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About Me

I am a writer and teacher, born and raised in Toronto, Canada, currently living in Alexandria, Egypt. My published works include two picture books (One Hundred Flavours of Ice Cream, Bilal's Second Surprise) and three chapter books (Blackout, Littering Stinks, and Stuck in the Middle), available at ruqayasbookshelf.com.

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  1. Anonymous2 September 2022 at 05:57

    Hi Sumayya this is zakiya glad to know about you. Do visit my website as well http://www.duasforlife.wordpress.com/ looking forward to collaborate in shaa Allah.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Anonymous14 June 2023 at 22:39

    As Salaam Alaikum. Nice to hear about you. In sha Allah

    ReplyDelete

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When I flew away

I flew away, one day, leaving you behind; you were not quite sixteen. There were ten years between us, and we shared a room for many of those years. And because of the age gap, you didn't get under my skin like the others... I remember the day you were born, and the jaundice lights they put you under, and your pitiful newborn cries. I couldn't stand to hear them and ran out of the room. Silly girl. Our oldest brother named you. He wanted you to have a strong name, like the woman who defended the Prophet in battle. And so it was. The little piece of flesh that came home with us from the hospital was called Nusaybah. You were Mom's sixth, and you were our baby as much as hers. Our old albums are peppered with photos of us carrying you, and you screaming your head off. One day, after she'd started you on solids, Mom asked me to put your baby food in a bowl of hot water, so it would be a suitable temperature. I was puzzled by the request, and when I asked for clarification,...
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Giddo

We'd walk down those nondescript Egyptian streets, my siblings and I, faces glistening with sweat in the humid summer weather. The Mediterranean was just around the corner; it brought the breeze, but it also brought that heavy moisture that hung in the air. Mom's eager steps led us to her childhood home, past listless men sitting in cafe chairs in the street, watching passersby. All those old buildings looked the same to us – until we reached the entrance to your building. They were double doors, wooden and painted blue once-upon-a-time, and one of them was always open. I guess you'd hear our clambering footsteps approaching, because you'd let out your signature whistle. It was a simple melody: two long notes, gentle like the wind against our sweaty faces. We'd look at each other in excited recognition, grab the metal banister, and dash up the wide stone staircase leading up to your apartment. You'd always be waiting in the doorway with a big smile. Your kisses ...
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