibiscus they’d picked up from the corner market on the way.

They were meeting Aunt Mariam, who ran the kitchen on Sundays like a symphony. She was a legend for her oxtail stew, but more than that—for how she carried herself: shoulders square, voice soft but unshakable. Everyone in the neighborhood knew not to rush her, not when she was setting the table, not when she was layering herbs into her broth.

When Sanaa stepped into the kitchen, Mariam smiled and pointed to the shelf. “Grab the rosemary and that honey ginger tea. I steeped it long for you—it’s been one of those weeks, hasn’t it?”

Sanaa nodded. She didn’t need to say much. They all knew how the world moved sometimes—how people asked silent questions with their eyes, how they made assumptions when you didn’t shrink. But not here. Not in this house. Not at this table.

Jamal climbed into her lap while she poured the tea, his little fingers playing with one of her twists.

“I want mine to grow long too,” he said.

“It will,” she whispered, smoothing his edges gently. “Just water it with patience and pride.”

By the time the rest of the cousins arrived, the house was humming. The scent of thyme and coconut rice danced through the room. Plates clinked, laughter layered itself over music—somewhere between jazz and Sunday soul. There were no “hair rules” here. No stares. Just people being exactly who they were, beautifully, without trimming themselves down.

Amina showed off the beads she’d added to her braids—copper and wood, ones she'd carved herself. Tariq pulled out his camera and snapped a photo of Sanaa with the tea in her hand, her eyes soft, lips pressed into the rim of the mug.

“You always look like art,” he said.

“That’s because I come from it,” she replied.

And when they all gathered at the table—plates heavy with food, hearts full with ease—Sanaa looked around and knew: this was what belonging felt like. Not being allowed in.
Just being never questioned at all.

No parts of her “too much.”
No part of her trimmed for comfort.
No part of her needing permission to be.

Just her.
Whole.
Seen.
And loved.