Unedited.
Istanbul, Türkiye.
November, 2018.
•ASLAM.
After getting off a call with Mami, I felt the familiar heaviness settle in my chest. Needing some fresh air to clear my mind, I decided to take a walk. I grabbed a sweatshirt from the closet and pulled it over my shirt, then reached for a puffer jacket. I quickly stuffed my cardholder and AirPods into my pocket and headed out the door.
The cold air hit my face as I stepped outside. I put on my AirPods and cranked up the volume, letting The Weeknd's True Colours drown out the noise of the city. In that moment, it felt like I was in my own world—detached from everything and everyone. Here, no one knew me, no one had any expectations of me, and for a brief moment, I was free from the weight of those expectations. It was a rare and good feeling.
I must have walked further than I realised because, before I knew it, I found myself deep within the park. This was the same park I often watched from my balcony, observing the world from afar. Today, though, I wasn't just a spectator. I walked along the path, eventually finding an empty bench and sat down. As I did, I took in the scenes around me—people going about their lives, some sitting quietly on benches like mine, others watching their children play, and a few walking their pets. Their laughter and chatter filled the air, mingling with the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
She always brought it up—how it was time for me to return, to settle down. But I've made it clear so many times that I no longer feel like I have a home there. It's been long since I went to Nigeria; the place feels foreign to me now. The only real ties I have left there are Mami and my siblings, and even they visited me often enough when I was in England that it didn't really matter how long I stayed away.
Yet, now that I've been here, Mami and a few of my siblings have already visited, and with each visit, the pressure from them to come back home intensifies. They know what going back means—joining one of my father's group of companies and probably getting married, both of which I'm not ready for, not even close. Mami is aware of this, yet she keeps pushing.
She sighed during our call—probably disappointed, but she ended the conversation as she always does—praying for me, cracking a few jokes to try and lighten my mood before saying goodbye.
I wanted to stay in the park longer, despite the cold creeping through my clothes, but it eventually became too much. My hands were starting to feel numb, especially since I hadn't thought to bring gloves. Reluctantly, I got up from the bench and started walking again. The park was becoming emptier as the evening deepened, and the temperature dropped further. I decided to head toward the nearby Starbucks to get a dose of caffeine.
As I walked, the cold air stung my face, but I was lost in thought, replaying the conversation with Mami again and again, trying to figure out what I really wanted, what I was so afraid of. The green lights from the Starbucks logo came into view and I quickened my pace, eager for the comfort of a hot cuppa.
As I stepped into the café, the warmth and quiet greeted me. I scanned the room, looking for an empty seat, and just as luck—or perhaps fate—would have it, my eyes landed on a particular figure tucked away at a corner table. There was something striking about her, something that set her apart from the rest of the few people in the café. She wasn't Turkish or European—her features suggested she might be African, or perhaps she was of mixed heritage. I couldn't quite place it, and before I could think further, I heard her voice, speaking softly on a phone call. Speaking Hausa.
For a moment, I stood there, rooted in place, watching her. She was engrossed in her conversation, her lips curling into a smile every now and then, a genuine, beautiful smile that seemed to light up her entire face. She typed gently on her MacBook, her slender fingers moving swiftly over the keys. I didn't know what it was, but something about her was magnetic, drawing me in. It was as if the rest of the world had faded, leaving only her in sharp focus.
