Ayeeyo's Big Pot

It was a rainy Saturday in Bristol, and Amira was staying with Ayeeyo, her grandma. Ayeeyo's kitchen was full of steam.

On the cooker sat Ayeeyo's biggest pot, bubbling with maraq: soft lamb, potatoes, carrots, onions and warm, spicy cumin. Amira sat on her stool and breathed in. Mmm. It smelled like home.

Then Ayeeyo did something strange. She poured a whole jug of water into the pot. Glug, glug, glug. Then another!

"Ayeeyo!" cried Amira. "You'll make it all watery!"

Ayeeyo chuckled and wiped her hands on her apron. "I'm doing it on purpose," she said. "Long ago, the Prophet ﷺ said to one of his Companions, 'Abu Dharr, when you make a broth, add more water to it, and give some to your neighbours.'"

Amira's eyes went wide. "A broth? Like maraq?"

"Yes, a broth, like our maraq," said Ayeeyo. "In Arabic, the word for broth is maraq, just like in Somali! So, who shall we share with?"

Amira had a think. She thought of Mr Jenkins across the landing, who lived all by himself. She thought of the new family upstairs, whose hallway was still full of boxes. And she thought of Auntie Hodan downstairs, whose tiny baby had arrived last week.

"Three neighbours," said Amira, holding up three fingers.

"Then three tubs," said Ayeeyo.

Ayeeyo ladled the maraq into three tubs. Amira watched the pot go down, down, down. Her tummy gave a rumble. What if there was none left for her?

Then she thought of the three neighbours, and the rumble didn't matter so much. Amira wrapped some soft muufo flatbreads in a tea towel and hugged them close. Ayeeyo carried the warm tubs in her basket.

Knock, knock went Amira.

Mr Jenkins shuffled to the door in his woolly cardigan. "Well I never!" he said. "That lovely smell came right under my door!"

"It's called maraq," said Amira proudly. She held out a soft muufo too.

"Maraq," Mr Jenkins repeated slowly, smiling all over his face. "I haven't had a home-cooked dinner in ages. Thank you, both of you."

Next they climbed the stairs to the new family's flat. When the door opened, a little girl peeped out from behind her mum.

"We haven't even found our saucepans yet!" her mum laughed. "This is so kind." The little girl gave Amira a shy wave. Amira waved back. Maybe they could be friends.

Last of all, they tiptoed down to Auntie Hodan's. She opened the door with the baby fast asleep on her shoulder.

"Assalamu alaikum, Auntie," Amira whispered.

"Wa alaikum assalam," Auntie Hodan whispered back, and her tired eyes crinkled into a smile. "JazakAllahu khayran. I was far too sleepy to cook today." Amira peeked at the baby's tiny, curled-up fingers. "Masha Allah," she breathed.

Back in the flat, Ayeeyo lifted the lid. There was still plenty: enough for Ayeeyo, and enough for Amira too.

"The extra water made enough for everyone!" said Amira.

She dipped her muufo into the warm broth. "Ayeeyo," she said, "it tastes even better tonight."

"Alhamdulillah," said Ayeeyo. "Allah gave us this food, and it always tastes better when it's shared."

That night, Amira snuggled under her blanket and listened to the rain pattering on the window. She thought of Mr Jenkins, the little girl upstairs and Auntie Hodan, all tucked up warm and full of the same maraq.

"Ayeeyo," she murmured, "can we make a big pot again next week?"

"In sha Allah," said Ayeeyo, and she kissed Amira's forehead.

Amira closed her eyes, warm all the way through, and drifted off to sleep.