Red tea

Every summer, I visit my grandmother. Every evening, I make red tea. To get that deep, crimson color, I had to learn steps that took me a while to perfect. When you’re a teenager, you don’t care much about measuring everything precisely — sugar, tea powder, water temperature, or even the brewing time. I also had to be careful not to let the tea boil over while daydreaming.

Finally, I poured the tea into clear cups and stepped out into the courtyard. My grandmother was sitting there.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“They’re coming,” she said.

I sat down, watching how the tea’s color matched the henna stains on my grandmother’s fingers. Just like every evening, we gathered together — my grandmother, my aunt, and sometimes the neighbor, who would bring biscuits or cakes. The mother of the child my aunt babysat would come to pick him up and wouldn’t mind having a cup of tea and a bit of conversation. My grandmother’s sister would also join us; her walk to my grandmother’s house was the only exercise she got, as they lived near each other.

Everyone sat together, sharing stories.

That day, the child’s mother told us how they had found her brother, who had been missing for two years and four months. They found him working at a grocery store, with no memory of who he was. They were told that when he was found, he couldn’t remember anything — not even what year it was. The police couldn’t help much because they had no identification, so they took him to a hospital and later to a shelter. Eventually, he was taken in by the store owner, who gave him a job and a place to stay.

We comforted the child’s mother, who left quickly, eager to return home and hear the full story. We felt sad and prayed for strength for their family.

Then our neighbor shared another story: the twin sisters in the neighborhood, who looked identical and even had similar-sounding names, had both been proposed to by two brothers. Although the brothers weren’t twins, they looked so alike that it was hard to tell them apart, even though they were a year apart in age. The whole family resembled each other, down to the parents and daughters.

We laughed, imagining how their future children might look alike too.

After some more chatting, I told my grandmother that I was going inside to read. I poured another cup of tea and took my book with me. I thought about how the stories from my grandmother’s neighbors were like novels, and every time I visited her, I returned home with tales to share with my siblings and mother over tea.

The following evening, as usual, we made tea and sat in the courtyard, but no one came. This was unusual at my grandmother’s house. Even the child’s mother didn’t show up, but given the events of the previous day, my aunt assumed she wouldn’t bring her child today.

The neighbor came to tell us that she was heading to visit the child’s family, and everyone else was going too. We decided to join her.

When we arrived at their house, the child’s mother greeted us warmly, though she looked exhausted, as did everyone else. The room was filled with women from the neighborhood and relatives. They served us tea, cake, biscuits, and nuts.

The child’s grandmother began telling us the story.

“Almost two and a half years ago, my son, a young man who had just graduated from university and was doing temporary jobs, told me he wanted to work abroad. I objected strongly and told him there were opportunities here. But he said he needed a change and felt suffocated.

We argued. He told me he was free to live his life as he wished. I warned him that I would pray against his decision, and since parental blessings are essential, he didn’t want that. He stormed out of the house, angry — and never returned.

One of our relatives who works in the police force reassured me that he had likely traveled. I told him that my son hadn’t taken anything with him — all his documents and belongings were still here. The officer assured me he would come back once he cooled down.

Days turned into months.

We reported his disappearance to the police, who searched hospitals and every possible place but found nothing. I kept praying every day, blaming myself.

Yesterday, I woke up to this unbelievable news.

A young man, the son of a factory owner, had traveled to a town three hours away to open a factory. He met a young man working at a grocery store who looked familiar. When he asked where he was from, the young man told his story:

‘I was lost. I couldn’t remember anything — who I was, where I came from, or even what year it was. Then I met this kind man who took me to the hospital and then to the police, but they couldn’t help because I had no information. He felt sorry for me, so he let me work at his store and live in the room above it.’

The factory owner’s son asked, ‘Didn’t you try to seek help or treatment?’

The young man replied, ‘They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, and they said I should go abroad for treatment. But I resigned myself to my fate. Maybe I don’t have a family at all. Perhaps this is better for me.’

The factory owner’s son was deeply affected by the story and couldn’t forget it.

A week after returning home, he attended a wedding and shared the story with some friends, who remembered that a young man had gone missing from their area. They asked him to describe the young man, though they were puzzled as to why he would end up in that distant town, which was mostly inhabited by people from the same tribe.

The factory owner’s son asked them not to say anything until he was sure. His friend found a photo of the missing young man, and when they confirmed it was him, they contacted the police. The police coordinated with the authorities in that town.

When they told me, I felt my heart stop. I had dreamed of this day but never imagined that I would find a son who didn’t even know me. But thank God, I found him, and he’s alive.’

The grandmother suddenly broke down in tears. ‘I think someone must have harmed my son,’ she said.

We asked why she thought that.

‘What else would take him to that place?’ she cried.

We reassured her not to trouble herself with things she didn’t know and to remain optimistic.

When we asked about her son’s condition, she said, ’He’s like a frightened child now. He’s almost 26 but doesn’t recognize us. He feels anxious because he had to leave the family he had come to know and return to his biological family. The family that took care of him is heartbroken over losing him.’

The grandmother looked utterly drained, as if she were living every moment of the story again.

We apologized for taking up her time and told her to rest and reach out if she needed anything.

We left, feeling heavy-hearted for them, the lost young man, and the kind family who had cared for him.

Back home, we hoped they would all find peace and that tomorrow, we could make tea and share happier news.