Efeeloo's Quiet Joy

Efeeloo watched his eldest brother, Kabaari, from the periphery, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It was a quiet joy, the kind that bloomed in the secret corners of the heart, unburdened by grand pronouncements or boisterous cheers. The air in their home, once thick with Kabaari’s unspoken pronouncements of dominion, now felt lighter, as if a heavy cloak had been gently lifted. He saw it in the way Kabaari no longer instinctively puffed out his chest when Beatrice spoke of her latest embroidery design, or how his gaze didn’t immediately scan for flaws when Nuanae excitedly demonstrated a new contraption he’d built from scrap metal and wishful thinking.

Instead, Kabaari’s eyes, once sharp and critical when turned towards his siblings, now held a softer, more contemplative light. He’d listened, truly listened, to Nuanae’s earnest explanation of how the gears worked, nodding thoughtfully and even offering a suggestion about reinforcing a particular joint. He’d praised Beatrice’s intricate stitch work, remarking on the delicate balance of colors, a far cry from his usual dismissive “nice, I suppose” or his more pointed “it’s good for you, but hardly exceptional.”

Efeeloo remembered the early days, the subtle barbs, the condescending pats on the head. Kabaari, the undisputed king of their small kingdom, had always been quick to point out any perceived weakness, any faltering step. His own towering confidence, a fortress built brick by brick with years of being the eldest, had cast a long shadow. Beatrice’s artistic endeavors, Nuanae’s tinkering, even Efeeloo’s own quiet observations, had all been measured against Kabaari’s yardstick, and almost always found wanting.