𝓜𝔂 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂, 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮

49# BURNED

THE KHALIL RESIDENCE,
ASOKORO.
APRIL, 2022

In the aftermaths of their...exploits the previous day, Jamil had gone out of his mind and promised Jamilah he'd talk to Hajia Zaynab.

Even if you asked him, in that moment, on their way back to Asokoro, he couldn't quite explain how he'd agreed to her requests. All he knew was that there'd been a combo of blissful tiredness and devilish, feminine wiles.

At first, he'd just been reluctant, but the closer they got to Asokoro, the worse his nerves got. He expected the house to be full once they got back, and wasn't at all disappointed. Hamdan and his sister, along with the other hospital staff, had returned the previous day. Ayman too, was around.

Jamil knew they'd be around, that it wouldn't be only himself in that house when he would go to meet Hajia Zaynab, but when he thought of meeting his mother came to mind, his heart sank and his stomach churned.

He thought of her eyes more than anything else, and of the disappointment that would fill them at the sight of him. He'd betrayed her in every sense of the word; taken to his heels at the mere glimpse of her.

He was selfish in his feelings, choosing to forgo her hurt at his absence, to kill the hurt that filled him in her presence. He'd put himself above her, and his needs before hers. Jamil had never thought he was particularly selfish, but his circumstances had painted him in a light he'd never considered.

***
Jamil Khalil had had a love-hate relationship with maths in school. He'd absolutely love certain topics and spend hours solving them, and then abhor some others completely.

One of the concepts he hated back then, and even now, was the parabola. Trying to mark the intercepts, find the focus and deduce the general equations...he hated it all.

It made sense that in what felt like the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, his insides followed the path of a parabola. He continued to alternate between anxiety and conviction, shuffling his feet outside Hajia Zaynab's room.

Even when he finally knocked, the first was light, clearly hesitant and the next was heavier, much bolder.

The door swung open, and he came face-to-face with one of the nurses. The lady smiled at him, clearly surprised. Jamil felt his gut sink with guilt all over again.

On her bed, Hajia Zaynab was awake, staring at the ceiling. Jamil was sure she was aware of his presence, so the knowledge of her refusal to see him hurt. Some part of him, a large part, if he was being honest, felt hypocritical.

He'd done the exact same thing to her all month, and when she reciprocated, he had the audacity to feel hurt?

The door closed behind the nurse. He didn't speak. She didn't speak. She scooted over on the bed. He smiled. She looked at him. He looked at her. He smiled again. She smiled again.

"Hey", she exhaled shakily, breaking the silence. There was pressure behind Jamil's eyes, his sight of her hazy.

"I've missed you", he admitted. Somehow, Hajia Zaynab understood him — she always had. She knew it wasn't the time for anger— it rarely ever was— just forgiveness.

"Me too", she said simply, watching in silence as Jamil broke down in front of her. His shoulders heaved and veins popped all around his temples. His lips trembled and his eyes lost their colour.

Hajia Zaynab could swear that Jamil was at his ugliest in that moment. And yet, she'd never seen him so beautiful.

So she let the picture of beauty play before her, without pause. She let her eldest ask for forgiveness through his tears. And she made sure to smile through it all, her own picture of acceptance.