Chapter 32
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 9 min read
n some days, when Zee’s car had problems, I would offer to pick her
up on my way to work, despite the extra five minutes to my drive-
time. She was one of the first people we hired and she stuck with us through
uncertain times. Today, we were stuck in traffic; the food truck nearby was
causing a minor commotion by the roundabout. This was a sight I was used
to in Ramadan, but not just out of the blue.
“Please, what is causing this hold up?” I asked out loud, but mostly to
myself.
“I think it’s the vendors for that Feed a Child o,” Zee said. Looking out
of the window, I could see children and teens being handed wrapped food
and water packages by some women in aprons and hijabs.
“Oh, they’re also in Abuja?” I asked. A few months before, when I was
in Kaduna for a wedding. I escorted my aunt’s driver to go pick up my
cousins from Zamani College. Opposite Dalema was one of these food
trucks and the driver told me that they handed out meals to the less
privileged three times a day. He said that it had been ongoing for months.
“That’s impressive. Affluent people are finally beginning to use their
wealth for worthy causes,” I’d replied. It was awe-inspiring – if not
surprising and suspicious – that someone would dedicate so many resources
to children when it was not tied to votes or campaign season.
The driver laughed at my comment about the rich people in northern
Nigeria and repeated the phrase “masu kudin Arewa” for himself, as if he
were whispering a silent prayer to one day be referred to as such. Those
people – masu kudin Arewa – were often men, who had more money than
their wives and children could spend.
I buried myself in work for the next few days while working on the
PowerPoint presentation I intended to present to our donors. The statement
of cash flow, balance sheet and audit reports were updated and filed away in
one folder on my desktop. This was the first time I worked alone on donor
documents. Whenever I needed more information, I would reach out to Zee,
who knew every little detail about the foundations that sponsored us in the
past years. So, I asked her to find other NGOs our donors financed; I
needed to know who we were competing against so that I can ensure that
our shelter is in an advantageous position, due to the number of Ts I was
crossing, and I’s I was dotting, I barely had any idle time.
Idle time led to a social media binge. These days, I could not scroll
more than three posts without seeing a repost of Ahmad’s wedding
announcement from random blogs; so I took home as many reports as
possible. Thanks to the algorithm that accelerated the downward spiral of
self-esteem, idle time became something I could no longer afford, for my
own sanity. So, naturally, I did what I knew how to do best: touching other
people’s lives and ensuring that I would continue to do so well into the
future. However, to do so, I needed to secure our spot in the competitive
NGO stratosphere, especially here in Abuja.
One evening, I was in Abba’s library, printing some documents after
work when Abubakar came in. Abba and Umma were in their living room
having tea; I could hear the voice of the newscaster faintly coming in
through the open door. Of both my brothers, Abubakar was the one who
showed that he cared about my work although, to be fair, it was Ya Amin’s
personality to be indifferent unless it had to do with business and real estate.
Sometimes, Abubakar would drop by the shelter to ask how he could be of
help and when he was out of the country, we would talk about specific
issues I was facing with management and how to mitigate them.
“Are you still working on the presentation?” he asked now, as he came
around to look at the double monitors with excel spreadsheets and
PowerPoint slides. I looked at him in his tailored maroon kaftan and noticed
that he was smiling at a text message.
I opened my mouth to ask who the new girl was, but instead, I replied:
“I just need it to be perfect, that’s all.” With all other donation streams
thinning every year, I didn’t want our most significant donor to cut their
funding.
“Are you presenting it by yourself, or will one of your staff do it?” he
peered through the images of outdoor children’s activities that we organized
weekly.
“I feel like this is too important to be delegated,” I paused. “But we’re
still not able to set up an appointment with their outreach department for me
to make the presentation. And when I asked Zee to find our original
application so that I could reach out to the contact person, we realized that
we never actually submitted a request or application to them – so we have
no idea how to contact them. But we’ve applied to foundations abroad –”
“Haba, don’t worry about those ones; their waiting lists are long. But
I’m sure they’ll get back to you soon,” he laughed at my obvious
inexperience.
I nodded. It was a busy time in the year; most foundations were
reviewing their contracts, dropping the NGOs that underperformed and
looking to fund credible ones. Mine was a credible one. Abubakar was
right; they would get back to me. I just hoped they would soon enough
because days at the shelter were becoming gloomy – people were coming in
more regularly, kitchen staff was busy every day of the week, cases were
piling up, and we were running out of funds quicker than I could have
imagined.
“Maybe they probably just found your NGO on some database and
picked it at random.”
“That was what I thought. But we were only a year old when they gave
us the green light. We weren’t even that established. So, how did they find
us?” I reviewed my presentation one final time and saved the most recent
copy while Abubakar googled the foundation’s name. Apart from standard
websites with basic information and a head office in Palestine, there wasn’t
much to go with.
“It could be a shell company, so they probably don’t really exist.”
I stood up to leave, tidying the desk and making sure I left it the way it
was when I came in a few hours ago. Abba was very particular about where
everything on his desk was placed.
“Maybe you could start with the name. Jumble the letters and see if it
spells something else – perhaps the name of a popular company; it could be
an anagram,” Abubakar said, switching the light off, as we left Abba’s
section.
When I got back to my room, as I prayed Isha and arranged all the
documents in my folder, I found a copy of the first letter they’d sent us. The
glossy white sheet had an embossed letterhead that spelt out The Cain
Mosni Foundation in big blue letters. I flipped the paper around and the
word “CAIN” stuck out to me backwards. I froze. Wait a minute. No
way.Backwards, the word spelt N-I-A-C. NIAC. Ahmad? It couldn’t be.
There was no way this was what I thought it was, but I kept spelling
backwards. MOSNI was I-N-S-O-M. “Insom + Niac,” his words started
playing in my head. “Together, we make sense.” Ahmad had been our
biggest sponsor all this time? Since the beginning? All this time? Oh my
God.
I remember how bad things had gotten with funds drying up and staff
not getting their salaries. We reached out to The Bill and Melinda Gates
Foundation, Change Exchange, Danjuma Foundation and many more and
unfortunately, had no luck; all we got were letters of regret. I remembered
spending nights awake praying Tahajjud when we received the news that
our NGO had been approved for sponsorship by this The Cain Mosni
foundation. It was the first big win for us – a much-needed one; and our
morale was boosted.
I held the paper, unable to move. My mind raced back to the days
Ahmad and I drew up plans for what I wanted the shelter to look like and
our multiple business plans. I remembered how I used to show him the
organizational chart for staff and the suggestions he offered. M y mind went
to my birthday when we were at his office and he showed me the
documents he wanted me to sign, saying his company would fund the
shelter. I remembered turning him down. I could hear his voice now: I know
how much this shelter means to you. I also turned him down when he wrote
me a cheque during my graduation – the cheque I left at his apartment years
ago. But he still wanted to help me achieve my dream – even if it meant he
had to stay in the shadows while I did so.
Ahmad. He had always been my biggest supporter – even now, when
we have no chance of being together. In that moment, my heart was filled
with so much happiness at the realization that Ahmad would always have
my back; but at the same time, filled with an equal amount of despair. Fate
definitely had favorites, and Sakina is high up on that list; she was truly
blessed.
Later that night, after reciting my Qur’an and turning out my lights, my
phone beeped. It was a message from Umar, a forwarded broadcast about
the health benefits of garlic. I sighed as I put my phone back to charge. My
thoughts went back to my conversation with Dr. Na’ima about my future.
Umar was safe – unexciting, but safe. If I had not met Ahmad, I wouldn’t
feel like I was missing something. But I did – I met Ahmad. The memories
of our shared moments reminded me. But he had moved on now and as
painful as that fact was for me, I knew it was for the best. I knew I should
too. I stayed awake for a few more hours, listening as the whole house
quietened down until I was awakened by the morning call to prayer.
When I got to work that morning, Zee met me in the kitchen where I
was deep in conversation with the head chef, discussing the inventory of
food items for the month.
“Here’s the document you asked for,” she said as she almost tripped on
the stairs that led down to the entrance of the kitchen. For an accountant
with great attention to detail, Zee was clumsy with her steps.
“Watch your step,” I called out to her as I instinctively reached for her.
“We were able to find the other NGOs that The Cain Mosni Foundation
is sponsoring,” she handed me a piece of paper. The Insomniac Foundation,
I thought to myself. “There was just one name on the sheet. The Feed-A-
Child project,” she continued.
I looked up at her, surprised. So, Ahmad was the person behind Feed-A-
Child? I chuckled sadly. He was and he still remained the man of my
dreams. I mumbled thank you as I stared at the sheet of paper with a deep
sigh. If only ‘yar Agadez never existed, if only my mother never fell ill
after having me, if only Aunty Mami never had the accident on her way to
Bauchi. If only… But too many variables had to be changed for my dream
to be realized. So, that was all he and I would ever be – a dream.
A
up on my way to work, despite the extra five minutes to my drive-
time. She was one of the first people we hired and she stuck with us through
uncertain times. Today, we were stuck in traffic; the food truck nearby was
causing a minor commotion by the roundabout. This was a sight I was used
to in Ramadan, but not just out of the blue.
“Please, what is causing this hold up?” I asked out loud, but mostly to
myself.
“I think it’s the vendors for that Feed a Child o,” Zee said. Looking out
of the window, I could see children and teens being handed wrapped food
and water packages by some women in aprons and hijabs.
“Oh, they’re also in Abuja?” I asked. A few months before, when I was
in Kaduna for a wedding. I escorted my aunt’s driver to go pick up my
cousins from Zamani College. Opposite Dalema was one of these food
trucks and the driver told me that they handed out meals to the less
privileged three times a day. He said that it had been ongoing for months.
“That’s impressive. Affluent people are finally beginning to use their
wealth for worthy causes,” I’d replied. It was awe-inspiring – if not
surprising and suspicious – that someone would dedicate so many resources
to children when it was not tied to votes or campaign season.
The driver laughed at my comment about the rich people in northern
Nigeria and repeated the phrase “masu kudin Arewa” for himself, as if he
were whispering a silent prayer to one day be referred to as such. Those
people – masu kudin Arewa – were often men, who had more money than
their wives and children could spend.
I buried myself in work for the next few days while working on the
PowerPoint presentation I intended to present to our donors. The statement
of cash flow, balance sheet and audit reports were updated and filed away in
one folder on my desktop. This was the first time I worked alone on donor
documents. Whenever I needed more information, I would reach out to Zee,
who knew every little detail about the foundations that sponsored us in the
past years. So, I asked her to find other NGOs our donors financed; I
needed to know who we were competing against so that I can ensure that
our shelter is in an advantageous position, due to the number of Ts I was
crossing, and I’s I was dotting, I barely had any idle time.
Idle time led to a social media binge. These days, I could not scroll
more than three posts without seeing a repost of Ahmad’s wedding
announcement from random blogs; so I took home as many reports as
possible. Thanks to the algorithm that accelerated the downward spiral of
self-esteem, idle time became something I could no longer afford, for my
own sanity. So, naturally, I did what I knew how to do best: touching other
people’s lives and ensuring that I would continue to do so well into the
future. However, to do so, I needed to secure our spot in the competitive
NGO stratosphere, especially here in Abuja.
One evening, I was in Abba’s library, printing some documents after
work when Abubakar came in. Abba and Umma were in their living room
having tea; I could hear the voice of the newscaster faintly coming in
through the open door. Of both my brothers, Abubakar was the one who
showed that he cared about my work although, to be fair, it was Ya Amin’s
personality to be indifferent unless it had to do with business and real estate.
Sometimes, Abubakar would drop by the shelter to ask how he could be of
help and when he was out of the country, we would talk about specific
issues I was facing with management and how to mitigate them.
“Are you still working on the presentation?” he asked now, as he came
around to look at the double monitors with excel spreadsheets and
PowerPoint slides. I looked at him in his tailored maroon kaftan and noticed
that he was smiling at a text message.
I opened my mouth to ask who the new girl was, but instead, I replied:
“I just need it to be perfect, that’s all.” With all other donation streams
thinning every year, I didn’t want our most significant donor to cut their
funding.
“Are you presenting it by yourself, or will one of your staff do it?” he
peered through the images of outdoor children’s activities that we organized
weekly.
“I feel like this is too important to be delegated,” I paused. “But we’re
still not able to set up an appointment with their outreach department for me
to make the presentation. And when I asked Zee to find our original
application so that I could reach out to the contact person, we realized that
we never actually submitted a request or application to them – so we have
no idea how to contact them. But we’ve applied to foundations abroad –”
“Haba, don’t worry about those ones; their waiting lists are long. But
I’m sure they’ll get back to you soon,” he laughed at my obvious
inexperience.
I nodded. It was a busy time in the year; most foundations were
reviewing their contracts, dropping the NGOs that underperformed and
looking to fund credible ones. Mine was a credible one. Abubakar was
right; they would get back to me. I just hoped they would soon enough
because days at the shelter were becoming gloomy – people were coming in
more regularly, kitchen staff was busy every day of the week, cases were
piling up, and we were running out of funds quicker than I could have
imagined.
“Maybe they probably just found your NGO on some database and
picked it at random.”
“That was what I thought. But we were only a year old when they gave
us the green light. We weren’t even that established. So, how did they find
us?” I reviewed my presentation one final time and saved the most recent
copy while Abubakar googled the foundation’s name. Apart from standard
websites with basic information and a head office in Palestine, there wasn’t
much to go with.
“It could be a shell company, so they probably don’t really exist.”
I stood up to leave, tidying the desk and making sure I left it the way it
was when I came in a few hours ago. Abba was very particular about where
everything on his desk was placed.
“Maybe you could start with the name. Jumble the letters and see if it
spells something else – perhaps the name of a popular company; it could be
an anagram,” Abubakar said, switching the light off, as we left Abba’s
section.
When I got back to my room, as I prayed Isha and arranged all the
documents in my folder, I found a copy of the first letter they’d sent us. The
glossy white sheet had an embossed letterhead that spelt out The Cain
Mosni Foundation in big blue letters. I flipped the paper around and the
word “CAIN” stuck out to me backwards. I froze. Wait a minute. No
way.Backwards, the word spelt N-I-A-C. NIAC. Ahmad? It couldn’t be.
There was no way this was what I thought it was, but I kept spelling
backwards. MOSNI was I-N-S-O-M. “Insom + Niac,” his words started
playing in my head. “Together, we make sense.” Ahmad had been our
biggest sponsor all this time? Since the beginning? All this time? Oh my
God.
I remember how bad things had gotten with funds drying up and staff
not getting their salaries. We reached out to The Bill and Melinda Gates
Foundation, Change Exchange, Danjuma Foundation and many more and
unfortunately, had no luck; all we got were letters of regret. I remembered
spending nights awake praying Tahajjud when we received the news that
our NGO had been approved for sponsorship by this The Cain Mosni
foundation. It was the first big win for us – a much-needed one; and our
morale was boosted.
I held the paper, unable to move. My mind raced back to the days
Ahmad and I drew up plans for what I wanted the shelter to look like and
our multiple business plans. I remembered how I used to show him the
organizational chart for staff and the suggestions he offered. M y mind went
to my birthday when we were at his office and he showed me the
documents he wanted me to sign, saying his company would fund the
shelter. I remembered turning him down. I could hear his voice now: I know
how much this shelter means to you. I also turned him down when he wrote
me a cheque during my graduation – the cheque I left at his apartment years
ago. But he still wanted to help me achieve my dream – even if it meant he
had to stay in the shadows while I did so.
Ahmad. He had always been my biggest supporter – even now, when
we have no chance of being together. In that moment, my heart was filled
with so much happiness at the realization that Ahmad would always have
my back; but at the same time, filled with an equal amount of despair. Fate
definitely had favorites, and Sakina is high up on that list; she was truly
blessed.
Later that night, after reciting my Qur’an and turning out my lights, my
phone beeped. It was a message from Umar, a forwarded broadcast about
the health benefits of garlic. I sighed as I put my phone back to charge. My
thoughts went back to my conversation with Dr. Na’ima about my future.
Umar was safe – unexciting, but safe. If I had not met Ahmad, I wouldn’t
feel like I was missing something. But I did – I met Ahmad. The memories
of our shared moments reminded me. But he had moved on now and as
painful as that fact was for me, I knew it was for the best. I knew I should
too. I stayed awake for a few more hours, listening as the whole house
quietened down until I was awakened by the morning call to prayer.
When I got to work that morning, Zee met me in the kitchen where I
was deep in conversation with the head chef, discussing the inventory of
food items for the month.
“Here’s the document you asked for,” she said as she almost tripped on
the stairs that led down to the entrance of the kitchen. For an accountant
with great attention to detail, Zee was clumsy with her steps.
“Watch your step,” I called out to her as I instinctively reached for her.
“We were able to find the other NGOs that The Cain Mosni Foundation
is sponsoring,” she handed me a piece of paper. The Insomniac Foundation,
I thought to myself. “There was just one name on the sheet. The Feed-A-
Child project,” she continued.
I looked up at her, surprised. So, Ahmad was the person behind Feed-A-
Child? I chuckled sadly. He was and he still remained the man of my
dreams. I mumbled thank you as I stared at the sheet of paper with a deep
sigh. If only ‘yar Agadez never existed, if only my mother never fell ill
after having me, if only Aunty Mami never had the accident on her way to
Bauchi. If only… But too many variables had to be changed for my dream
to be realized. So, that was all he and I would ever be – a dream.
A