The last Days
#
The days that followed my final examination carried an unfamiliar sort of emptiness.
For weeks, my mornings had been governed by an alarm, a timetable and the persistent fear that there was something I had forgotten to revise. Suddenly, I could wake whenever I wanted, remain in bed for an extra ten minutes without feeling guilty, and walk past my books without the slightest inclination to open them.
It should have felt like freedom.
Instead, I found myself wandering around the house with nothing particular to do.
On the third morning, I woke before everyone else.
The sky outside my window was still pale, the early sunlight barely visible through the curtains. Lagos was unusually quiet, at least from where I stood, although the distant hum of traffic had already begun.
I performed my ablution, prayed Fajr and remained on my prayer mat for a few minutes afterward.
There was something peaceful about that particular hour.The world had not yet become noisy.
Nobody was asking questions. Nobody needed anything from me.
I sat quietly, thinking about home.
Mama had called the previous night that they were making arrangements to return.
Imy voice was filled with so much excitement during the conversation that she eventually asked why I was so happy.
I hadn't known how to explain it.
When I finally stood, I folded my prayer garment and returned it to its place.
As I opened my bedroom door, the scent of turaren wuta drifted toward me from downstairs. Mummy must have already been awake.
She was always awake before everyone else.
---
The house was unusually quiet.
I found Mummy in the kitchen, standing over a pot while speaking to one of the maids.
She turned when she heard me.
“ Har kintasi?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Come and eat something.”
“I just woke up.”
“That is why you should eat.” And she continued “Ah, so you have finished your exams and now you have become stubborn?”
I laughed.
“I was never stubborn.”
Mummy stared at me.
Then burst out laughing.
“Allah ya taimaka.”
I sat at the kitchen counter.
She placed a plate in front of me.
“Your mother called.”
“She did?”
“Yes. They are preparing to leave.”
My face brightened.
“When?”
“Very soon.”
“Alhamdulillah.”
“Amin.”
I took a bite.
Mummy watched me for a moment.
“You'll miss this place.”
I looked around the kitchen.
“I will.”
She nodded as though she had expected that answer.
“You've become comfortable here.”
“Yes.”
“You know, you can always come back.”
I smiled.
“Even when I'm in Gombe?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will.”
She touched my cheek.
“You're a good girl, Se’ad.”
I lowered my eyes.
“Thank you.”
She returned to the stove.
The simplicity of the moment touched me more than I expected.
Mummy had never made me feel as though I were merely somebody else's daughter staying under her roof.
She had complained when I skipped breakfast.She had shouted when I left my books on the sofa, asked whether I had prayed,had forced me to eat when I claimed I wasn't hungry, listened to my complaints about school. And somewhere along the way, without either of us deciding that it would happen, she had begun to feel like another mother.
That realization made leaving considerably harder.
---
Amrah found me later that morning in the sitting room.
She dropped onto the sofa beside me and immediately stole my phone.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
“Amrah.”
“Why do you have so many pictures?”
“Give it back!”
She laughed and held it above my reach.
I stood.
“Give me my phone!”
“Wait!”
I tried to snatch it from her.
She moved away.
“Look at this one!”
I stopped.
“What?”
She turned the screen toward me. It was a picture of me from several days earlier.
I was sitting at the dining table, laughing at something Hanan had said.
“Delete it.”
“Why?”
“Because I look stupid.”
“You look cute.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Amrah.”
She smiled.
“You know something?”
“What?”
“You're actually very pretty.”
I stared at her.
That was not what I expected.
“Thank you?”
She shrugged.
“I've always thought so.”
I looked away, suddenly embarrassed. Amrah was rarely sentimental.
She was too busy causing trouble.
So when she said things like that, I never knew how to respond.Then, just as quickly, she ruined the moment.
“But you need to eat more.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You're too thin.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“I eat.”
“Not enough.”
“You're just jealous.”
She laughed.
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then shook her head.
“Allah ya baki hakuri.”
I laughed.
“Same to you.”
---
By afternoon, the house had become noisier. Jalal was arguing with Hanan over the television remote. Amrah was on a video call.Mummy was receiving a delivery.
A maid was moving between the kitchen and dining room.
And somewhere upstairs, a door opened and closed.I didn't look. I had learned not to.
There were things in the house that were simply part of its background.
The ticking clock,humming air conditioner.
The occasional sound of someone walking upstairs.
The opening and closing of Ridhwan's door.It was strange how quickly a person's presence could become familiar without actually becoming intimate. I knew when he was home because I heard his footsteps.By niw i had memorized the foot step of almost all of them, whenever he was walking the ground beneath him answered, as though claiming he owned it.
I knew when he left because I heard the front door.
Sometimes we met at breakfast. Sometimes we exchanged nothing more than a greeting.
There were days when we did not speak at all.
And I was perfectly content with that.
Or at least, I told myself I was.
---
That evening, I was sitting in the garden with a book when Ridhwan came outside.
He had changed into a simple white jalabiya and was carrying his phone.
He stopped when he saw me.“Studying?”
I looked at the book. “No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Reading.”
He smiled.
“Isn't that studying?”
“No.”
“What's the difference?”
“I chose to read this.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Fair enough.”
He took a seat several feet away.For a while, we remained silent.
The garden was beautiful at that hour.
The sky had begun turning orange, the last traces of sunlight settling softly across the leaves. Somewhere beyond the compound wall, the city continued with its usual noise, but the garden itself remained peaceful.
Ya Ridhwan looked at his phone.
After a few minutes, he spoke.
“So you're leaving soon?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don't know exactly.”
He nodded.
“Your family must be waiting.”
“They are.”
“Especially your little brother.”
I smiled.
“Bibi?”
“Yes.”
“You remember him?”
“He talks about you whenever your mother calls.”
I laughed.
“He probably complains that I haven't brought him anything.”
“Probably.”
“He's very demanding.”
“He's seven.”
“Exactly.” He smiled then returned his attention to his phone.
That was the end of the conversation.And somehow, I liked it that way.There was no pressure to fill every silence. No need to invent things to say. We could sit in the same place and remain entirely occupied by our own thoughts.
Perhaps that was why his company had become easy. Not exciting.Not significant. Just easy.
---
Later that night, Mummy called everyone into the sitting room.She had received news from Lagos.
My family would be returning soon.
Very soon.
I sat beside her, listening as she discussed arrangements.
“You'll pack tomorrow,” she told me.
“Okay.”
“Don't wait until the last minute.”
“I won't.”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“You will.”
“I won't.”
“You're your mother's daughter.”
I laughed.
Amrah immediately added,
“She definitely will.”
“Amrah!”
Mummy laughed.
“See?”
I shook my head.
“Fine.”
Mummy reached for my hand.
“You'll come and visit us in Gombe.”
“Insha Allah.”
“And when we come to Gombe, you and Hauwa will come and stay with me.”
I smiled.
“Of course.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“I'll miss you.”
The words caught me off guard.
I looked at her.
“I'll miss you too.”
For a brief moment, neither of us said anything.
Then Hanan climbed onto the sofa and rested her head against my shoulder.
“Se’ad isn't going.”
I laughed softly.
“I have to.”
“No.”
“I have to go home.”
“You can live here.”
“Hanan.”
“Please.”
Everyone laughed.
Mummy kissed her forehead.
“Let her go and see her family.”
“But she can come back.”
“She can.”
Hanan looked at me seriously.
“You promise?”
I smiled.
“I promise.”
---
I began packing the following morning. It took considerably longer than it should have. Not because I had too many clothes.
Because every few minutes, something distracted me.
A book I had left on the shelf. A scarf Mummy had bought for me.A little note Hanan had slipped beneath my pillow one evening.
A photograph Amrah had insisted we take together.
A bracelet Jalal had given me after claiming he no longer wanted it.
Each object carried a tiny memory.
And suddenly, my suitcase felt much heavier than it had any right to be.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time since arriving in Lagos, I allowed myself to admit that I was sad.
I had expected to be relieved. Everything I had been missing was waiting for me. Yet leaving the Turakis still hurt.
Perhaps because temporary places sometimes become permanent in your heart before you realize it. There was a knock. I looked up.
Amrah stood at the doorway.
“Finished?”
“Almost.”
She walked inside.
Then looked around the room.
“You're really leaving.”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“I'll miss you.”
I smiled.
“I'll miss you too.”
She sat beside me.
For once, she wasn't joking.
“You'll call?”
“Of course.”
“Don't disappear.”
“I won't.”
She nodded.
Then looked at me suspiciously.
“And don't forget me when you start university.”
I laughed.
“How could I?”
“You'll make new friends.”
“I'll still remember you.”
“Good.”
She stood.
Then paused at the door.
“Se’ad.”
“Yes?”
She smiled.
“I'm glad you came.”
I smiled back.
“Me too.”
She left.
I looked around the room once more. Then quietly closed my suitcase. Outside, I could hear the familiar sounds of the household.
Mummy calling Hanan.
Jalal arguing with somebody.
A maid laughing in the corridor.
A car entering the compound.
Life continuing as though nothing had changed.
But something had.
I was leaving.
And this time, I knew it.
I picked up my phone.
There was one new message from Mama.
Mama: My daughter, pack well. We're almost home.
I smiled.
Me: Okay, Mama. I miss you.
I pressed send.
Then sat quietly on the bed, waiting for the reply.
I had no idea that within a few days, the doors of this house would close behind me.
And with them, for a long while, everything connected to it would disappear from my daily life.
No messages.No calls. No accidental encounters.Nothing.
Just silence.