Beyond Desire

23- The little things

It had been a full week since we returned from Asia, and not once had he returned my calls or texts, not even a word of the most basic courtesy.

At first, I worried. Then anger flared, because he had to have seen my call. Then came the ache of longing, the sharp sting of sadness, and finally, an all-consuming fury that settled into my chest like a lead weight.

The least he could have done was type a single, careless "you're welcome." That tiny acknowledgment would have been enough to tell me the conversation was over. He didn't even need to call. But there was nothing. Silence.

And the worst part? He refused to leave my thoughts. Every little thing dragged him back into my mind. Even the embroidered blue Atampa my mother picked out for me that morning his eyes color, of course. Everything was somehow linked to him.

As I sat at my vanity, tying my scarf as neatly as my hands would allow, my eyes kept darting toward my phone on the bed. You had to think that after so many days, I would have accepted the truth, that he didn't want anything to do with me anymore. But moments like this, when I was alone with my thoughts, made me foolishly hopeful. I had found myself staring at my silent phone, wishing it would beep with his number on the screen.

Pathetic, I know.

I sighed, securing the final clip on my headtie before standing to pick up my small, deep-blue veil, the one that complemented the shade of my outfit perfectly.

After a week of what basically felt like house arrest, Mama had finally decided it was time for our first public appearance. And where else would we go, if not a seminar organized by some Nigerian political association? It wasn't as if there was a nice cafe around Abuja where we could simply have breakfast instead.

For the umpteenth time, I sighed, grabbed my bag, and slipped into my flip-flops. Mahir had stolen the heels I planned to wear earlier, just to annoy me, when he came to borrow a book from my shelf. I heard him clomping around in them downstairs, and I just hoped he hadn't managed to damage them, because, honestly, that would have sent me into a full-blown tantrum. Not even because of the shoes, but because I needed something to blame.

I eventually found him seated in one of the smaller living rooms, eyes glued to his phone. My shoes were beside him. Without a word, I sat down, slid my feet into them, and said, "Where's Hajiya Mama?"

"I thought you were coming down together," he replied, not looking up.

"Right. As if I ever have a say in her movements." I bit back an eye-roll.

"I wish there was a way I could skip this."

"Die," I muttered. "That way, I wouldn't have to go either."

He snorted, and we fell into our usual rhythm of pointless bickering until Mama finally appeared. Within minutes, we were out of the house, enduring the long, over-an-hour drive to our destination. An open field, elaborately decorated just for the occasion.

As always, I did my best to avoid every familiar face, wanting to drift toward the far end of the seating area even though there was clearly a section marked for "The Minister of Defence and Family."

Still, my eyes kept scanning the crowd, stubbornly, foolishly, hoping they would land on a certain someone.

But of course, life loved mocking me.

Because the first face my gaze caught was his mother's.

For a heartbeat, my chest tightened, and all the air I had been pretending to breathe suddenly felt trapped somewhere between my ribs. She looked just the same, composed, regal in a soft lilac lace that shimmered faintly under the sun. Beside her sat his sister, Miryam, laughing over something on her phone.