Beyond

HEYS AND EMAILS

-04-

HEYS AND EMAILS

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Abuja, Nigeria

17th December 2016.

Fatimè couldn't help but smile as the wind blew her green scarf into her face. She was glad that the weather was a bit manageable for today. All she wanted was to cuddle up in her bed and watch sappy romantic shows with some packs of purebliss. After her three-day fresh air break, she was feeling a whole lot better. A talk with Fahad, hanging out with her aunt and family, and some 'dalema' fudge cake had been therapeutic. She didn't want to leave but realized that running away from her problems was not the solution.

The train station buzzed with noise, and a multitude of cab drivers approached her, eager to offer their services. Politely declining, she noticed her brother, Mubarak's red car parked at the far end of the bustling parking lot and made her way towards it.

Mubarak bore a striking resemblance to their father in both appearance and mannerisms, although, he was a more playful version of him.

Fatimè's attire for the day was her signature style of a casual abaya, with subtle embroidered details and a comfortable fit. The loose folds of her abaya swayed gracefully with the breeze as she walked

"Aye." He opened his arms to hug her. "The prodigal daughter is back!"

Fatimè embraced him tightly, savoring the warmth of their reunion. "I missed you too," she said, finally releasing him

Why do you look like a groom?" she teased, noticing his attire consisting of a white kaftan and Zanna Bukar cap. It was unusual for her brother to go full kaftan mode.

"Because I am coming from a wedding, dummy."

"You have finally decided to settle down kenan? Ma Sha Allah. Mami must be very happy. So who is the lucky girl, or should I say, who are you lucky to have?"

"Shut up," he chuckled. "I meant a friend's wedding. As for me, I'm still searching for someone who can handle this package." He flexed his muscles playfully, eliciting laughter from Fatimè.

"Package indeed."

"Come on, yan dillu," Mubarak urged. "Mami is dying to see her prodigal daughter."

Sensing her unease, Mubarak gently lifted her face with his finger, ensuring she looked at him. "Relax, I'm sure everything is calm now. You can talk to Mami and sort it out. Stop beating yourself up about it. All she does is from a place of love, it's just, you know, different, more like the millennial way."

Fatimè laughed. "Don't let her hear you calling her a millennial, or else you'll be moving out permanently."

"That's the plan, mumu. Vex her so she kicks me out, and I don't get to hear her yap about how it's her house yen yen yen."

If Fatimè had a dollar for every time her mother mentioned the statement "this is my house," she'd be richer than "Jeff Bezos'.

"Maybe you should get married then," she suggested.

"Now you sound like Mami. Please yan dillu, this sun is killing me." Mubarak complained, shielding his eyes from the blazing sun.

"Branch 'Yogurberry'?" Fatimè begged with the biggest grin she could muster.

"One of these days, you'll be peeing frozen yogurt."

She knew it was a yes and got into the car, thinking about how the blueberry flavor was going to melt in her mouth.