I Am Not Special

I,

I wake up at 6:35 a.m. turn around, check if my phone buzzed while I was being chased by the paparazzi in a different dimension. A yellow blinking light I see, my sloppy fingers unlock the screen only to see an SMS I received. "Hurrah! You're the chosen one! Recharge with 500 fils to claim your seventy unicorn-colored trips to Hawaii!" Pffft. "Chosen one," I think to myself and tug my duvet right back on. Minutes later I hear my name being chanted until mama's water spray breaks my fantasy. Oh, I'm late for the bus. Again. I drag myself outta bed blind way-finding to brush my teeth. Next thing you know, I've fallen face down on the washing machine. Bruised on my eye and half starved I run across the street and -sorry Uncle, I'll wake up earlier.- I drape my hijab over my face of shame and drool in exhaustion for the next forty minutes. The hazy corridors I walk past filled with small, fat, skinny, tall people one better than the other at uff, don't push, man, one better than the other at singing, dancing, studying. Hung across the lobby I stare at the honour-roll board, a lot of familiar names none of which are mine. I still make it to class feed on the energy only to survive yet another day of every one's special but I,

I'm not.

That's why I am.

Photograph by Hiba Aydeed