Humaira's Pov
As Ya Hanifa closed the door behind her, I let out a slow breath, scanning the room that was now mine. The air carried a faint scent of lavender, a soft contrast to the lingering tension of the evening. The plush carpet muffled my steps as I moved toward the window, drawn to the golden glow of the setting sun.
I turned back, letting my gaze sweep over the room. The bed was neatly made, its silk sheets smooth and inviting. A bookshelf stood against the far wall, filled with an assortment of novels and academic texts. A small desk sat in the corner, bathed in the dim light of a bedside lamp.
This was my space now, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't quite belong.
I ran my fingers over the carved edges of the mirror stand, admiring its intricate design. My eyes drifted to the wardrobe, its delicate patterns catching the soft light. Everything in the room felt elegant, almost untouched, like a place meant to be looked at rather than lived in.
A knock at the door broke my thoughts.
"Come in," I said, stepping back as it swung open.
A maid, her headscarf neatly tied, entered the room with a warm yet formal smile. I recognized her instantly - one of the maids I had seen earlier, her face now familiar in this new and unfamiliar world.
"Welcome, Humaira," she said with a warm smile. "I'm Nana, one of the housemaids. Hajiya said you should freshen up and come downstairs for dinner when you're ready."
I studied her for a moment. She was a young woman, probably in her mid twenties, with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor. Her neatly tied scarf framed her face, and the crispness of her uniform suggested she took great pride in her work.
"Thank you, Nana," I replied softly, still feeling the weight of my journey and the uncertainty of this new chapter.
She nodded, lingering for a second as if to gauge whether I needed anything else. When I didn't say more, she gave me an encouraging smile. "If you need anything, just call me. I'll be downstairs."
As she turned and left, I sighed, letting my gaze drift around the unfamiliar room once more. Freshening up sounded like a good idea. Maybe the cool water would wash away some of the unease settling deep in my bones.
I stepped further in, letting my fingers trail along the cool marble countertop. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, likely from the neatly arranged toiletries by the sink. Everything was pristine, a stark contrast to the modest bathroom back home.
I turned on the tap, watching the clear stream of water flow effortlessly. Cupping my hands, I splashed some on my face, the coolness jolting me back to the present. My reflection in the mirror stared back—tired eyes, slightly sunken cheeks, and a hint of uncertainty in my gaze.
Slowly, I reached for the neatly folded towel on the rack, patting my face dry. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that this was only the beginning. Whatever lay ahead, I had to face it with strength.
Abuja's familiar comforts enveloped me, if only for a fleeting moment. I was standing in our old bathroom—the one with marble floors and gold-trimmed mirrors that Ummah adored. Memories of my brothers' energetic footsteps, running wildly around the house, disturbing my room, and Ummah's loving scolds came rushing back. Our house had been filled with warmth and laughter then. Now, all of that was gone, just a distant memory.
I shook the thought away and turned on the shower, stepping under the warm water. It washed over me, easing the tension in my body. The journey had been long, and even though I wasn't sure what to expect in this house, at least I had this moment to myself.
After drying off, I slipped into one of my casual hijab gowns, the soft fabric a quiet reminder of home. I spread my prayer mat and performed my Salat, my forehead pressing against the ground as I whispered my prayers, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm.
When I finished, I sat back on my heels, my heart suddenly aching for Ummah. I wished I could hear her voice, just for a second. But I had no phone to call her. No way to know if she was okay, if my brothers had eaten, if they missed me as much as I missed them.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a steady breath. Feeling sorry for myself wouldn't change anything. Adjusting my hijab, I straightened my shoulders and headed for the door. It was time to go downstairs.
I made my way downstairs, and as I entered the dining room, the aroma of freshly prepared food enveloped me, making my stomach growl with hunger. Professor Bello, Aunty Fatima, and their daughter already were seated at the table, their face illuminated by the warm glow of the chandelier. The soft clinking of utensils and the gentle hum of conversation filled the air.
"Come and join us, Humaira," Professor Bello said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. I nodded and took a seat beside Hanifa, who was focused on her food, her expression unreadable.
The spread before me was stunning: fried rice, chicken, coleslaw, and plantain, all arranged with precision and care. I picked up my spoon, and as I took my first bite, the rich flavors melted on my tongue. I hadn't realized how much I missed a proper meal until now.
"Hope you're enjoying the meal, my daughter?" Aunty Fatima asked, her voice gentle.
I nodded quickly, still savoring the delicious rice. "Yes, ma," I managed between bites. "It's really good." The words barely left my lips before I eagerly took another spoonful.
She smiled, and from the way she and Professor Bello exchanged glances, they seemed pleased with how eagerly I was eating.
The conversation around the table flowed between them, but Ya Hanifa remained silent, focused on her food. She hadn't said a word to anyone, nor did she seem interested in joining the discussion. Her expression was unreadable, her mood distant.
---
After dinner, I instinctively began gathering the plates, but before I could stack them, a maid quickly stepped forward.
"I'll take care of it," she said, reaching for the dishes.
Before I could protest, Aunty Fatima gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "No need, my dear. Teni will do the work."
I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, thank you."
As I turned toward the stairs, I felt Ya Hanifa's gaze on me.
"You must be really enjoying yourself," she said suddenly, her tone light but laced with something unspoken.
I hesitated for a moment, unsure how to respond. Ya Hanifa's words seemed laced with a subtle criticism, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what she meant. I decided to brush off the comment, not wanting to escalate the situation.
"Yes, Aunty Fatima's cooking is amazing," I said, forcing a smile. "I'm just grateful for the hospitality." Ya Hanifa's expression didn't change, but she nodded curtly. "Yes, well, you're welcome here." I was relieved when she finally turned away, moving toward the couch and effectively dismissing me from her attention. Letting out a quiet breath, I took that as my cue to leave.
---
Later that evening, as I sat in my room, there was a soft knock at the door.
"Come in," I said, sitting up as Aunty Fatima stepped inside. She carried a gentle smile, her presence calming.
"I just wanted to check on you," she said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "How are you settling in?"
I nodded. "I'm okay ma, Alhamdulillah. Thank you for everything."
She patted my hand. "You're welcome, my dear. You're part of the family now."
Her words were kind, yet something about them felt like a reassurance I didn't ask for.
She studied me for a moment before speaking again. "Tell me about home. Your mother… your brothers."
I swallowed, suddenly feeling a lump in my throat. "Ummah is strong. She does everything for us. And my brothers… well, they drive her crazy, but she loves them."
Aunty Fatima chuckled. "That sounds like a mother's love."
I nodded, my fingers tracing the edge of my hijab. "She works so hard to make sure we're okay. Sometimes, I wonder how she does it all."
Aunty Fatima's smile softened. "Mothers have a way of finding strength for their children. But you must miss them."
"I do. A lot."
She hesitated for a moment before asking, "Have you spoken to her since you arrived?"
I lowered my gaze. "No… I don't have a phone."
Her expression shifted slightly, as if she hadn't expected that. "Oh."
Silence stretched between us before she finally spoke again. "I'll see what can be done about that," she said kindly.
I looked up at her, unsure how to respond. The idea of having a phone, a direct line to Ummah, made my chest tighten with longing.
She gently patted my hand, a knowing smile on her face.
"Not like children nowadays who can't stay without a phone," she said. "It's good though. I hope you know that."
I met her gaze, surprised by the sincerity in her voice.
"Thank you Aunty," I whispered.
"You should get some rest. Tomorrow is a new day," she added.