BANK AFFAIRS AND CHILDISH INNOCENCE

She was cute as ten buttons in her lovely little flowered frock. Her hair had been styled into a cute little bun atop her little head and her feet were encased in flowered socks and a shiny black shoe. She ran into the compound of the bank flapping her hands with excitement and somehow still managing to maintain her running steps in that charmingly uncoordinated way kids have.
Her father, a staunch Muslim, as apparent from the dark sign on his forehead and his dressing,  strode in after her at a much more sedate pace. He called after her and she raced back to his side, snatched a pen from his hand and raced back towards the firmly shut doors of the bank.
She was such a blur of movement it was almost dizzying watching her.
All adults lined before the two ATM machines in the bank's compound turned to watch her in fascination. She was a breath of fresh air; so full of life and vitality and that unnameable quality that makes kids so precious.
The little girl stood expectantly before the bank doors while her father calmly joined the back of the ATM queue, keeping an eagle eye on her.
When the doors didn't open, her little face puckered in a childish pout, her equivalent of a frown, as she banged imperiously on the doors. They still stayed shut and she turned to the appellate court: her father.
I could see her surprise when she saw him standing a good few feet away at the back of the line rather than joining her to command the doors to open.
"Daddy!" She yelled, the command apparent. He was supposed to appear beside her at once and order whoever was in charge to open the doors at once!
He shook his head, surprisingly calm since the rest of us were already fighting giggles. "Today is Sunday. The Bank doesn't work on Sundays," he explained.
She considered it for a minute. I could see the thoughts whirling in her head. Then she demanded, "Why not?"
Her father shook his head, "They just don't."
"But WHY?" the little girl repeated.
Her father sighed, still maintaining his position on the ATM queue as he ordered, "Rahila come back here."
A mutinous expression crossed her face and she morphed into a 'child of anger'. She flung her father's pen onto the inter-locked grounds of the bank's compound.
"I want to enter," she yelled as if that fact wasn't already obvious.
Apparently she was giving us all one last chance to redeem ourselves. When she was met with silent, staring adult faces, she opened her mouth wide in a scream of pure childish rage and let fly.
...And that's how the tantrum started. 😄😄😄