Chapter 28

heques bounced. People went back on their promises for donations. It
was frustrating, but I was beginning to understand that it’s part of
running an N.G.O. and dealing with people.
With less than three months to our official opening date, things were
beginning to get hectic, especially with getting ready for graduation. So
when an old family friend, Alhaji Sheriff, finally replied to my business
plan asking for my account details, I was elated. I sent the details and was
very grateful when a substantial amount was wired to the account.
With the money Kaltume’s dad sent, I would be able to pay the staff we
hired for the first three months and the outstanding balance for the standby
generator will also be taken care of. Naturally, I was very appreciative. He
also happened to be in Toronto on his way to the U.S. for a medical check-
up and with the change in government that was about to happen, he might
be granted clemency and finally get to rejoin his family back in Abuja.
Right now, he was lodged in a suite at the Fairmont Royal York and had
asked to see me so I came. But being here – with him sitting too close to me
for comfort on the couch in a heavy black and gold Versace robe and
Hermes slippers, and his request that his personal assistant leave us alone –
was beginning to seem like a wrong idea.
“How are your studies?” he asked in Hausa, looking more at my chest
than my face.

“It’s fine, uncle, Alhamdulillah. Thank you so much for your
contribution to the shelter, uncle.” I shifted in my seat, repeating uncle a
few times to remind him.
He reached out and patted my back, “no problem, my dear. Running a
Charity like yours is very expensive, you know that, right?” he smiled
cunningly and I nodded. “Eat.” It was not a request.
I nodded again, ignoring the platter of sushi, sashimi and the sparkling
water he’d ordered before my arrival.
“There’s no support whatsoever from the Nigerian government. You’ll
be left running after all these small donors for petty change,” he shook his
head as he switched to English, his hand still on my back. I laughed at the
situation in my mind – that I was receiving charity from a man who was in
trouble for embezzling government funds, the same government he was
now criticizing for lack of support for the same charity. I looked up to find
him licking his lips as he looked at me. I opened my mouth to speak and felt
my dinner climbing up my throat and closed it up again. “It’s beneath
someone of your status, hmm, Fa’iza?” he was leaning closer, his hands
caressing my thigh, “a beauty like yourself?”
I jolted up the seat like I had been shocked by electricity.
“Haba, don’t act like a child,” he laughed. “Let me be your sponsor.
You’ll never run into any financial problem,” he said, pouring some orange
juice into a glass. Pronouncing his Fs as Ps. He was a walking embodiment
of every negative Arewa stereotype.
I could not believe my ears. This was Kaltume’s father. I played with his
kids while growing up. We attended each other’s birthday parties. Even
though we were not related, I called him Uncle. He always gave us obscene
amounts of dollars –not even naira – when we visited him during sallah. His

praises used to be played regularly on the radio because of his huge
donations to religious institutions. ‘A righteous man - son of the soil.’ the
jingles said.
“Not just Abuja, I can open shelters for you in as many states as you
want.” he interrupted my thoughts.
“Uncle, you’re misreading this situation,” I said in the most indignant
voice I could muster as I started backing away from him. Then I started
panicking.
“This isn’t my first rodeo, Fa’iza. State your price and I’ll fulfill all your
wishes,” he smiled at me, revealing a toothy grin; it reminded me of a
rabbit. He drank his juice and burped loudly. There were stacks of cash
placed strategically next to his mobile phones. “Nobody has to know,
hmm?” he watched me with hungry eyes. “All the girls running things in
Abuja – you think they’re doing it by themselves?” he laughed. “Do you
understand what I’m saying? We can come to an understanding, can’t we?
Because if we can’t…” he left the sentence incomplete, but the implication
was loud; he would cancel the donation to the shelter if I refused.
I was confident that there were girls in Abuja doing things without so-
called help from nonreligious men like him. I looked up at him, and despite
myself, I started laughing in his face. Looking at his bald head and pot
belly, looking so out of place in what he was wearing. At his big age, he
was out here trying to lure young girls with money. It was all he had to offer
- money. I might have had a need for the money, but definitely not at this
price. It was laughable that he would think he stood a chance. Maybe with
other girls. But with me? “I don’t want your money!” I spat at him. “You
vile, disgustin –” There was a loud banging on the door and a scuffle,
followed by a concerned voice: “Fa’iza? Fa’iza?” Is that Ahmad’s voice?

“Ahmad,” I shouted as I ran towards the door. It was not a question.
“Fa’iza, open the door,” and the banging continued.
I rattled the doorknob from the inside. It was locked. “I can’t. It’s locked
from outside.”
Alhaji Sherriff stood up, apprehension and fear spreading all over his
face. His voice was now a panicked whisper. “Who did you bring?” He
brought out his phone and started dialing frantically.
“Fa’iza, the police are on their way,” Ahmad’s voice came through
again.
“The police are on their way,” I repeated loudly, in case the old man
next to me had missed Ahmad’s warning. I watched as his body shook and
blood drained from his face.
“No, no. Please don’t involve the police. Let’s – let’s settle this between
us, dan Allah. Please.” He dared to bring God’s name into this after his dirty
proposal minutes ago.
“Open the door right now,” I commanded, looking into his eyes as I
watched him quiver like a rat.
He reached into his robe, got out the key card to his room and with his
hand shaking, he passed it to me. I rushed to the door and opened it.
Ahmad stormed in with his sleeves rolled up and top buttons
unbuttoned. He quickly scanned my body, and his eyes went to my face,
searching my eyes. “Did the bastard touch you?” he thundered. I had never
seen him so angry.
“No, but he tried to,” I said. I was so happy to see Ahmad. I wondered
what would have happened if he hadn’t shown up.
In a split second, Ahmad grabbed Alhaji Sherriff by the collar and
punched him in the face. There was blood all over his broken nose and on

the white singlet inside his robe. The man fell backwards as he held his
face, trying to stop the bleeding.
“You dared to touch her?” Ahmad looked dangerous, standing over the
man begging on the floor. As the older man attempted to sit up, Ahmad
kicked him down again.
“Ahmad!” I screamed as I ran towards him, “leave him alone.” I didn’t
want him to waste his breath on the lowly scum of the earth. “Let’s go.”
The Canadian police would see his action as assault and I was worried
about him having a criminal record. We left the room and hurried towards
the elevators, I pressed the button for the ground floor and turned around to
see Ahmad breathing hard and he was shaking with so much anger, he
wouldn’t even look at me.
“Thank you,” I finally said to him as the elevator started to descend.
He still wouldn’t look at me, he slowly put his hands in his pocket. The
elevator stopped, the door opened and someone — from the name tag on
her chest, she was hotel staff, walked in. She pressed a button as the door
closed. He exhaled and finally looked at me, my heartbeat quickening as
our eyes met.
“Are you okay?” Ahmad asked quietly. I had forgotten how his voice
sounded when he was next to me. The way his voice made the words he
spoke sound like they were made for me alone.
I nodded.
As we made our way out of the lobby, the cold air engulfed me and I
shivered. “How did you know that I was here?” I managed to say.
He kept quiet for so long that I was sure that he wouldn’t answer. “Um,
I was having dinner with a friend when I saw you come in. I knew he was
staying here and I wondered if he was the one you were here to see.”

Oh. A friend, huh? Or maybe a girlfriend? I glanced at my feet. Why do
I care? He’s free to do as he pleases.
He continued, “some years ago, a friend of mine in the University of
Abuja needed some help from him. He pretended like he was going to help,
spiked her drink and took advantage of her.” My jaw dropped open. “There
was nothing we could do because he was in power then, and nobody
believed her. But I did and I’ve hated him since then.”
Oh, so that’s what he meant when he said you can’t choose family when
he didn’t want to fly to Milan for Kaltume’s wedding, I figured. Even Afreen
had told me that he didn’t like this particular uncle, but he missed me so
much that he came anyway. I remembered our time together that summer.
My finger absentmindedly scratched the wrist I used to have the bracelet
on.
“Do you want a ride back to the residence?” he asked, watching me
shiver. The cool evening breeze around us and the little space between us
was a reminder of everything that could have been. We hadn’t been this
close to each other in years. I remembered what Dr. Na’ima always told me
about healing and being honest with my feelings.
“I have to tell you, Ahmad,” my voice cracked as I spoke, “it hasn’t
been easy for me at all.” His jaw clenched as his hands went back into his
pocket, his eyes still holding mine. “Everything that happened with us,” I
felt the tears form, “It broke me,” I said as I looked away, willing myself
not to cry. I thought about us a lot – more than I cared to admit. I wished
things had turned out differently. “No, I think I’m just gonna take an Uber,”
I finally said.
Ahmad was quiet even though for a split second, his eyes looked sad.
He looked like he was about to share something with me but instead, he

said: “I’ll wait with you until your ride gets here.”
The next time I saw Ahmad was three months later, during Afreen’s
wedding in Abuja. That wedding was pretty much the highlight of my year;
seeing Zafar and Afreen’s love finally getting such a happy ending was
something I was truly happy to witness. They had held onto each other
through every stumbling block.
At the wedding reception, I looked up from the picture I had taken of
the bride and groom to find Sakina, Hajiya Uwani’s youngest daughter,
pouting and fluttering her lashes as she walked up to Ahmad, “Ahmad!” she
called out in her shrill voice, “Ba ka nema na. You don’t even look for me.”
Her turban was tied unnecessarily high and she was struggling to walk
properly in her jewel-encrusted heels. She had been hovering around him at
every opportunity throughout the wedding that most times, I had to
physically remove myself from their vicinity. My dislike for her had
nothing to do with Ahmad; her shrill voice was just quite irritating.
After my internship, my family flew in for my graduation. My parents
arrived first, and I had just confirmed the gate my parents will be coming
through after going through immigration from the flight board in the
Arrivals terminal when I started making my way towards gate 8, looking
down the empty walkway before looking at my wristwatch. There were a
few people waiting and I excitedly kept glancing at my watch and the
empty hallway behind gate 8.
“They should be out in a minute,” a deep baritone said.
I turned around to see Ahmad scrolling through his phone and leaning
on the barricaded wall that had a white Telus communication banner.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?” He looked up at me as he slid his phone into his pocket.

“This. Picking my parents up, I am very capable of getting them, I have
a cab waiting outside.”
“Me picking them up has nothing to do with your capabilities. You
would have known not to bother with a cab if you had picked up my calls or
read my message.” His face suddenly broke into a smile, one that didn’t
reach his eyes as he looked up and walked towards the gate as my parents
came through. Abba was pushing a trolley with their luggage and next to
him Umma’s eyes searched the crowd and her eyes lit up as they met mine.
“I told Mami not to bother you about picking us up,” Umma said to
Ahmad as I gave her a hug, after we had exchanged greetings.
“No, I am very happy to do this; I hope there were no issues with your
flight.” Ahmad asked as he subtly maneuvered himself to push the trolley
my father had been pushing.
“Alhamdulillah, it was a very long flight.” I heard Abba say as he and
Ahmad walked ahead of my mother and me. I held onto her hands with one
hand and her handbag with my other. She peered into my eyes as she
listened to me go on about all the places I wanted them to visit on their
short trip, if she had a question, she never voiced it out.
My brothers arrived the following day and they all stayed for five days,
and during that time, I moved into the hotel with them. On the morning of
the ceremony, as I was getting ready, a hotel staff came to deliver a bouquet
of two dozen red roses in an elaborate flower vase. I came out of my room
in the connecting suites we shared and saw Ya Amin inspecting the bouquet
on the dining table, with Abubakar eating breakfast next to him.
“So, who got you flowers?” Abubakar asked as he ate from a bowl of
fruits. He picked up the card and read it out, while Ya Amin looked at me
quietly. “The sky is the limit. Congratulations. Niac,” Abubakar read.

“Who’s N.I.A.C.?” He looked up at me as he spelt out the nickname I’d
given Ahmad years ago. There was another sealed envelope at the bottom
of the bouquet. I hurriedly grabbed it before my brothers did.
“Oh, just someone I know,” I mumbled dismissively as I folded my
scarf in two unequal halves.
“Did you cut your hair?” Abubakar asked as he watched me comb my
hair and tie it into a bun.
“Just a little,” I answered as I wrapped my hijab, inserting pins to secure
it in place.
The joy on my parents’ faces as I walked onto the stage when my name
was called out at the top of the honor list was an image I wanted to be
imprinted in my memory forever. We took a lot of pictures and had lunch at
my favorite restaurant. As usual, Ya Amin was quiet, and Abubakar and I
were chatty as we caught up. I told him about what I would miss about
Canada – my favorite libraries and galleries, the food and sounds of
summer festivals, ice sculptures in the winter, the fireworks in spring, road
trips with Ada and Sara to Rideau Canal and the parliament buildings in
Ottawa in Autumn and all the shopping malls I went to with Afreen.
Everything except the long hours in Ramadan, fasting from 3 am until 9
pm, was a feat on its own.
Later in the evening, with less than 30 hours to my flight back to
Nigeria for good, I brought out the envelope that came with the flowers and
opened it. When I saw what it was, I excused myself to make a call to his
office.

A