HUSNA

Chapter4

The cafeteria buzzed with laughter, clinking spoons, and the faint scent of  rice. Husna sat quietly, stirring her drink, while  Faiza talked animatedly beside her.

"I swear, this break will be the best thing ever!" Faiza said, flipping her braids over her shoulder through her scarf . "I'm tired of waking up early every day for classes. I just want to travel, relax, eat shawarma , and sleep till noon."

Husna smiled faintly, her spoon motionless in the cup.

Faiza frowned. "Husna, are you even listening to me?"

"Hmm?" Husna blinked, as though she had just returned from another world.

Faiza studied her face. "You look pale. What's wrong?"

"Nothing serious," Husna murmured, pressing her palm lightly against her stomach. "It's just this pain again."

"Pain? Where?"

"My stomach," she said softly. "It started last night. I took my medicine before coming to school."

"Ah, maybe it's just menstrual pain?" Faiza suggested, sipping her drink. "But you should see a doctor if it gets worse."

Husna shook her head slowly. "It's not that, Faiza. I've had this pain since I was fourteen. It comes and goes, but lately... it feels heavier."

Faiza's smile faded. "Since you were fourteen?"

"Yes," Husna said quietly. "Doctors still don't know what's wrong. They say ulcer, infection, typhoid...different things every time. But nothing ever changes."

The conversation ended there. They left the cafeteria for their next class, but Husna's steps were slower than usual.

The lecture hall was crowded and hot. The lecturer's voice echoed across the room like a warning bell. She  tried to focus, her notebook open, her pen frozen mid-sentence.

A sharp pain twisted her stomach, and she winced, bending slightly.

"You!" The lecturer's voice boomed suddenly. "You were sleeping! Is my lecture boring to you?"

Her  head shot up. "No, ma'am," she said weakly.

Then tell me...what was the last thing I said?"

"I... I..." she  stammered. Her mind was blank, her vision blurry.

The lecturer frowned. Husna was one of her brightest students, always attentive, always ready.

"Ma'am, please," Faiza stood up quickly. "She's not feeling well."

The lecturer sighed. "Alright, take her home."

Faiza packed their books, helped Husna stand, and guided her out.

"Husna, breathe, okay? We'll get home soon," Faiza said, holding her hand as they walked to the car.

But halfway there, Husna gasped, clutching her stomach tighter. Her voice broke into a soft cry.

"Ya Allah, Faiza, it's burning... it's burning inside."

Faiza's heart raced. "Hold on, please, just hold on!" She started the car and drove out of the school gates, speeding through traffic.

At home, Husna's mother was waiting outside, her face filled with worry.

"I told you not to go to school today!" she said, shaking her head as she rushed forward.

"Mama, please, let's take her to the hospital," Faiza urged. "She's in serious pain."

Husna's mother hesitated. "Hospital? But... we don't have....She stopped herself mid-sentence, her heart breaking at the sight of her daughter's tears.

Finally, she went inside and came back with a small wrapper tied at the edge...her savings from selling zobo (hibiscus drink). She untied it and counted the crumpled notes: two thousand naira.

"Let's go," she said quietly.

At the hospital, the nurses moved slowly, asking endless questions.
"Are you married?"
"Are you on your period?"
"Do you feel nauseous?"

Faiza snapped. "Doctor, please! Can't you see she's in pain? Just help her!"

The doctor sighed and finally administered an injection, then scribbled a prescription that cost over ten thousand naira. Faiza didn't say a word... she just paid.

When they returned home, Husna was already half-asleep, her face peaceful for the first time all day.

Faiza left quietly after Maghrib, promising to return in the morning.

Later at night, Husna's mother sat by her bed, watching her daughter sleep. When Husna stirred, she whispered gently,

"Noi bandu ma mai?" (How are you feeling now?)
Husna blinked slowly, whispering,

"Waddama hore am tan on do nawa" (I'm feeling better... just a small headache.)

"A nyamai on kanjum wadi," her mother said softly. (You haven't eaten anything; that's why.)

"Mi nanai velo," Husna murmured, turning her face away. (I'm not hungry.)

Her mother sighed. "You will never be hungry, ai. You don't like eating at all, Husnatu. Look at yourself ....you're getting thinner every day."

She brought a silver plate filled with rice and beans and set it in front of her.

"Take this and return an empty plate to me."

"Adda Noi mi nyamda ta nyamdu do pat fere am Yeccam a do fija on?" Husna complained with a small pout. (Are you serious? How do you expect me to eat all this alone?)

Her mother gave her one sharp look...the kind that silenced all protest. Husna sighed dramatically and started eating.

A few minutes later, her younger siblings tiptoed in, whispering,

"Adda Husna, Noi bandu ma mai?" (How are you feeling now?)

"I'm not okay, now that Adda wants me to eat all this food alone," she teased.

Fatima giggled. "Let me help you."

Abdulkarim laughed. "I'll tell Adda what you people are doing!"

Before he could escape, Husna knocked him lightly on the head, and they all burst into laughter...the kind of laughter that hides exhaustion and love all at once.

That night, after prayers, the house was quiet. Husna lay down, staring at the ceiling. Her stomach still hurt a little, but the sound of her family's soft chatter made it bearable.

She whispered a silent dua, Oh Allah, give me health. And stop Adda from crying because of me....