Unedited.
Abuja, Nigeria.
Amna thought the sun would never set, time seemed to have paused and the day felt long and agonizing but eventually, darkness came, just like what she felt from within.
She had spent the entire day in a corner of Ammi's room next to Hafsah, occasionally meeting Ammi's gaze from across the room, where she sat with her sisters, friends, and Amna's mother. Women trooped into the gloomy room to offer their condolences, all their faces with sombre expressions. Some had shaky voices, teary eyes, or apologetic smiles. Others wept as they embraced Khalthum's mother, Hafsah or other women in the room.
Many relatives asked, "Ina kawarta, Amna? -where is her friend, Amna?" They didn't recognize her because her face was buried in her knees, which were drawn to her chest.
Amna's brain did not register most of what people said. Nevertheless, her lips moved, voicing the words "Alhamdulillah," "Amin," "Mungode," and "Allah ya bada lada."
She sat there the whole day, only standing a few times to offer her prayers or visit the restroom in Hafsah's room. She still couldn't bring herself to walk into Khalthum's room.
Her phone rang endlessly as people called to condole her, but she couldn't answer a single call. She couldn't do it. She only answered calls from Aslam, who was downstairs with the men, and went downstairs when his friends wanted to offer their condolences, and when her mother-in-law, Yasmine, Aisha and Laila came too.
.
.
.
At night, the house was silent and hollow, the air thick with the weight of sorrow as the visitors dispersed. A few relatives stayed behind, mostly in the guest chalet and rooms downstairs. Amna had decided to stay the night, unable to bear the thought of leaving the house. She knew she had to be there for Ammi and Hafsah. Aslam had reluctantly agreed but made her promise she would call if she needed anything.
Khalthum's room that was once a sanctuary of shared secrets and dreams, now felt cold and desolate. Amna was convinced she would see Khalthum in there when she held the doorknob and opened the door, but she wasn't there. The walls, adorned with wallpaper she had helped Khalthum choose years ago at a home center in Istanbul, the countless sleepovers and late-night conversations shared in the room, she remembered the exact day they painted the canvas that hung on the wall.
Amna sat on Khalthum's bed, her fingers tracing the patterns on the quilt, trying to take in deep breaths. A lot of moments flooded her memory.
Khalthum had always been the optimistic one, and her laughter always calmed Amna's anxious soul. The thought of never hearing that laughter again, of never seeing that radiant smile, was almost too much to bear. She remembered when she used to visit every Saturday and Khalthum spent her Sundays at Amna's. They saw each other 7 days a week when they were teenagers, their parents got tired of complaining that they were 5 & 6 and they would even ask if everything was fine any weekend that one did not visit the other. And it was usually because there was a family wedding they had to attend or one of them was out of the city or country.
As she looked around the room, her eyes fell on a framed photograph on the nightstand. It was a picture of the two of them, taken during a bonfire night in secondary school. They were smiling, arms wrapped around each other, their faces glowing with happiness. The memory of that day brought a lump to her throat. She picked up the photo, her hands trembling, and held it close to her heart, as if trying to hold on to the happiness that now seemed so far away.
