Òyì nke e mepụtara

The apartment was cramped, but that was normal for New York. A single couch that sagged in the middle, a coffee table with one uneven leg, and a small kitchen that barely fit two people at once. Amina sat cross-legged on the couch, her hijab neatly pinned, black fabric draped down over a loose cream abaya. She had her arms folded, watching her younger sister pace. “I’m just saying it’s not fair,” Nadia snapped, her sneakers squeaking against the floor as she turned again. “We’re barely paying re