Professor Bello's POV
As I returned to Abuja from Kano, I sat down with my wife, Fatima, in our living room, surrounded by the warm glow of lamps and the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee. Since our daughters got married, the house had been quiet and boring, especially for my wife Fatima, who's often alone with the maids while our son is pursuing his dreams abroad.
"I've been thinking," I said, taking a slow sip of my coffee. "Instead of just sponsoring Humaira's education, we could bring her home with us."
Fatima's face lit up with interest, her dark eyes sparkling with compassion as she leaned in.
"Remember I told you about her family and everything she's been through," I continued. "I think we could give her a stable and loving environment."
Fatima nodded, her expression thoughtful, as if already picturing Humaira becoming part of our home.
As we discussed the details of bringing Humaira into our home, Fatima suddenly sighed and leaned back against the couch, a troubled expression crossing her face.
"There's something else on my mind, Bello," she murmured, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "Hanifa has been having issues with her husband again. Her husband thinks it would be best if she stayed with us for a while."
I set my cup down, studying the worry etched into her features. "And how do you feel about that?" I asked.
She hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't know. She's been so distant lately. Even when I call, she barely speaks. I feel like she's shutting me out, and it hurts, Bello. She was never like this before."
I reached for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "She's going through a rough time. Maybe staying here will help her open up. Sometimes, a change of environment can make all the difference."
Fatima sighed again, her fingers tightening around mine. "I just want her to be happy," she whispered. "I thought marriage would bring her joy, but instead, she seems more troubled than ever."
I nodded, understanding her pain. "We'll support her however we can, Fatima. She's still our daughter, no matter what."
She gave me a small, weary smile. "And Humaira?"
I exhaled, my mind drifting back to the girl with eyes full of silent resilience. "She needs us, too. And I truly believe bringing her here is the right thing to do."
Fatima was quiet for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Alright," she said. "But I hope Hanifa and Humaira will get along. The last thing I want is more tension in this house."
I squeezed her hand again, offering her a comforting smile. "We'll take it one step at a time."
---
Days later, I had just returned from the mosque, where I prayed my Subhi salat, and was preparing for my morning walk—a routine I cherished. The crisp morning air filled my lungs, refreshing and cool against my skin.
As I was about to step out of my room, ready to embrace the peaceful solitude of my walk, my phone rang—shrill and insistent, cutting through the morning stillness. I hesitated, glancing at the screen, a flicker of irritation crossing my mind. Who could be calling at this hour?
I answered, expecting a routine call, but instead, my secretary's frantic, apologetic voice came through the line.
"Hello Sir, I'm so sorry, but I made a terrible mistake," he stammered. "The conference in Japan isn't in a few weeks… it's in three days. I thought it was scheduled for next semester, but—"
His words trailed off, but the damage was already done. My grip on the phone tightened as frustration surged through me. Three days? I wasn't even close to finishing my paper presentation, let alone preparing for an international trip.
I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Are you certain about this?" I asked, my voice controlled but edged with irritation.
"Yes, sir. I double-checked. You'll need to leave by tomorrow to make it in time," he confirmed, sounding miserable.
Tomorrow. The word echoed in my head, sinking heavily into my chest. There was no way around it—I had to travel, ready or not.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. "Alright, I'll take care of it," I said curtly, ending the call. I turned to Fatima, who was watching me with concern. "I have to leave for Japan tomorrow," I explained. "The conference is sooner than I thought."
Fatima's expression turned sympathetic. "Oh, Bello, but You're not even prepared." I shook my head, feeling frustrated.
As I abandoned my morning walk plans, Fatima noticed my haste and cautioned, "my dear, take it easy. You have a long day ahead of you." But I was too focused on finalizing my presentation to heed her warning. My mind was racing with the pressure of delivering a flawless presentation, and the weight of responsibility settled heavy on my shoulders.
I rushed out of the house, determined to make the most of my time. As I arrived at the office, I was relieved to find my secretary already there, despite it being a Saturday. Together, we worked tirelessly, pouring over my presentation and making last-minute adjustments. The hours flew by in a blur, and before I knew it, the day had drawn to a close.
But as I packed up my things, a sense of unease crept over me. In the whirlwind of last-minute preparations, meetings, and paperwork, I had completely forgotten to inform Hajiya Zaliha about my travel plans and the delay in picking up Humaira. She was expecting me, likely making arrangements based on my initial promise, and now, without any word from me, she would be left waiting and wondering.
I made a mental note to call her as soon as possible, reassuring myself that it was just a small oversight. But as I rushed out of the office, preoccupied with so many thoughts, the task slipped my mind entirely.
---
The next day, I traveled to Japan, my mind still preoccupied with the conference. As I navigated the bustling airport, I focused on my itinerary, ensuring everything was in place for my trip. The excitement of the journey was tempered by the weight of responsibilities waiting for me, but I pushed forward, determined to make the most of the opportunity.
In the chaos of checking in and going through security, I barely had a moment to breathe. The airport was a blur of announcements, hurried footsteps, and the low murmur of travelers lost in their own worlds. I rushed through the process, juggling my bags, passport, and boarding pass, my mind already preoccupied with the journey ahead.
It wasn't until I reached my destination—tired, disoriented, and eager to settle in—that I noticed something was missing. I patted my pockets, rummaged through my bag, and felt a slow dread creep up my spine. One of my phones was gone.
A wave of panic washed over me as I tried to retrace my steps. Had I left it at security? Dropped it in the waiting area? The realization hit hard—I had no way of contacting Hajiya Zaliha, as her number was saved on that phone, nor could I reach anyone else who might be trying to get in touch with me. My chest tightened. That phone held everything—important contacts, messages, and my connection to the people waiting for me back home.
Frustration and regret swirled in my mind. I had been so focused on making my flight that I hadn't even noticed it slipping away. And now, it was too late.
The stress of the conference combined with the frustration of losing my phone and the ominous call left me feeling anxious and overwhelmed. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, and the sense of unease lingered long after I arrived at my hotel.
As I settled into my hotel room in Japan, I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. I tried to focus on the conference, reminding myself why I was here, but my mind kept drifting. The unfamiliar surroundings, the weight of responsibilities back home, and the exhaustion from travel all pressed down on me.
I glanced at my notes, trying to review my presentation, but the words blurred together. With a deep sigh, I leaned back against the chair, rubbing my temples. I needed to clear my mind, to push away the distractions and focus on the reason I had come all this way.
The conference itself was a whirlwind of presentations, meetings, and networking events. I delivered my paper to a packed audience, and the feedback was overwhelmingly positive. However, as the days turned into weeks, I began to realize that the conference was not going to be the quick trip I had anticipated.
The organizers requested that I extend my stay to participate in follow-up meetings and discussions. At first, I agreed, thinking it would only be for a few more days. But as the weeks bled into months, I found myself trapped in Japan, unable to return home. The weight of my absence grew heavier with each passing day.
The days blended together in a blur of meetings, presentations, and social events. I was exhausted, but I couldn't afford to show it. I had to maintain a professional demeanor at all times, even as I felt my energy dwindling.
As the weeks bled into months, the weight of my absence grew heavier. The distance was no longer just physical—it seeped into my thoughts, my restlessness, my longing for home.
I missed my wife's quiet presence, the way she always seemed to sense my worries before I voiced them. And Hanifa—her sudden return home was proof that things were unraveling in my absence. I should have been there for her, guiding her through the storm of her failing marriage. Instead, I was thousands of miles away, caught in obligations that refused to loosen their grip.
Even the simple routines I had once taken for granted—my morning walks through the crisp Abuja air, the rhythmic call to prayer at dawn—felt like distant memories. But I had made a commitment. No matter how much I longed for home, I had to see this through.
Fatima's frantic call shattered my stupor, pulling me back to the reality I had been avoiding. Her voice trembled with frustration, edged with something dangerously close to desperation.
"Bello, it's been almost three months." A pause. A shaky breath. "Hanifa's marriage is falling apart, and I'm struggling to cope. When are you coming home?"
Guilt crashed over me like a wave. Three months. Had it really been that long? The days had blurred into one another—meetings, panels, endless discussions. I had convinced myself that my absence was temporary, that I would return before things unraveled.
"I'll come back soon, Fatima," I promised, gripping the phone tighter.
But even as I said it, a gnawing unease settled in my chest. The conference had taken on a life of its own, dragging me deeper into commitments I hadn't foreseen. I was caught in its grip, unable—or unwilling—to pull away.
Little did I know, my prolonged absence would have far-reaching consequences, affecting not just my family but also the young girl I had promised to help – Humaira.