Decibels thunder through the shop, enough to make the old lady in the corner jump.
You smile, the voice you clearly recognise to be Marwa's. Hakeem's mother and the shopkeeper.
The barely five-foot woman is by your side in a second, snatching the notepad out of Hakeem's hands and wagging a finger in true motherly style. Hakeem barely flinches, rolling his eyes.
"Hakeem! What did I tell you, eh? Serve first! Study second and script at home."
"Ma," Hakeem whines. "I was only reading the—"
"Serve first." Marwa repeats, fixing her skewiff glasses. Her demeanor switches into true sincereness as she greets you. "Good morning, dear."
You've known Marwa for many years now, ever since she moved into the area with Hakeem as a snot-nosed child.