Maktub | when we were almost forever
An Ordinary Tuesday
Amira pov
There are mornings that change your life.
The strange thing is, they never announce themselves.
They don't arrive with thunderstorms or miracles. They don't whisper, Pay attention. This is the day everything begins.
They look ordinary.
Ordinary enough that you almost miss them.
If someone had stood beside my bed that Tuesday morning and told me, Today is the day you'll meet the boy who will change your life, I probably would've buried my face deeper into my pillow and asked them to let me sleep for another ten minutes.
Instead, my alarm chose violence.
It shrieked from the study table across the room, loud enough to wake the neighbours.
I groaned into my pillow.
"Wallahi..."
Whoever created eight o'clock lectures deserved to repeat four hundred level.
I reached blindly for my phone before remembering I'd left it charging on the other side of the room. My hand closed around empty air.
Wonderful.
Now I actually had to get up.
With the kind of suffering only university students understood, I dragged myself out of bed, wrapped my hijab loosely around my head and crossed the room to silence the alarm before it woke the entire compound.
The room fell quiet again.
For a moment, I simply stood there.
Morning sunlight slipped through the cream curtains, painting soft golden lines across the tiled floor. My wardrobe door was half-open because I always forgot to close it. Books surrounded my laptop in uneven piles-African Prose, Stylistics, Research Methods, English Literature-constant reminders that final year had no mercy.
Outside, Kano was already awake.
The scent of fresh kosai drifted through my window, mixing with the cool morning air. Somewhere beyond the compound, the last echoes of the Fajr adhkār floated gently from a nearby mosque.
I smiled.
Kano always woke softly.
Lagos never did.
Lagos woke with impatient horns, shouting conductors and traffic that sounded permanently offended by life itself.
I missed home.
Not enough to leave Kano.
But enough that some mornings, memories arrived before breakfast.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
Papa ❤️
A smile found me before I even answered.
"Assalamu alaikum, Papa."
"Wa alaikumus salam."
His voice carried the same warmth it always had, the kind that made distance feel smaller.
"My Sunshine."
"There it is," I laughed. "I was wondering when you'd call me that."
"What else should I call my only daughter?"
"The one disturbing your peace?"
"You've been disturbing my peace since you were born."
"I've become more mature."
"You've become older."
I gasped dramatically.
"That wasn't very nice."
"It wasn't supposed to be."
His laughter filled the speaker, rich and familiar enough that I couldn't help laughing with him.
"You sound sleepy," he observed.
"I am sleepy."
"And whose fault is that?"
"The university."
"Astaghfirullah."
"I'm serious."
"No, you're avoiding responsibility."
"I had assignments."
"You always have assignments."
"That's because my lecturers enjoy watching us suffer."
"They're preparing you for life."
"I don't appreciate their methods."
"You'll thank them one day."
"I sincerely doubt it."
He chuckled again.
Every conversation with my father felt effortless.
He never forced advice into my hands. He simply talked until wisdom quietly found its own place inside me.
"You've eaten?" he asked.
"It's barely morning."
"So?"
"So people don't eat this early."
"Responsible people do."
"I'll eat after class."
"You said that yesterday."
"...Did I?"
"You did."
I pressed my lips together.
Caught.
Again.
"You know," he said gently, "one day you'll become too busy to enjoy mornings like this."
"I already am."
"No."
His voice softened.
"I mean truly busy."
I didn't answer.
Because I understood what he meant.
One day university would end.
One day these calls would become shorter.
One day I'd have responsibilities bigger than assignments and deadlines.
For now...
I was still his daughter.
"Focus on your studies," he continued.
"In shaa Allah."
"Graduate well."
"In shaa Allah."
"The rest..."
He paused.
"...leave it to Allah."
Maktūb.
What is written has already been written.
My father believed that with every part of himself.
"I will."
"And call your mother."
I smiled despite myself.
"I spoke to her yesterday."
"So?"
"So doesn't that count?"
"No."
"You're taking her side."
"I've been taking her side since the day I married her."
"Traitor."
He laughed loudly.
Before I could say another word, another voice interrupted.
"Give me the phone."
Mama.
Papa didn't even argue.
A second later her familiar voice replaced his.
"Assalamu alaikum."
"Wa alaikumus salam, Mama."
"Have you prayed?"
"Yes."
"Properly?"
"Yes."
"You didn't rush?"
I smiled.
"No."
"Good."
There was a brief silence before the questions continued.
"What are you wearing today?"
"A loose abaya."
"Hijab?"
"Yes."
"Proper one?"
"Mama..."
"I'm asking."
"And I'm answering."
She sighed softly.
"I only ask because you're far from home."
"I know."
"I trust you."
"I know."
"But the world isn't always kind."
That was my mother.
Papa loved with laughter.
Mama loved with reminders.
Some parents said I love you.
Mine said, Guard your heart.
Different words.
Same love.
"I have to leave soon," I said.
"Eat before noon."
"I will."
"Read Qur'an."
"I will."
"And don't forget your adhkār."
"I won't."
A small laugh escaped her.
"You already know everything I'm going to say."
"I do."
"Allah ya tsare."
"Ameen."
When the call ended, I stared at my phone for a moment before slipping it into my bag.
Some people saw my mother as strict.
I saw the woman who loved so fiercely that worry had become her second language.
Five minutes later, I stood in front of my wardrobe.
Back home in Lagos, I would've reached for jeans and an oversized hoodie without thinking twice.
At Noorul Hudā University, that wasn't an option.
Long dresses.
Loose sleeves.
Proper hijab.
No exceptions.
I'd complained during my first semester.
Now it had become second nature.
I slipped into a navy-blue abaya, adjusted my hijab in the mirror and grabbed my tote bag.
When I stepped outside, the compound was already alive.
A woman arranged tomatoes on a wooden tray.
Two little boys argued over a deflated football.
Someone swept the sandy courtyard while greeting every passer-by.
"Sannu." "Sannu."
Life moved differently in Kano.
Slower. Kinder.
Everyone greeted everyone.
By the time I reached the university gate, thre familiar faces were waiting beneath the neem tree.
"There she is," Nafisa declared dramatically.
Maryam folded her arms.
"I told you she'd be late."
"I am not late."
"You are."
"I prefer fashionably delayed."
Asma'u laughed.
"English students always have English excuses."
"It's part of the course."
Nafisa linked her arm through mine.
"Come on, English girl."
"We'll miss attendance because of your beauty sleep."
"You'll thank me when I become famous and dedicate my first novel to you."
Maryam snorted.
"We'll settle for graduation."
The four of us laughed as we walked through the university gate together.
At the time...
It felt like every other Tuesday.
None of us knew that somewhere else on campus, another ordinary day had already begun.
And before it ended...
By the time our last lecture ended, my brain had officially given up on me.
Final year had a way of making every day feel shorter than twenty-four hours. If we weren't in class, we were chasing supervisors. If we weren't chasing supervisors, we were in the library pretending to understand journals written centuries ago.
"As if project isn't enough," Maryam groaned as we walked out of the Faculty of Arts building.
"Dr. Musa still wants Chapter One corrected before Friday."
I laughed.
"At least he's reading yours."
"What do you mean?"
"My supervisor has postponed my appointment three times."
Nafisa clicked her tongue.
"Mine doesn't even reply messages. You have to wait outside his office like you're applying for a visa."
We all burst into laughter.
It was funny because it was true.
Final-year students had one shared enemy.
Project.
It was in every conversation.
Every complaint.
Every prayer.
Every phone call home.
"Have you started Chapter Two?" Asma'u asked.
I sighed dramatically.
"I've started... thinking about it."
"Amira!"
"I'm serious."
"You'll cry later."
"I know."
"Then why are you smiling?"
"Because if I don't laugh, I'll actually cry."
The four of us continued toward the university gate.
Students flooded the walkways.
Some hurried to lectures.
Others gathered beneath trees, discussing assignments.
A group of male students argued loudly about politics while another group surrounded a lecturer who was trying—and failing—to escape without answering questions.
Noorul Hudā University always felt busiest in the afternoon.
Everyone was moving.
Everyone had somewhere to be.
"Are you travelling home immediately after exams?" Nafisa asked.
I nodded.
"Straight to Lagos."
Maryam smiled.
"You'll finally escape Kano."
"I'll miss Kano."
"You say that now."
"I will."
"You'll miss us."
"I didn't say that."
Nafisa gasped dramatically.
"Subhanallah!"
"I was joking."
"Wicked girl."
"I'll miss you people too."
She linked her arm through mine.
"You'd better."
...
By the time I reached my apartment, the afternoon sun had softened.
I dropped my bag onto the chair and stretched.
Silence.
Exactly what I needed.
I performed Asr, changed into an oversized T-shirt and loose trousers, then reached for the small wooden shelf beside my prayer mat. Empty.
I stared at it for a second.
"No..."
I picked up the container anyway.
Still empty.
My turaren wuta had finished.
Wonderful.
I could have gone out to buy another one.
Instead, I slipped on my sandals.
"Nafisa definitely has some."
She always did.
Her room was downstairs.
I knocked lightly.
"Shigo!"
I pushed the door open.
The familiar scent of tea greeted me first.
Then laughter.
Nafisa looked up immediately.
"Amira."
"I need your turaren wuta."
She laughed.
"That's the only reason you ever visit me."
"I'm consistent."
"I'll give you that."
She walked toward the cupboard while I waited by the entrance.
Only then did I notice she wasn't alone.
Three young men sat comfortably inside the room.
One was laughing at something someone had just said.
Another held a steaming mug of tea.
The third sat quietly, listening more than speaking.
"Salamualaikm" I said to them all.
I lowered my gaze almost immediately.
"Waalaikum sallam" they all answered.
Nafisa returned with the incense.
"Here."
"Nagode."
"Bring it back."
"I always do."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Questionable."
I smiled.
"I'll return it."
"Go before I change my mind."
I laughed and stepped back into the corridor.
Less than two minutes.
That was all.
By the time I climbed the stairs...
I had already forgotten the room.
Forgotten the conversation.
Forgotten the faces.
...
The room remained quiet for a heartbeat after the door closed.
Then Ahmad spoke.
"Who's she?"
Nafisa glanced toward the door before looking back at him.
"My friend."
He nodded once.
"She's beautiful."
Silence.
Sadiq slowly lowered his cup.
Bashir looked at Ahmad as though he'd grown another head.
Nafisa blinked twice.
"You?"
Ahmad frowned.
"What?"
"You just called a girl beautiful."
"I did."
"You never notice girls."
"I noticed this one."
Sadiq laughed.
"Ash..."
He shook his head.
"The smoke has finally reached your brain."
The room erupted in laughter.
Ahmad ignored them.
"I only said she's beautiful."
Nafisa folded her arms.
"Forget it."
"What?"
"She's not your type."
"And you know my type?"
"I know hers."
He smiled slightly.
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Because she's my friend."
She pointed toward the staircase.
"That girl probably doesn't even notice what you guyz look."
Ahmad looked unconvinced.
"Really?"
"I'll bet money."
"She walked in..."
"...collected what she wanted..."
"...and left."
"That's just how she is."
Bashir chuckled.
"So none of us exist?"
"Exactly."
Ahmad found himself smiling.
For some reason...
He wanted her .
He looked back at Nafisa.
"Can I have her number?"
Nafisa narrowed her eyes.
"For what?"
"I want to talk to her."
"You smoke."
He shrugged.
"I know."
"She hates smoking."
His smile faded for a second.
"I didn't ask whether she likes smokers."
"I asked for her number."
She studied him for a long moment.
Then sighed.
"I can't give you her number but I'll give you her Snapchat handle."
"If she blocks you..."
"...don't come crying to me."
"I won't."
She opened her phone and typed.
"There."
He looked down at the username.
A small smile escaped him.
"Nagode."
...
That night, after Isha, I lay across my bed scrolling through TikTok.
A notification appeared.
Snapchat.
I almost never opened Snapchat.
Curious, I tapped it.
When I opened the app, there was a friend request from someone I didn't recognize.
I hesitated for a second before tapping Accept.
That was it.
I locked my phone, tossed it onto the bed, and went back to TikTok.
By the time I slept that night...
I'd already forgotten I had accepted friend request.