Part 2: A Choice from Loneliness

To those who insisted the story wasn’t complete: enjoy😊

I left the hospital, resolute to weather whatever comes in terms of shame and guilt because I had in my vulnerable moment fell. This is when I told Femi, and he was ready to stepup, but his stepping up wouldn’t amount to something good. He wouldn’t join this beautiful faith.

I intensified my istifhfar and returned to the One who made me. The One who knew me better, who understood my difficulties than any other person could ever phantom. I found my heart attaching to Him through my efforts to practice khushoo in Salah during the day, and Tahajud at night. One night I was finishing up the night prayers, in the last sajda, I burst into tears as I beg Him for forgiveness, I said, you’re the one that Overlooks, you love to overlook, please, please over look my sins and faults. I must have spent close to 5 minutes in the sajda, crying. I finished the witr. Sat in the darkness of the room, misba(tesubah) in hand, remembering and glorifying His names, and then a light sleep overcame me. I woke when the adhan for Fajr was made, and I’d never felt the type of Sakeenah that enveloped my heart that dawn in my life.

Two weeks later, I woke up to find myself drenched in blood from the lower half of my body, the bedsheet thoroughly stained in crimson. Praise be to God, a distant cousin was staying with me for her exams that week so she was able to use my phone to call a Bolt driver to the hospital.

I lost the pregnancy. It should have been a relief. It was a relief. But I couldn’t control the urge to cry. I cried. Why I cried I still can’t quite explain. But I remember crying and feeling lethargic.

I met Ahmad on the way home from the hospital. He was the Bolt driver. A very kind and self-aware man. He played Qur’ān recitation of Shuraym through out the ride him. When he dropped me, he asked if I needed anything. No thanks. I responded. I could see he wanted something. He turned back and entered the car. Then just before I opened my apartment door, he came back and asked if he have my phone number. That he would like to check on me.

I gave him. We started to talk. Then we started to court. This time everything was easy. It was so much easier than with the Imam. No wife would accuse me of coming to break something and coming to eat where I didn’t cook. He was very matured. Ahead of his time. I turned 33 in August. He turned 26 in September. But no one could tell. I am small-statured. Barely 5’2. He’s 5’7.

After 6 months, he said we should take it to the next level and get married. I agreed. This is my time. I said to myself. My parents welcomed me. The day he took me to his parents was also beautiful. Well, until, a friend from the university days and who knew me and my ex turned out to be his elder sister.

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It became a struggle. Ahmad said he wouldn’t budge. He didn’t need his parents and family’s consent in Islam. Yes, he didn’t. His father was indifferent, according to Ahmad, to the age difference and to the fact that I’m divorced with a child. But his mother and sister tried to persuade him to not. It was taking a toll on him. When we talk, I could hear it in his voice. When we met at public spaces, I could see it. He loves his women. He loves me too. But he can find other women to love.

So, I did the honorable thing, and told him not to choose between me and her mother and sister. I told him let’s give it time. Perhaps they’ll come around. I don’t want you to go into marriage in spite. I did that with my ex. It was a time of youthful exuberance.

It is as if I can still see him that afternoon at a lounge in Bodija, drawing my emerald abayah around me, standing so delicately, and telling him we’ll both be fine. I walked away from him, looked back at him one more time, and I saw tears fall from his eyes. And that tears brought tears out of my eyes too. I went home, wondering when my time will actually come, when these tears will even if momentarily take a pause, as the brown rusted roof of the city appeared in the backdrop.