Mrs Ahmed Shehu

05

SURAIYA

Ahmed Shehu is very sad, but he hides it very well.

I don't know how I noticed but I did and I felt sympathetic towards him. I know I won't be able to talk about it with him, I don't have that right, but I do hope that me being here to take care of the kids actually gives him the space and opportunity to properly address his feelings; to cry if he needs to, to scream (quietly, of course, so the kids don't hear) and to properly grieve over everything.

On another note, the house is beautiful. I wasn't kidding when I said this is the biggest room I've had in my entire career, apart from the times when I had my own flat and didn't have to stay with the families I worked for. This room is comfortable, luxurious even, and for the next twelve months, it's all mine.

My favourite places are the walk-in wardrobe (I doubt I'll fill all the spaces but let's wait and see), the bathroom (God, it's so beautiful) and the terrace. I can see myself on the terrace a lot from this very day. It overlooks the backyard which is all green and well-kept and I love it.

Then there are the kids. Now that I can put a face on each name, thanks to the photos I've seen, I can say that Ahmed Shehu and Asma Abubakar have the most beautiful kids. God, they're so beautiful and their smiles in every photo took my breath away, especially Nurudeen. I could see what Bashira said; he's a natural favourite and there's no way you won't feel the need to protect a child like that at all costs.

Their rooms told a lot about them and it's quite obvious Ahmed has his hands full with Adeelah. In Shaa Allah I'll try to get her to make a few tweaks but let's get them to trust me first. Everything else can come later.

It's quiet as I unpack my stuff, keeping it in mind that the kids will be home soon. It's easy to discard my abaya and veil so I'm left in the loose trousers and long-sleeved turtleneck I wore underneath, my hair covered with a black cap. Cosmetics and skin products go on the top of the dresser and into the drawers while my books go to the shelf. As I arrange them, I can't help but wonder if there's one Teslimah will like. We'll have to wait and see.

I'm sorting out my clothes for hanging and folding when I get thirsty. I glance at the time on my phone. It's past an hour and half. The kids are probably running late. I can get a bottle of water from the kitchen and get back to pull myself together before they arrive, right? Well, I'll have to try my luck.

It's even quieter outside the room and I keep my steps light. It's out of habit. I've done it too much over the years. The kitchen is brightly lit and once again, I admire it. White and black coming together, marble-topped worktops, and an island with high velvet chairs and stools. I head to the fridge and pull the left door open, recalling what he said earlier. Bottles of water, drinks, juices, and even cartons of yoghurt stare back at me.

I'll get used to this arrangement easily, I'm sure of it. I help myself with a bottle of water and close the fridge. I walk to the door, pull it open and take my first step when –

"Baba! We're home! Let me tell you what –"

I stop in my tracks and she stares back at me, blinking. That's Adeelah, I'm sure of it. My gaze moves when Nurudeen stops beside her, staring at me. Round, beautiful eyes hold me captive and I find myself unable to say anything. He's more beautiful in person. They both are, but there's something about Nurudeen; from his eyes to the dark curls on his head down to the way he holds the straps of his small bag.

My gaze moves again when Adeelah speaks. "Who are you?"

I should answer her but I can't bring myself to. I look over them at Teslimah who walks in. She looks tired and it makes my chest squeeze. She closes the door and faces her younger ones. "Adeelah, take your bag upstairs and..." She finally notices me. "Assalam Alaykum."