Today, I woke up unusually late, an event so out of character that it caused me to miss the Fajr prayer. The sense of disarray that followed was palpable, and though I tried to brush it off as simple anxiety, there was a nagging feeling deep inside me that something significant was on the horizon. It’s hard to shake off the sensation that today is different, but I couldn't quite put my finger on why.
After missing the prayer, I forced myself to go through the motions of my morning routine. I stepped into the bathroom and took a long, soothing bath, hoping to wash away the strange start to my day. The water was warm and comforting, but it did little to ease the unsettling feeling that had settled over me. When I emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and still lost in thought, I headed towards my wardrobe.
For the first time in six years, I felt a sudden and unexpected urge to reassess my appearance. As I scanned through my clothes, I found myself drawn to an old, black atamfah—a garment I haven’t worn in what feels like forever. It was a piece of clothing that seemed almost foreign to me now, its significance buried under layers of time and habit. Yet, today, it called out to me with an inexplicable pull.
I decided to wear it, despite the strangeness of the choice. The atamfah felt different against my skin, as if it carried a weight of its own. Putting it on felt like a bold departure from my usual attire and, perhaps, from the person I had become. There was a curious mix of apprehension and anticipation as I looked at myself in the mirror, wondering if this small, seemingly insignificant change might somehow impact the course of my day.
The garment’s fabric felt almost symbolic, as if it was bridging a gap between the past and the present, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that today’s departure from routine might be leading me toward something significant.
---
After finishing my studies, I returned to what seemed to be the only activity I engaged in since graduation: lying in bed. This wasn’t a typical school situation; I had been homeschooled, not by a tutor but through online classes, all at seventeen years old. The world outside felt vastly different, and I struggled with the idea of moving on. Letting go of the past wasn’t easy, though I knew it should be. The thoughts plagued me constantly.
Lost in my thoughts, I was jolted by a voice behind me. It wasn’t just anyone; it was my uncle. I turned to look at him, my gaze steady and unflinching. I wasn’t scared, though I felt a pang of something else—something akin to resentment—as I met his eyes. I saw pity there, a feeling I loathed.
“Listen, Najma,” he began, his voice carrying a weight of emotion I hadn’t anticipated.
“I know things have been incredibly hard since their deaths. I understand that it's not easy for you, but do you think it’s easy for me either? Losing a brother is deeply painful.”
He paused, as if gathering his thoughts before continuing. “Life is like climbing a mountain. There are always difficult stretches. At first, you might feel like giving up, but sometimes you find motivation to push through. There will be times when you have to leave some people behind. Not everyone who starts the climb will reach the summit at the same time. Some will arrive before others, or some might never make it at all. But eventually, we all reach the same destination.”
He looked at me intently, his eyes reflecting his own struggles. “Listen here, Najma. I am a man who lives in a society that views expressing pain as a weakness. A man who is expected to bear his burdens alone. I can't claim to fully understand how you feel, but what I do know is that it’s been six years.”
“I’m not here to stigmatize you,” he said, his voice softening, “but to help you. Running away from this world won’t solve anything. Cowards run from their problems, but no matter how far you go, they will always find you.”
He paused again, searching for the right words. “I’m not asking you to respond or speak to me. What I’m asking is something I know you can give. You’re strong, Najma. You just need to allow yourself to feel, to embrace the pain. You have to face it head-on.”
He handed me an envelope, his hands lingering for a moment before he stepped towards the door. As he left, he glanced back, contemplating the final words he wanted to impart.
“Najma, remember that we’re not forever. There will come a time when I’ll reach my destination, and there would be no one to look after you. So think wisely. Fi Aman Allah.”
After he left, the room felt even more silent. The envelope lay heavy in my hands, a tangible symbol of his concern. His words echoed in my mind, a blend of compassion and tough love that I struggled to process. The pain, the loss, and the uncertainty about my future swirled within me. It was as if his departure had opened a door to the emotional climb I had been avoiding—a climb I now knew I had to face.
After he left the room, I carefully opened the envelope, feeling a mix of anticipation and unease. Inside, I found two papers. The first was an admission letter to a university in Kano. I set it aside, my hands trembling slightly, and turned to the second paper. As I unfolded it, my heart raced, overwhelmed by a cascade of thoughts and emotions.
The letter read:
---
Dear Najma,
It feels like an eternity since we last communicated. Six years have passed, and yet, it seems like just yesterday that we were in touch. I find myself reflecting on those times, constantly wondering about your life and well-being. I made several attempts to reach out when I learned from Fatima that you were moving away. Regrettably, my mother fell ill shortly after, which prevented me from visiting you as I had hoped. I sent a letter, but I’m unsure if it ever reached you.
Despite the fact that we were never particularly close, your memory has remained vivid in my mind. It's curious how, despite only having shared a few conversations, you have left such a lasting impression on me. This must be the hundredth letter I’ve written to you, and if this one doesn’t find its way to you, I’m sending it anyway.
Fatima has settled in the UK two years ago, and now, I am on the brink of starting my studies there as well. I hope our paths might cross once more, perhaps through her. I’ve learned that you’ve chosen to distance yourself from others, which is why I hesitated to reach out sooner. Still, despite the different directions our lives have taken, I remain hopeful that fate might bring us together again.
I understand if you don't wish to leave the past behind and focus on your future. I just wanted to take this opportunity to express my lingering feelings and thoughts. Life’s journey is full of unexpected turns, and maybe, just maybe, our destinies will align in ways we can’t yet imagine.
Until that time comes, take good care of yourself. Seek out who you truly are and cherish the memories of the past without letting them weigh you down.
Farewell for now, Najma.
With heartfelt regards,
Ahmad.
Hope you you like it it's been if so,
Comment,like and share but most importantly comment.
Written with a smile on my face ❤️
By Zainab khalid shariff.
YOU ARE READING
HER GONE DAYS
General FictionIn a world marked by profound adversity, a young girl named Najma endures relentless bullying due to her unconventional appearance and the physical stature of her chubby appearance, parents who are perpetually embroiled in discord. Her familial envi...
