FATE INSPIRED

Chapter 22

Asad

Meeting Layla a few days ago to finally apologize had left more of an impression on me than I'd anticipated. It was one thing to expect understanding from someone, but her reaction caught me off guard. I had seen people practice maturity countless times in my life, but Layla had something else, a playful edge to her responses that softened the gravity of her words, an honesty that was as sharp as it was refreshing. Honesty, I've found, is rare to come by, especially in my line of work where appearances often overshadow sincerity.

Layla wasn't hiding anything, nor was she sugarcoating her response to me, and that's precisely what left me admiring her even more. She let me know she wasn't exactly happy with what had happened, and yet, she had heard me out. That was enough to remind me of her composure, even as she expressed her disappointment in a way that felt playful but earnest. I didn't get that much from people around me, but I know it's mostly because I intimidate them a lot.

Still, I couldn't quite say if she had forgiven me. Days had gone by, and although we had only exchanged a few phone calls and messages since then, I'd found myself looking forward to each one with an intensity that surprised me. Normally, I wouldn't pay much attention to someone's changing moods, I've grown accustomed to being deliberate and logical about relationships, leaving little room for guesswork. Yet, here I was, thinking over every word she said and didn't say and especially her tone. I sensed a hint of distance from her, a slight shift in the playfulness that had initially drawn me in. I couldn't say if I was reading too much into things, but with everything I'd heard from Nahla and Usman about women and what Google assured me, Layla was probably pretending to sound uninterested. I allowed myself a slight smile at that thought; perhaps I now knew better than to take Google's advice on courtship at face value.

Being intentional has always been second nature to me, almost as essential as breathing. I can't afford not to be. Every action, every word, and every decision I make must mean something, carry weight, and show purpose. I don't pursue things unless I'm prepared to see them through. It's what made me the person I am and allowed me to take on responsibilities that most would shy away from. With Layla, I'm realizing that intention alone might not be enough. If she has truly pulled back, then I'll have to rethink how I approach this. For once, it wasn't about logic, about just making things right; it was about understanding her, reading between the lines, and paying attention in a way that didn't come naturally to me. And maybe that's why she was different from everything else, why I felt driven to see this through properly and prove, even if subtly, that she was worth every bit of it.

I started walking toward Abu, who was seated under the vintage, shaded pergola in the middle of our family farmhouse. This place was his sanctuary, an oasis of calm and familiarity that he treasured more than anything else, especially now that he was retired. The farmhouse itself sprawled across acres of land, a vast investment he'd made over the years that had grown as steadily as his love for it. Around it, there were endless rows of fruit trees—mangoes, guava, date palms, trees that had matured over time. In between the rows of trees, tall grasses swayed in the breeze, where our cattle wandered peacefully, their coats a patchwork of earthy brown and warm grays, characteristic of the hardy Fulani breed.

The entire property held a sentimental weight that only deepened with age. Abu had poured his heart into this land, cultivating not just produce but a sense of belonging, a piece of heritage for our family. For the Fulani, owning farmland and cattle was more than just a livelihood; it was a way of life, a lineage stretching back generations. This was the legacy my father had handed down, a responsibility, a deep-rooted appreciation for the land, animals, and their symbiotic existence. He often told us how, when he was young, farmhouses like these were family treasures that represented not only prosperity but also pride in who we were.