Humaira's POV
Then came the night that shattered what little stability we had left.
Abba's breathing had been labored all day, his face pale and drenched in sweat. Ummah hovered by his side, wiping his forehead, whispering prayers under her breath. I sat across from them, my stomach twisted in knots, watching helplessly.
Then, suddenly, his body convulsed. A rattling sound escaped his throat, his hands clutching at the sheets.
"Abba!" I cried, scrambling to my feet.
Ummah's face drained of color. "We need to take him to the hospital. Now."
We had no money for a private hospital, so we rushed him to a small, overcrowded clinic nearby. The walls were dull and peeling, the dim corridor buzzing with the murmur of other patients and the occasional sharp cry of pain. The nurses moved quickly but without urgency, their eyes tired, their hands worn from years of overwork.
A doctor emerged after what felt like an eternity. His face was unreadable, his voice steady—but his words crushed me.
"I'm sorry. We lost him."
The world around me froze.
Beside me, Ummah let out a wail that tore through the air. She collapsed onto the floor, sobs wracking her small frame. My brothers clung to each other, their eyes wide with disbelief.
We didn't have time to mourn at the hospital. In Islam, the dead must be buried as soon as possible. Some of my uncles arrived and quickly made arrangements for the body to be prepared, wrapped in white cloth, and taken home.
Neighbors and relatives filled our small compound, their murmurs blending into the background as my mind drifted in and out of reality. Women gathered around Ummah, their soft whispers and hushed prayers failing to soothe her grief.
I sat by the corner, watching as Abba was carried away for his final journey. My heart ached, yet my eyes remained dry.
---
Moving Forward
Days turned into weeks, and somehow, we learned to live without Abba. At first, it felt impossible—like the world had lost its color. The house was unbearably quiet, his absence weighing on every corner. His chair remained untouched, his prayer mat neatly folded in the corner, as if waiting for him to return.
But in the depths of grief, I found solace in faith. Every night, I prayed for him, whispering duas with trembling hands, clinging to the belief that he was at peace. The pain never faded, but we carried on, holding onto the love and lessons he left behind.
As the months passed, reality set in. Money was tight, and every naira counted. Ummah's small shop selling masa and essentials became our only lifeline. I spent my mornings helping her prepare food, my afternoons tending to customers, and my nights studying old books, hoping to return to school.
A year passed, and our lives changed in ways we never imagined. Grief remained, but we learned to live with it. Gone were the days of comfort—now, survival dictated our choices.
But despite everything, we endured. Because we had to.
Because that's what Abba would have wanted.
---
On a sunny afternoon, Ummah sent me to the market to buy ingredients for her masa. The streets were alive with energy—vendors calling out their wares, the scent of roasted corn and fried akara filling the air, and the chatter of passersby blending into a familiar symphony of daily life. I clutched the small list Ummah had given me, my mind focused on the task ahead.
The sun was warm against my skin, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a quiet sense of purpose. I was helping Ummah, easing her burden in the little ways I could. That was all that mattered.
As I navigated through the busy market, weaving past stalls of colorful fruits and dried spices, my thoughts drifted. I thought about Ummah's tired eyes this morning, the way she rubbed her forehead as if trying to push away her worries. I thought about how much she did for us, how much she carried alone. If only I could do more.
A sharp honk cut through the air.
I turned my head.
A flash of metal. The screech of tires.
BAM!
Pain exploded through my left leg, knocking the breath from my lungs. The world tilted. Voices blurred into distant echoes. The last thing I saw was the sky, impossibly blue, before everything faded into darkness.
When I regained consciousness, the first thing I noticed was the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic. My head felt heavy, my body sluggish. The harsh fluorescent lights above cast an eerie glow, making the white ceiling seem endless. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed through my leg, anchoring me to reality.
I blinked, disoriented, my gaze landing on a stranger hovering beside my bed. A man—older, with a neatly trimmed beard and deep-set eyes that held both relief and tension.
"You're awake," he said softly.
My throat was dry, raw. I swallowed, forcing out a whisper. "Where am I?"
"You're in the hospital," he explained gently. "You were hit by a car."
A wave of memories crashed into me—the market, the blaring honk, the crash. My breathing hitched. My hands curled into the thin hospital sheets.
Before I could speak, the man turned, calling for a doctor.
The doctor arrived moments later, checking my vitals before delivering his verdict: a minor fracture. I would need to stay in the hospital for two weeks. Two weeks.
Panic twisted in my chest. "Ummah..." My voice trembled. "She doesn't know where I am."
The elderly man beside me shifted, his expression unreadable. Then, he spoke, his tone filled with quiet remorse. "As-salamu alaykum, my young friend. I am Professor Bello." He hesitated before continuing, his voice heavy. "I am the one who accidentally hit you with my car. I deeply regret what happened, and I sincerely hope you can forgive me."
The weight of his words settled in. He was the one who hit me? A strange mix of emotions swirled inside me—shock, confusion, maybe even a little anger. But as I looked into his face, I saw nothing but sincerity.
He asked for Ummah's contact information, promising to inform her that I was safe. I gave him the number, and moments later, he was speaking to her, his voice calm and reassuring. When he handed me the phone, I heard the panic in Ummah's voice before I even said a word.
"Ummah, I'm fine," I murmured. "Just a small injury."
"Humaira!" Her voice cracked. "Alhamdulillah! You scared me, my child."
I swallowed against the lump in my throat, blinking back tears.
An hour later, Ummah arrived with Abdulkareem and Qasim. The moment she saw me, her shoulders sagged with relief. My brothers teased me, trying to lift my spirits, while Ummah remained quiet, her gaze fixed on me.
"Why are you so quiet?" I asked softly.
She gave me a weak smile, her lips barely curving upward. "Alhamdulillah," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What can I say other than to thank Almighty Allah for His mercy and blessings?" Tears welled in her eyes as she dabbed at them with the edge of her hijab. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Then, as if remembering something, she reached into a small bag and pulled out a bowl of steaming hot tuwo. The familiar aroma wrapped around me like a warm embrace. My stomach growled, and for the first time since waking up, I let out a small laugh.
That day, Ummah didn't get to meet Professor Bello. He had been called away on urgent business. It wasn't until the day I was discharged that he returned.
He arrived with a bag full of gifts—fruits, drinks, and foodstuffs for me. His kindness touched my heart, and as we talked, he finally met Ummah.
A heavy silence settled between them. Ummah's lips parted slightly, her expression unreadable.
"You knew Abba?" I asked, breaking the silence.
"Not very well, but yes," he said, his voice soft with nostalgia. "We met a few times during his work. He was a good man—respected, kind. It's been years, but I still remember his generosity."
Ummah exhaled, her shoulders relaxing a little. "He was the best of men," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Professor Bello's expression turned somber. "I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for you both. Losing someone we love is never easy. I can't change what happened, but please, let me help in any way I can."
His words carried genuine sincerity, and for the first time since the accident, I saw Ummah's features soften completely.
After I was discharged, Professor Bello insisted on driving us home. The journey was quiet but not uncomfortable. My brothers, still in awe of the events, sat in the backseat, occasionally whispering to each other. Ummah, on the other hand, remained composed, her hands folded in her lap, lost in thought.
When we reached home, he helped carry some of the items inside before turning to Ummah.
"Please accept this," he said gently, handing her an envelope. "For your troubles… and as a small apology for not reaching out sooner."
Ummah hesitated, shaking her head. "Professor Bello, you've already done so much—covering the hospital bills, bringing gifts. We can't take this."
His eyes softened with understanding. "Please, don't refuse. It's the least I can do."
For a long moment, Ummah wavered. Then, with a sigh, she finally accepted the envelope, murmuring a quiet "Jazakallahu khairan."
After bidding us farewell, he left, promising to check on us soon.
As soon as he was gone, I opened the envelope, my eyes widening at the generous amount of cash inside. My chest tightened with gratitude, a lump forming in my throat.
Professor Bello's kindness reminded me of my dad's impact. His legacy lived on through those he touched. I felt grateful to meet someone who understood and appreciated his kindness.
This accident—this unexpected meeting—had changed something. It was a reminder that life moved on, that even in moments of hardship, unexpected kindness could find its way to me.
Yet, as the days passed, I remained stuck in the same routine. The once lively rhythm of helping Ummah at the shop or playing with my younger brothers had been replaced by long hours of solitude.
The world continued without me—Ummah was busy selling masa to our loyal customers, my siblings were at school, their laughter and chatter absent from the house. But I was here, confined within these four walls, alone with my thoughts.
I gazed out the window, my leg throbbing with a dull ache. Normally, I would be at the shop, my hands busy, my mind occupied. But now, it felt like life had pressed pause, leaving me in a waiting game I didn't ask to play.
The injustice of it all stung. Despite the obstacles I had faced, I had pushed myself to excel. I had passed my WAEC and NECO exams with outstanding grades, holding on to the hope that education would be my escape, my key to a better future. But hope alone wasn't enough. The weight of our financial struggles had crushed my dreams before they could even take flight. No plans for the future—just an empty house and an uncertain tomorrow.