BELONGING - BOOK 1

12. Fragile Hearts

HALIMA

As I rose with the dawn, the soft morning light filtering through the elegant curtains, I began my day with the serene tranquility of Fajr prayers. The plush prayer mat cradled my knees, and the soothing cadence of dhikr filled the air, calming my mind. A refreshing shower in the lavish bathroom, complete with an overhead showerhead, invigorated me. The scent of lavender soap and shampoo enveloped me, transporting me to a state of serenity.

Wrapped in a plush towel, I brushed my teeth, the minty flavor leaving my mouth feeling clean and revitalized. The opulent surroundings of the Shagari mansion enveloped me, a world away from my humble abode. Rich textures, exquisite artwork, and impeccable décor spoke of refinement and elegance. My employers, the Shagaris, treated me with kindness and respect, a welcome respite from the typical stern treatment maids often endured.

At 6:59 AM, I slipped into the stunning Royal Blue embellished kurti, a thoughtful gift from Aunt Yasmin's Indian sojourn. The knee-length dress, paired with matching palazzo pants, felt comfortable and modest, perfect for a day attending to Hajiya's needs. My scrubs, reserved for hospital duties, hung untouched, relics of a profession temporarily on hold during my six-month leave.

Draping the crisp white jersey veil around me, I felt a sense of serenity wash over me. The soft fabric whispered against my skin as I slid into the elegant sandals. My thoughts turned to Hajiya's requirements, and I descended to prepare her day. The aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering coffee wafted from the kitchen, where the cooks were already busy crafting a culinary masterpiece.

Hajiya Daso's early departure for work and Yasir's chamber duties – his father, Alhaji Usama, a renowned Senior Advocate of Nigeria (SAN), owned the esteemed law firm – meant our day began with precision. Yasir's impeccable style, always in crisp white button-up shirts and tailored black trousers, reflected his dedication to his profession.

With the gentle care of a seasoned nurse, I poured Hajiya's water into the elegant jug, followed by her morning medication. I ascended the stairs, my footsteps quiet on the plush carpet, and knocked gently on her door before entering. The warm glow of the morning sun cast a golden light upon the room, filling my heart with gratitude for another blessed day.

"Salamualaikum," I greeted softly, entering the serene room bathed in the gentle glow of the blue LED light. The atmosphere was tranquil, with the scent of lavender wafting through the air. Hajiya sat on her praying mat, her hands clasped around the rosary, her eyes closed in devotion. I waited respectfully until she finished her prayers, her face illuminated by a warm smile.

"Take a break," she said, her voice weak but reassuring, as I began my examination. Despite the chemotherapy, her condition seemed to be deteriorating. Her eyelids appeared darker, her lips dry and bluish, a testament to the relentless battle she faced. I silently hoped for her recovery.

Assessing her pain levels, I asked, "On a scale of one to ten, how does it hurt?" My fingers gently pressed against her belly, monitoring her response. "Four," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. I knew Hajiya's stoic nature; she was a warrior, masking her agony.

Next, I prepared her morning medication, carefully organizing the pills and liquids according to her treatment plan. "Time for your meds, Hajiya," I announced, holding out the small cup. She took the medication without hesitation, washing it down with a sip of water. I monitored her intake, ensuring she received the precise dosage.

I guided her to her bed, supporting her frail frame as she lay down. The soft blanket enveloped her, and I adjusted the pillows for optimal comfort. Her hands grasped mine, her eyes pleading.

"Visit your mother, Halima; she might be missing you," she whispered, her voice laced with concern. "Promise me you will." Her urgency was palpable, and I reassured her.