Hearts Anointed

11

Abuja, Nigeria.

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The hum of the airplane's engines faded as Fayrouz stepped onto the jet bridge. A faint gust of warm air seeped through the cracks, brushing against her veil and carrying with it the unmistakable aroma of spice, dust and petrol hung in the air —a scent uniquely Nigerian.

As she moved forward, the change in atmosphere hit her like a wave: the sharp rise in temperature, the heavy air that clung to her skin, and the subtle murmur of voices blending into a melody of accents she hadn't heard in years.

Her shoes clicked against the polished tiles as she entered the terminal. Travelers swirled around her like a current, dragging suitcases, hurrying to immigration, or stopping for quick embraces. The chatter of Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, and English filled the air in a chaotic harmony. It was a stark contrast to the quieter more measured tones she'd grown used to in Edinburgh.

Fayrouz adjusted the strap of her carry-on, weaving through the crowd to the immigration counter. The officer barely glanced at her passport, the stamp landing on its pages with a decisive thunk. "Welcome back," he muttered, his tone brisk and automatic.

She offered a small nod, retrieving her documents and stepping aside. There was a faint prickling in her chest, a quiet unease she couldn't shake. Perhaps it was the strangeness of being back after so long—or the weight of what awaited her beyond these walls.

At the baggage carousel, the conveyor belt churned with a mechanical rhythm, delivering battered and pristine suitcases alike. Her eyes landed on hers—a sleek navy blue suitcase with smooth edges and a discreet gold emblem on the handle. It had been her companion through countless journeys during her university days in Edinburgh, a silent witness to her growth and independence.

Dragging it off the carousel, she stepped into the arrivals area. The hall was alive with movement—reunions marked by loud exclamations, hurried goodbyes, and the constant shuffle of feet. Amid the bustle, her eyes found him: a man standing by the exit, holding a sign that read "Dr. Fayrouz."

He was older, his weathered features framed by a simple cap and kaftan. His posture was confident yet unassuming, the sign gripped firmly in his hand.

"Doctor Fayrouz?" he asked, his voice polite but tinged with curiosity.

"That's me," she replied, mustering a polite smile as she handed over her suitcase.

The man nodded, his movements brisk as he led her outside to a sleek black car. The tinted windows shimmered under the intense Abuja sun, a haven of cool air waiting inside.

The car eased onto the highway, leaving the airport's orderly lanes behind. Fayrouz rested her head against the window, watching as the city unfolded before her. Abuja pulsed with life—bustling markets teeming with vendors, sleek SUVs sharing lanes with weathered yellow tricycles, and pedestrians weaving through the chaos. Long stretches of tarmac shimmered under the heat, broken by flashes of green from scattered trees.

Her mind wasn't on the streets or the city she'd left behind years ago. It was on the call that changed everything.

"Your father is very sick. He's been asking for you"

Her stepmother's voice had been firm, brisk, carrying an urgency Fayrouz couldn't ignore. Even as she held the phone to her ear, the words had needed a moment to settle. There had been no time to hesitate, no room for questions. A flight had been arranged. A driver had been sent. And now she was here, carried through Abuja's sunlit chaos towards an uncertain reunion.

Mallam Musa, the driver, glanced at her through the rearview mirror, curiosity flickering in his eyes. His thoughts tumbled unspoken: Who be this fine madam wey no talk too much? Abi she dey work with oga? Her face be like oyinbo, but she quiet pass big madam people.

"Madam," Musa began hesitantly, his Hausa accent thick and deliberate. "You no dey feel this Abuja sun? E hot like fire today o."

Fayrouz glanced up, catching his gaze in the mirror. "I'm fine," she replied, her tone polite but distant. "The AC is helping."

Musa adjusted his cap, his lips twitching into a small grin. "Na true o. Dis sun fit roast suya sef. You no dey Abuja before, abi?"

She hesitated. "It's been a while."

"Ah," he nodded knowingly. "You go don forget our heat. Abroad weather cool well-well. For here, you go just dey sweat anyhow!"

A faint smile ghosted across Fayrouz's lips, but she said nothing more, letting the rhythm of the car and the city fill the silence.

As they turned onto a quieter road, the hospital loomed ahead. Its towering structure stood tall against the sprawling cityscape, a blend of modern design and imposing practicality. Fayrouz's chest tightened slightly.

"We don reach," Musa announced, stepping out quickly to open her door.

She smoothed her veil and stepped out, her eyes scanning the building. At the entrance, a young man leaned casually against the wall, his phone in one hand. His features were unmistakably reminiscent of their father's—the sharp cheekbones, the slight furrow in his brow when he focused.

Mallam Musa stepped forward "Oga Adam!' He called waving him over.

The man looked up, slipping his phone into his pocket as he walked toward them. His steps were unhurried but purposeful, his expression polite.

"Good morning" he greeted Fayrouz, his tone formal.

"Good morning" she replied, her voice steady but distant.

"This na Madam's message " Musa gestured toward her.

Adam's brows furrowed slightly, his gaze sharpening as he studied her. His mother had sent this woman? She didn't look like a business associate, nor did she resemble any relatives he knew of. There was something deliberate in her presence, something that demanded attention without effort.

"Follow me," Adam said simply, stepping aside to let her walk with him.

They moved through the hospital's gleaming corridors, the faint scent of antiseptic hanging in the air. The polished floors reflected the fluorescent lights above, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet. Fayrouz kept her gaze ahead, though she was acutely aware of Adam walking beside her. The resemblance was startling, and the ease with which he carried himself—confident but not overbearing—reminded her of her father's presence years ago.

Adam, on the other hand, stole glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking. There was something about her presence that intrigued him. His mother hadn't mentioned sending anyone. And if this woman was important enough to warrant a private driver, why hadn't he been informed? Questions buzzed in his mind, but something about her composure kept him silent. Her presence was almost intimidating—not in a brash way, but in the quiet strength she exuded.

Fayrouz felt his glances but chose not to acknowledge them. Her mind worked quickly, piecing together her own observations. He doesn't know who I am. Of course, he wouldn't. How could he?

She could sense his unspoken questions, the way his lips parted slightly as if to speak, only for him to think better of it. Maybe it was her poise—or perhaps the weight of her silence—that kept him quiet.

When they reached the ICU waiting area, Adam slowed, his expression shifting to something more professional. He gestured toward the glass door, his voice measured and distant. "They're inside."

Fayrouz nodded, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. The resemblance to their father was striking, but the differences were equally sharp. Adam's demeanor carried a youthful energy, a cautious curiosity she hadn't expected.

"Thank you," she said softly, stepping past him.

Adam lingered by the door as it closed behind her, his thoughts spinning. She's not a relative—at least not one I know. But then, why did my mother send her? Who is she?

Inside, Fayrouz steadied herself, bracing for the reunion she'd been avoiding for years. But outside, Adam remained rooted in place, unable to shake the feeling that he'd just met someone far more significant than he could have imagined.
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