The old woman’s voice — she wasn’t yet fifty — filled the room. She was frantic, shaking the young man of twenty-eight who lay on the large bed. She kept saying, “Are you okay, son? Open your eyes. Aliyuu—open your eyes. What’s your problem? What kind of dream is this, Fatima?”
Suddenly he opened his eyes in terror, sat up and scanned the room, his chest heaving. For a moment he stared at his mother, who was looking at him but said nothing. He closed his eyes and, in a soft voice, called, “Motherrr…” She grabbed his hand, worry written on her face. “What’s your problem, Aliyu? What’s wrong—tell me. Are you sick?”
He opened his eyes and looked at her, his voice low: “Pray for me, Mum… I don’t know. I just can’t get peace of mind, maybe—” He stopped, tears gathering at the corners of his closed eyes. She said, “I am your mother, Aliyu. You have someone you can tell your pain to in this whole world; it’s me. Tell me where you went wrong. What did you do wrong? Tell me, Aliyu.”
He wiped the sweat from his brow, rested his head on her shoulder, and quietly said, “Just pray for me, Mum.” She raised her head and asked, “So you won’t tell me?” He was silent for a while, staring at her with wide eyes; then he slowly closed them and opened them again. “I will keep praying, Mum. It’s not even worth saying. Just pray for me…”
She rose and headed for the door; he watched her leave with his eyes and, gently, called after her, “Your prayers, please, Mum…” Without turning back she left. He checked the clock — it was two in the morning — then got up slowly and went to the bathroom.
Five Years Later — Apartments, New Neighbors, and Longing
Five years later, she finished rinsing a cup and spoon and came out of the kitchen. She switched off the electronics in the parlor, picked up her jacket from the chair and slung it over her shoulder, glancing at her wristwatch. She was wearing a long sea-green store-bought dress, a small red scarf and flat red shoes — she was not the type to make a fuss about height. Her handbag was also red. Her face had only a bit of powder and eye pencil; she dabbed some Chapette on her lips. You might not be sure she’d used pink lipstick, but her lips were naturally pink. She knew her lips were unique — but who cares?
She gave a short sigh, opened the door, key in hand, ready to lock her apartment. Standing by the neighboring door was a young man who also seemed to be leaving his flat — perhaps he was about to lock up. He was tall, the kind of man people call a gentleman. From where she stood he looked much taller than her. He had a look like someone from Egypt or Ethiopia, judging by his complexion and hair; his eyes were dark, his nose well set, and his face had a serious expression. She quietly let him pass; after he shut his door he turned and walked straight to the parking area without looking her way. She watched him as he walked and couldn’t tell whether he’d forgotten to fix his belt or whether he was walking with his trousers low — of course, his trousers were riding low. She sighed, annoyed to find him in the same compound they shared.
He was the new tenant in the apartment next to hers, replacing her kind neighbor Nancy. Since Nancy left, she’d been praying that whoever took the flat wouldn’t be a man — but of course it was. She hadn’t known until now because she’d been out of the country for three weeks after the holiday; she only returned yesterday evening feeling unwell. She finished locking her door to go look for a taxi that would take her to school — the University of Cambridge abroad. It was about two minutes past two when she and her friend Vanessa left for school. They’d been friends since their first year and were now into their third; only a few months remained before the year ended. Vanessa waited until she got into the taxi, told the driver Bridge Street was her stop, and waved: “See yah pretty.” She smiled and waved back from inside the taxi: “Alright love.”
On the ride home, her mind was elsewhere until the Indian taxi driver’s voice brought her back. She paid and hurried into her apartment. There was no sign that the new neighbor was home — his car wasn’t in the garage. She took a quick shower, prayed, and then went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. Only noodles were left in the house, so she boiled water and cooked them. Before the noodles were ready she took out the trash, swept the gym equipment stacked beside his flat — it had been left there since she returned — and disposed of the waste. She ate her indomie, lay down in her room, and checked her phone: it was five minutes to three. She put the phone down; she hadn’t planned to call anyone because she knew they were at school. She fell asleep.
She didn’t wake up until quarter past four, immediately went to perform ablution and prayer, then picked up her study materials and began to work.
Meanwhile, in Nigeria, he sat in the dining room watching a match on his system. When he saw his mother coming down from the upper floor, he quickly slid the plate of food under the dining table, grabbed a cup with lemon and drank half, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and continued watching. She leaned against a pillar near the dining area and asked, “Where’s the food?” He looked up, startled. “Mum, I didn’t even notice. I already ate.” She asked, “The plate?” He pointed toward the kitchen. “I even washed it.” She shook her head and returned to the parlor.
He stole glances at the food he’d hidden under the table, then leaned back in his chair. After about ten minutes someone called, “Aliyu…” He opened his eyes quickly; a pretty girl stood before him smiling. “How are you?” she asked. “I’m fine,” he replied. She widened her eyes and said, “You left the plate under the table?” pointing where he’d tucked it. He looked at the parlor quickly and noticed his mother wasn’t there. He offered the food to her: “Alright, you eat. I’m full.” She pursed her lips, looked at the jollof rice he offered—complete with chopped ingredients, nearly a quarter of a chicken on the side and plantain—and smiled. “Why didn’t you eat?” she asked. He briefly leaned back and said, “I’m not hungry. If you won’t eat it, give it to the guards now.” She took it and headed toward the parlor door. He watched her leave, then turned off the system and hurried upstairs because he didn’t want her to find him there.
Around nine that night she was in the kitchen making Lipton tea as usual before bed, and she began to miss Nancy. She pictured Nancy sitting in a resting chair, drinking coffee and chatting at that very time. Even though she wasn’t the type to go out much, she wanted to visit Nancy because of their friendship. She imagined them talking until about eleven. Then she suddenly noticed the man who had been there earlier in the day — the one who had come in the morning wearing a singlet and three-quarter pants with earphones and a bottle in his hand. His face had appeared tired; she quickly checked the kitchen door to ensure it was locked. She stole another glance and saw him stop his call as he watched her through the window. She couldn’t interpret the kind of look he gave her. Slowly she turned off her gas and the kitchen lights and went to the parlor, abandoning her tea.
Description
The Fright and a Mother’s Prayer
The old woman’s voice — she wasn’t yet fifty — filled the room. She was frantic, shaking the young man of twenty-eight who lay on the large bed. She kept saying, “Are you okay, son? Open your eyes. Aliyuu—open your eyes. What’s your problem? What kind of dream is this, Fatima?”
Suddenly he opened his eyes in terror, sat up and scanned the room, his chest heaving. For a moment he stared at his mother, who was looking at him but said nothing. He closed his eyes and, in a soft voice, called, “Motherrr…” She grabbed his hand, worry written on her face. “What’s your problem, Aliyu? What’s wrong—tell me. Are you sick?”
He opened his eyes and looked at her, his voice low: “Pray for me, Mum… I don’t know. I just can’t get peace of mind, maybe—” He stopped, tears gathering at the corners of his closed eyes. She said, “I am your mother, Aliyu. You have someone you can tell your pain to in this whole world; it’s me. Tell me where you went wrong. What did you do wrong? Tell me, Aliyu.”
He wiped the sweat from his brow, rested his head on her shoulder, and quietly said, “Just pray for me, Mum.” She raised her head and asked, “So you won’t tell me?” He was silent for a while, staring at her with wide eyes; then he slowly closed them and opened them again. “I will keep praying, Mum. It’s not even worth saying. Just pray for me…”
She rose and headed for the door; he watched her leave with his eyes and, gently, called after her, “Your prayers, please, Mum…” Without turning back she left. He checked the clock — it was two in the morning — then got up slowly and went to the bathroom.
Five Years Later — Apartments, New Neighbors, and Longing
Five years later, she finished rinsing a cup and spoon and came out of the kitchen. She switched off the electronics in the parlor, picked up her jacket from the chair and slung it over her shoulder, glancing at her wristwatch. She was wearing a long sea-green store-bought dress, a small red scarf and flat red shoes — she was not the type to make a fuss about height. Her handbag was also red. Her face had only a bit of powder and eye pencil; she dabbed some Chapette on her lips. You might not be sure she’d used pink lipstick, but her lips were naturally pink. She knew her lips were unique — but who cares?
She gave a short sigh, opened the door, key in hand, ready to lock her apartment. Standing by the neighboring door was a young man who also seemed to be leaving his flat — perhaps he was about to lock up. He was tall, the kind of man people call a gentleman. From where she stood he looked much taller than her. He had a look like someone from Egypt or Ethiopia, judging by his complexion and hair; his eyes were dark, his nose well set, and his face had a serious expression. She quietly let him pass; after he shut his door he turned and walked straight to the parking area without looking her way. She watched him as he walked and couldn’t tell whether he’d forgotten to fix his belt or whether he was walking with his trousers low — of course, his trousers were riding low. She sighed, annoyed to find him in the same compound they shared.
He was the new tenant in the apartment next to hers, replacing her kind neighbor Nancy. Since Nancy left, she’d been praying that whoever took the flat wouldn’t be a man — but of course it was. She hadn’t known until now because she’d been out of the country for three weeks after the holiday; she only returned yesterday evening feeling unwell. She finished locking her door to go look for a taxi that would take her to school — the University of Cambridge abroad. It was about two minutes past two when she and her friend Vanessa left for school. They’d been friends since their first year and were now into their third; only a few months remained before the year ended. Vanessa waited until she got into the taxi, told the driver Bridge Street was her stop, and waved: “See yah pretty.” She smiled and waved back from inside the taxi: “Alright love.”
On the ride home, her mind was elsewhere until the Indian taxi driver’s voice brought her back. She paid and hurried into her apartment. There was no sign that the new neighbor was home — his car wasn’t in the garage. She took a quick shower, prayed, and then went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. Only noodles were left in the house, so she boiled water and cooked them. Before the noodles were ready she took out the trash, swept the gym equipment stacked beside his flat — it had been left there since she returned — and disposed of the waste. She ate her indomie, lay down in her room, and checked her phone: it was five minutes to three. She put the phone down; she hadn’t planned to call anyone because she knew they were at school. She fell asleep.
She didn’t wake up until quarter past four, immediately went to perform ablution and prayer, then picked up her study materials and began to work.
Meanwhile, in Nigeria, he sat in the dining room watching a match on his system. When he saw his mother coming down from the upper floor, he quickly slid the plate of food under the dining table, grabbed a cup with lemon and drank half, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and continued watching. She leaned against a pillar near the dining area and asked, “Where’s the food?” He looked up, startled. “Mum, I didn’t even notice. I already ate.” She asked, “The plate?” He pointed toward the kitchen. “I even washed it.” She shook her head and returned to the parlor.
He stole glances at the food he’d hidden under the table, then leaned back in his chair. After about ten minutes someone called, “Aliyu…” He opened his eyes quickly; a pretty girl stood before him smiling. “How are you?” she asked. “I’m fine,” he replied. She widened her eyes and said, “You left the plate under the table?” pointing where he’d tucked it. He looked at the parlor quickly and noticed his mother wasn’t there. He offered the food to her: “Alright, you eat. I’m full.” She pursed her lips, looked at the jollof rice he offered—complete with chopped ingredients, nearly a quarter of a chicken on the side and plantain—and smiled. “Why didn’t you eat?” she asked. He briefly leaned back and said, “I’m not hungry. If you won’t eat it, give it to the guards now.” She took it and headed toward the parlor door. He watched her leave, then turned off the system and hurried upstairs because he didn’t want her to find him there.
Around nine that night she was in the kitchen making Lipton tea as usual before bed, and she began to miss Nancy. She pictured Nancy sitting in a resting chair, drinking coffee and chatting at that very time. Even though she wasn’t the type to go out much, she wanted to visit Nancy because of their friendship. She imagined them talking until about eleven. Then she suddenly noticed the man who had been there earlier in the day — the one who had come in the morning wearing a singlet and three-quarter pants with earphones and a bottle in his hand. His face had appeared tired; she quickly checked the kitchen door to ensure it was locked. She stole another glance and saw him stop his call as he watched her through the window. She couldn’t interpret the kind of look he gave her. Slowly she turned off her gas and the kitchen lights and went to the parlor, abandoning her tea.