Our Friendship

11

Sa'ada's curiosity about whether Usman had finished his meal led her to his room. The untouched table greeted her gaze, prompting her to shake her head. She proceeded to his room, only to find him smoking.

She stood shocked for a fleeting moment, her mind reeling. "What is this? What are you doing? Did you forget about the children? What if they see you?" her words tumbled out in anxiety.

"Mtsss," he hissed in response, dismissive. "Sa'ada, you are my problem. Are you blind? Can't you see it's a cigarette I'm smoking? And it's already 12am, they're asleep," he retorted carelessly, exhaling smoke nonchalantly.

"But what about your health?" Sa'ada pressed, concern evident in her voice.

"It's my health, so please leave me alone," he pleaded.

"What about the food?" she asked, her eyes locked on him.

"I'm not hungry," he replied curtly.

She gazed at him, her anger growing. "I think it would be clearer if you just said you don't like my food. I've noticed for a while now that you hardly eat what I prepare," she lamented.

He chuckled with disdain. "No, you're mistaken. Sometimes I just don't have an appetite, and right now I'm not hungry."

"You don't like my cooking, that's all," she complained again.

"Fine, I don't. So leave me alone, please," he said, his gaze avoiding hers.

"Usman, what can I do to make you happy? I want to be like other women, living happily with their husbands," she pleaded, her hands reaching out.

He stood up, took a few steps closer, and regarded her with a mix of surprise and irritation. Then, he sat back down, one leg on the ground and the other resting on a chair, casting his cigarette aside in her direction as she sobbed by his side.

The sound of her sobbing seemed to discomfort him. He had an aversion to seeing women cry, especially when he was the cause of their tears. Unable to bear it, he abruptly got up and ordered her to either be quiet or leave his sight. "Either keep quiet or leave this place," his voice was stern and cold.

But she refused to comply with either option, continuing to cry. The sobbing only heightened his unease, and in a burst of frustration, he slapped her. The slaps fell one after the other, followed by a forceful shove that sent her sprawling to the ground. She quickly rose, charged at him blindly, and shouted, "You might as well kill me today, I'm tired, wallahi!"

Usman shook his head, his agitation growing, and eventually stormed off in search of a cane. He returned holding a thick cane, but Ummi's intervention stopped him. She held the cane, pleading, "Please, Dad, don't do this. I beg your pardon."

He glanced at Sa'ada, who was still crying, and felt a mixture of emotions brewing within him. In a rush, he retreated to his room and locked the door behind him.

Sa'ada curled into a fetal position, sobbing quietly. Everything that once belonged to Zainaba was now hers, yet she felt no happiness. The possessions might be legally hers, but deep inside, nothing felt truly her own - not the children, nor the husband.

With time, she began to understand that tarnishing Zainaba's memory not only wounded Abu but also left her wounded. A scratch on Abu was a wound on herself.

She fell into an uneasy sleep, unwiped tears leaving trails on her face. The morning greeted her with a throbbing headache and a mild dizziness.

The ensuing twelve days were challenging for Abu as wedding preparations intensified. Her depression deepened incrementally. A week had passed since she uttered a word to anyone, though she yearned to speak, the act itself felt insurmountable.

Umma, weary of Abu's newfound silence following the altercation with her father, decided it was time to address the matter. She summoned Abu, intending to speak her mind.

"Abu, take a look at yourself," Umma began, her voice a blend of reproach and concern. "Just because your father scolded you, you've decided not to speak to anyone? Is this how you're going to be?"

Umma continued, her tone growing colder. "Listen, either revert to your usual self or leave. Go wherever you want. I can't live with a daughter who won't talk to anyone. It's been over a week since you said a word to anyone."

Abu wanted to apologize, but her vocal cords seemed paralyzed. The struggle to speak left her in frustration. If only her mother could understand the turmoil within her.

Umma persisted, her words like ice. "I've lived without you before. Don't think I can't do it again. Get out of my sight."

Abu stood, uncertain, at a loss for words. Her inability to articulate an apology amplified her mother's anger and frustration.

Alone in her room, Abu lay on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. A profound emptiness engulfed her, rendering her powerless. Prayer was impossible, every effort felt futile.

Her parents' lack of understanding and their swift blame weighed heavily. Even their love seemed conditional, dependent on her actions. The loneliness was consuming, her anger and depression deepening with every thought.

Her parents' words echoed in her mind, "Get out of my sight." The ache those words caused resonated, her heart heavy with sorrow. She was a stranger to herself, a puzzle she couldn't solve.

Her thoughts intermingled with her dreams, and she awoke abruptly, tears dampening her cheeks. In her dream, her parents were discarding her belongings, casting her out, declaring she was no longer their daughter.

She rose from her bed, walked out, and exited the house at 2 am. Clad in nothing but her sleepwear, she ventured out, barefoot and unveiled, appearing almost senseless.

For three days, she walked, aimless, her hunger unaddressed. Three days without sustenance, without direction.

On the third day, weakened, she collapsed near Falgore forest, unconscious, a silhouette of despair.