C'est La Vie, Mon Cheri

Hana Russell Abdullah.

Her name alone would've caught a man's attention and never let go; fluid, exotic and beautiful like the girl herself, the name, if uttered under a weak breath, would bring down both lungs, burn the nasal passage, melt a hole the size of a tree branch through the Adam's apple, stomp down to the tip of the tongue and like from a springboard, do a three-sixty half-twist somersault in mid-air into a young man's wet dream.

Hana Russell Abdullah.

Rumor had it that she had Turkish and French blood in her, or perhaps it was Moroccan and Welsh. Nobody seemed to know for sure about that rumor, but the one true thing that the boys could bank their life savings on was the fact that she was a Muslimah, and that fact alone drove every male student in the boys' hostel nuts with the fantasy of marrying a mixed-race girl as beautiful as Hana Russell Abdullah.

For once in their lifetime, every boy saw a light at the end of the tunnel.

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