HER CRUSH

Chapter7

Zarah..
Today is shaping up to be the worst day ever. Wallahi, if not for Ammi's insistence, I would have gladly stayed home, curled up with a bowl of cornflakes and my favorite telenovela reruns. But no. A wedding must be attended.

I stood in the middle of my room, arms crossed, glaring at my cluttered closet as if it personally offended me. Outfits hung like they were mocking me...too bright, too plain, too tight, too... meh. Ammi had instructed me to "dress up and look presentable,
Zarah", but how was I supposed to decide when every single dress looked like it came from a different mood swing?

Aunty Ramla is doing  the bride's makeup, and Ammi had emphasized...emphasized!...the importance of being on time. As if punctuality had ever been a realistic concept in Nigerian weddings.

My only consolation in this madness was the thought of Anty Ramla slipping me some cash later. I had my eyes on a particular atamfa I saw....6,000 naira, so stunning it had been living rent-free in my head. And then there was Badiya's wedding next month. Her asoebi had already been distributed for the dinner, kamu, and wedding fatiha. I was broke, unprepared, and stressed. But at least, if I played my cards right, I could compile a shopping list when I got back.

I smiled faintly at the thought of Anty Ramla buying me ice cream afterwards....my guilty pleasure, my weakness, my joy. The thought alone softened the edge of my irritation.

Still... I was outfitless. And the clock wasn't slowing down for me. 7:30 p.m. already. Ya Allah.

With a groan, I marched off to find Aunty Ramla. Earlier, she'd refused to do my makeup, claiming she had no time. But I wasn't leaving this house without at least eyeliner and a touch of gloss. I'd even gone as far as returning her long-forgotten lipstick and that turban I "borrowed" weeks ago. A peace offering, if you will.

"Aunty Ramla, Aunty Ramla, let's start the makeup nau!" I chirped, hovering over her shoulder like a mosquito.

But she was glued to her phone, scrolling with a small smile on her lips. And honestly? She looked gorgeous herself, dressed in a pink lace with neat white accents. Not a bead of sweat on her forehead, not a hair out of place. The kind of perfection that makes you roll your eyes and still whisper masha Allah before you get accused of envy.

I pouted and sat down beside her quietly. She finally gave in, brushing me off with a dramatic sigh.

Within minutes, my face was transformed. A touch of powder, bold brows, a hint of shimmer. I stared at the mirror and thought, Ah-ah, who is this fine girl?

But makeup done didn't mean the outfit crisis was solved. I rushed back to my room, nearly tripping over the shoes scattered across the floor. Ammi would have scolded me for the mess if she'd seen it, but time was running out. I grabbed the only thing that didn't make me want to cry....a green dinner gown. Slipping it on, I twirled once before the mirror. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Zarah, you clean up well."

Of course, I couldn't resist stealing....sorry, borrowing again....Aunty Ramla's turban. She wouldn't say anything until we got home anyway.

Ya Hafiz and Chuchu dropped us off at the bride's house.

The moment we stepped in, I was swallowed by opulence. Chandeliers glowed above us, carpets softer than clouds, sofas lined like royalty lived here.
The bride's friends floated around in glittering outfits, whispering and giggling.

"Rumor has it she's marrying one wealthy man," someone whispered beside me.

I perched on the edge of a bed, scrolling through my phone while Aunty Ramla worked on the bride. My eyes froze on one story....my crush. There he was, posted up with his boys in sharp kaftans. Caption: Kaduna.

My heart did one small backflip. "He's in Kaduna? Oh Allah, let me meet him. Even if it's just for a second... even if it's just on the road."

Time ticked. 9:00 p.m. The event was meant to start at 8, but of course, "African time" was in charge.

Aunty Ramla was still working, now on the bride's sister. I yawned so hard my eyes watered.

"The groom's cars are here!" someone suddenly announced. A ripple of excitement passed through the house.

People started rushing out, their heels clicking like gunfire against the tiles. Another voice echoed...probably the bride's best friend....urging people to hurry. By 9:30, Aunty Ramla was still busy with the bride's mom. I was exhausted, but I smiled at the thought of my shopping list again.

"Zarah, you should go too," the bride's mom insisted.
I hesitated. My default mode was to stick to familiar people, but I caught Aunty Ramla's nod of approval and stood up.

"The cars outside are full," someone said.

"No, she should wait outside," another girl suggested.

"Faisal said more cars are coming," a third voice added.

So, I clutched my small purse, slipped into my favorite heels, and stepped outside. The wind was sharp, whipping against my face. I hugged myself, wondering if I should just sneak back in.

That's when I saw them. Three cars rolling into the driveway....a black BMW, a white TESLA , and a black MERCEDES . My pulse quickened instantly. The Mercedes gleamed under the lights, its tinted windows giving nothing away.

I don't know what possessed me. But my legs carried me straight to the Mercedes. The door was locked at first, but then it clicked open, smooth and inviting. Without thinking, I slid in.

The interior smelled like leather and cologne. The kind of scent that wraps around you and says, you are in trouble, my dear.

The engine purred to life. No one else was being picked up. My heart thudded against my ribs. Slowly, cautiously, I turned to face the driver.

"Ya Illahi..." I whispered.

It was him. Abdullah

The boy who lived in my head rent-free. The boy I had prayed, hoped, manifested into my life. And here I was, sitting in his car as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I wanted to scream, laugh, cry, all at once. Instead, I froze, clutching my bag like it could save me.

His eyes flicked toward me for the briefest second before returning to the road. My heart stopped. If I died now, I'd die happy.

He broke the silence first, his voice low and husky. "Do you need anything?"

I shook my head and nodded at the same time, the most embarrassing human contradiction ever.

He chuckled softly, and I nearly fainted at the sound.

"You said yes and no together. Which one should I take?"

"I... I mean....my tongue tripped,....no. I don't need anything."

He smile , amused. "If you say so."

I turned to the window, trying to act calm, but my heart was doing zanku legwork in my chest.

Then he murmured something under his breath.
"What?" I asked quickly, desperate not to miss a word.

He glanced at me briefly, then said louder, "What's your name?"

I swallowed, my throat dry. "Fatima."

"Nice name. Masha Allah." His smile was brief but enough to set my whole soul on fire.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Silence stretched again, thick and charged.
"Are you tired?" he asked suddenly.

I blinked. "What made you think that?"

"You leaned back earlier, closed your eyes. Looked like you were exhausted."

I laughed softly, shaking my head. "No... I'm not tired. I just... don't like going to these dinners."

He tilted his head, And for the first time, I felt like maybe....just maybe....tonight wouldn't be the worst day ever.