Benin, Nigeria
4:34 pm.

The scorching Nigerian sun beat down on the bustling streets of Benin, casting long shadows across the worn asphalt. The air was thick with the smells of frying plantains and exhaust fumes. As the clock struck 4 pm, the city's energy began to shift. Market vendors packed up their wares, and the sounds of haggling gave way to the hum of generators and chatter.

Amidst the chaos, a figure emerged from the crowd. Tall, with an angular face and piercing brown eyes, he wore a worn leather jacket and faded jeans. His dark hair was messy, and a scruff of stubble framed his sharp jawline. He moved with a sense of urgency, scanning the surroundings as if searching for something – or someone.

No one noticed him at first, just another face in the sea of people. But there was something about him that didn't quite fit. His eyes seemed to hold a depth, a hint of desperation, that made him stand out.

As he navigated the narrow streets, his gaze darted between dilapidated buildings and makeshift shops. He checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time, his anxiety growing with each passing minute. The sun would set soon, and he needed to find shelter.

His thoughts were a jumble of fragmented memories and urgent needs. He had been on the move for days, maybe weeks – time lost all meaning when you were running. His funds were dwindling, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Every step, every glance over his shoulder, made his skin crawl.

Food was a luxury he couldn't afford, not just financially, but emotionally. His stomach growled in protest, but he couldn't bring himself to stop at a food vendor or restaurant. Every crowded space felt like a trap, every face a potential threat. He had to keep moving.

Benin was supposed to be a refuge, a place to lay low and regroup. But now, as the city's darkness gathered, he wondered if he'd made a grave mistake. The streets seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening into menacing pits.

A faded sign above a nearby building caught his eye: "Hotel Excel". It looked like a dive, but it was better than sleeping on the streets. He quickened his pace, his long strides devouring the distance.

As he pushed open the creaky door, a bell above it let out a tired clang. The lobby was dimly lit, the air thick with stale smoke and stagnation. A bored-looking receptionist glanced up from his phone, eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

"Welcome to Hotel Excel," he drawled. "You looking for a room?"

He nodded, his eyes scanning the lobby for potential threats or exits. "Just for the night. How much?"

The receptionist named an exorbitant price, and he hesitated, weighing his options. He had no choice.

He unzipped the worn leather bag slung over his shoulder, digging into its depths. His fingers closed around a wad of crumpled notes, which he carefully extracted. He counted out the required amount, his movements deliberate.

"Deal," he said, handing over the cash.

The receptionist's gaze flicked to the money, then back to him, a spark of curiosity igniting.

As he took the key and headed up the stairs, the receptionist's eyes lingered on him.

•••

Mufida's gaze locked onto the text message on her phone, Layla's words glowing on the screen:

"Are you in? We don't have much time."

The brevity and urgency of the message sent a shiver down her spine. She sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by the familiar comforts of her bedroom – the soft pink blanket, the framed Quranic verse on the wall, and the faint scent of jasmine incense.

But her thoughts were far from serene.

Mufida's palms grew sweaty as she weighed her options. She could walk away, pretend she never received the message. Or, she could take a leap of faith, trusting Layla to guide her through the unknown.

As the clock ticked closer to 5 pm, Mufida's anxiety intensified. She rose from bed, pacing around her room with restless energy.

Time was running out.

With a deep breath, Mufida made her decision.

She typed out a single word:

"Yes."

Her heart pounded as she hit send.

Her phone buzzed with Layla's rapid response:

"Meet me at Tafawa Balewa Park, 5 pm."

Mufida's heart pounded as she contemplated the risks. But she knew she had to act.

Mufida grabbed her bag and headed for the door, her mind preoccupied with the impending meeting with Layla. As she reached for the handle, the door swung open, and her husband, Hisham, stood before her, keys in hand.

"Hey, where are you headed?" Hisham asked, his brow furrowed in curiosity.

Mufida hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "I'm going to the hospital," she said, opting for a partial truth. "I need to pick up some files. I'm thinking of returning to work next week."

Hisham's expression softened. "That's great news! You've been missed."

But Mufida knew she hadn't convinced him entirely. His eyes lingered on hers, searching for more.

"Want me to drive you?" Hisham offered.

Mufida shook her head. "No need, love. You just got back from work. Go freshen up and eat. I'll be fine."

Hisham nodded, though a hint of skepticism remained. "Okay, be careful. Don't be late."

Mufida forced a smile, feeling a pang of guilt for deceiving him. "I won't."

As Hisham stepped aside, Mufida slipped out into the evening breeze, her heart racing with anticipation and apprehension.

She walked toward her sleek, white BMW 320i, the fading sunlight dancing across its polished surface. The familiar comfort of her car enveloped her as she slid into the driver's seat.

Mufida started the engine, the soft hum a reassuring sound. She checked her rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Hisham watching her from the doorway. A faint smile crossed her lips, a mixture of guilt and determination.

With a deep breath, she put the car in gear and eased out of the driveway, navigating the quiet neighborhood streets. The GPS guided her toward Tafawa Balewa Park, where Layla awaited.

As she drove, Mufida's thoughts drifted back to the task ahead: finding Muhammad and bringing him to justice. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, resolve hardening.

The park's entrance came into view, and Mufida's heart quickened. She spotted Layla pacing near the fountain, her usually poised demeanor replaced by frantic energy.

Mufida parked, her eyes locked on Layla. It was time to confront the past.

Mufida stepped out of her car and approached Layla, who paced near the fountain, her eyes scanning the surroundings.

"Layla," Mufida said, her voice low.

Layla's gaze snapped to Mufida's. "You're here."she asked the obvious and Mufida nodded.

Mufida retrieved her phone and opened the message from Muhammad. "He contacted me," she said, handing the phone to Layla.

Layla's eyes widened as she read the message. Her jaw clenched, determination etched on her face.

"I've already visited my father," Layla said, her voice firm. "I told him about my plan. We're going to the Commissioner of Police now."

Mufida's eyebrows rose. "What did your father say?"

Layla's expression turned resolute. "He agreed to cooperate. We'll tell the Commissioner everything and show him this message. It's time to bring Muhammad to justice."

Mufida nodded, a sense of relief washing over her.

"Let's go," Mufida said, gesturing to her car.

Layla slid into the passenger seat, and Mufida took the wheel. As they drove to the police headquarters, Mufida's thoughts whirled with possibilities.

At the headquarters, they requested a meeting with Commissioner Ibrahim. After a brief wait, they were ushered into his office.

Commissioner Ibrahim, a stern-looking man with a kind gaze, listened intently as Layla recounted her story, presenting the message as evidence.

"I'll assign our best team to track Muhammad down," he assured, his expression grim. "We'll bring him to justice, no matter what it takes."

Mufida felt a weight lift off her shoulders. For the first time in years, she dared to hope.

After leaving Commissioner Ibrahim's office, Mufida glanced at her watch – 6:15 PM. She was running late.

Next stop: the hospital. Mufida pulled into the parking lot, grabbed her bag, and hurried inside. She made her way to the records department, exchanging warm smiles with familiar faces.

At the records desk, she collected the files she needed, chatting briefly with Mukhtar, a friendly colleague. His eyes sparkled with curiosity, but Mufida skillfully dodged any probing questions.

With files in hand, Mufida made a swift exit, aware of the passing time. She had one more stop before heading home.

Pizza Hut's bright signage beckoned, and Mufida pulled in, ordering their favorite – spicy chicken pizza with extra cheese. A bribe for Haidar, she thought with a smile, to distract him from questioning her delayed return.

Pizza in hand, Mufida headed home, feeling more prepared to face Haidar's inquiries.

As she pulled into the driveway, the evening lights of her home welcomed her.

Mufida entered the living room, expecting to see Haidar's warm smile. Instead, the room was empty, the silence oppressive.

She placed the pizza on the dining table, a faint sense of unease creeping in. Had Haidar noticed her delayed return?

Undeterred, Mufida headed upstairs, her footsteps light on the stairs. She found Hisham in their bedroom, dressed in his dark blue jalabiya, preparing for Maghrib prayer.

His eyes met hers in the mirror, his expression neutral. Mufida sensed a hint of disappointment, but he didn't say a word.

"Assalamu alaikum," Mufida said softly, breaking the silence.

"Wa alaikum salam," Hisham replied, his tone measured.

Mufida approached him, her hands reaching out to help adjust the collar of his jalabiya. Her fingers brushed against his, sending a spark of electricity through her. "I'm sorry I'm late. Traffic was terrible."

Hisham's gaze lingered on hers, searching. "I was worried."

Mufida's heart twisted, regretting the deception. "I'm home now. Let's talk after prayer, okay?"

Hisham nodded, his expression softening.

Without thinking, Mufida leaned in and planted a quick peck on his cheek. The gesture was sudden, and Hisham's eyes lit up with surprise.

But what followed was even more captivating – Mufida's face flushed a deep pink, her eyes darting away in embarrassment.

Hisham's lips curved into a warm smile, enchanted by his wife's spontaneous display of affection. "You're trying to distract me, aren't you?" he teased.

Mufida's blush deepened, and she playfully rolled her eyes. "Maybe."

Hisham chuckled, his concerns momentarily forgotten. "I'll be back soon. We'll talk then."

As he headed out for prayer, Mufida watched him go, her heart swelling with love and gratitude.

As the door closed behind Hisham, Mufida let out a gentle sigh, shedding the weight of her concerns. She dropped her bag carelessly onto the bed, the soft thud a release of tension.

With a quiet resolve, Mufida made her way to the bathroom to perform ablution. The cool water cascaded over her hands, face, and feet, washing away the dust of the day.

she slipped into her emerald green jilbab, its soft fabric enveloping her like a soothing balm.

Mufida's eyes closed as she inhaled the calming scent of the fabric. She felt her shoulders relax, her mind quieting.

With reverent hands, she unrolled her praying mat, its vibrant colors and delicate patterns a testament to her faith. Mufida settled onto the mat after praying, her spine straight, her heart open. And She brought out her Quran, its leather binding worn from countless readings.

As she began to recite, her voice barely above a whisper, the words flowed like a balm to her soul. The Quran's cadence soothed her anxiety, reminding her of God's presence and guidance.

"Rabbishrah li sadri... (Lord, expand my breast...)"

The verse resonated deep within, expanding her heart, freeing her from doubt. With each verse, Mufida's thoughts clarified, her resolve strengthening.

Time stood still as she immersed herself in the Quran's tranquility. The world outside receded, leaving only the gentle rustle of pages and the beat of her heart.

In this sacred space, Mufida found solace, her faith a shield against life's turmoil.

As Mufida closed her Quran, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated her serene face. The recitation had calmed her mind and soothed her soul.

She glanced at the clock – Isha prayer time had arrived. With a peaceful heart, Mufida prayed her Isha. The rhythmic movements of her prayer brought her closer to God, her supplications sincere. As she finished, Mufida's eyes closed, her hands clasped in Dua.

"Ya Allah, guide me through these challenging times. Grant me strength and wisdom to face the truth. Protect me and my loved ones from harm."

With a sense of renewal, Mufida changed into comfortable wears – soft, pastel pink pajamas. Her hair, once tied up, now cascaded down her back in loose waves.

Downstairs, the kitchen beckoned. Mufida preheated the oven, warming up the pizza she had bought earlier. The aroma of melted cheese and spices wafted through the air, tantalizing her taste buds.

she decided to whip up some snacks. Pancakes, she thought, or maybe buns? The familiarity of baking brought her comfort.

As she mixed and measured ingredients, Mufida's thoughts turned to Hisham. The kitchen's warmth enveloped her, a haven from the turmoil outside. For now, Mufida focused on the simple pleasures – cooking, praying, and loving.

The door opened, and Hisham walked in, his face relaxed, his eyes sparkling with affection.

"Assalamu alaikum," he said, kissing her cheek.

Mufida's heart swelled. "Wa alaikum salam."

"The pizza smells amazing," Hisham said, unwinding his cap. "And something else... pancakes?"

Mufida smiled, flipping a pancake. "Thought I'd make some snacks. Hungry?"

"Starving," Hisham replied.

Hisham reached for a pancake, his fingers inches from the golden-brown treat. Mufida swiftly intervened, her hand covering his.

"Ah-ah, wash your hands first," she reminded, a playful glint in her eye.

Hisham chuckled, shrugging. "You're right, as always."

"I'll go change and wash up."

Upstairs, Hisham shed his Jallabiya, replacing it with comfortable loungewear. He slipped into soft, gray sweatpants and an army green shirt, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders.

The shirt's muted tone complemented his earthy skin tone, and the relaxed fit made him look effortlessly handsome. A sprinkle of stubble added a rugged touch to his features.

After washing his hands, Hisham descended the stairs, his footsteps quiet on the carpeted steps. The aroma of pancakes and pizza enveloped him once more.

Mufida smiled as he returned, her eyes scanning his outfit. "Much better."

Hisham grinned, settling back into his seat.

With plates filled and hunger sated, Mufida and Hisham settled into the couch, surrounded by the warmth and comfort of their home.

"Alright, what's the plan for tonight?" Hisham asked, his eyes scanning the TV options.

Mufida's eyes sparkled mischievously. "We're watching Mean Girls tonight."

Hisham groaned, dropping his head onto the couch. "Not again."

Mufida playfully nudged him. "Come on, it's a classic! 'On Wednesdays, we wear pink.'"

Hisham chuckled. "You know every line by heart, don't you?"

Mufida grinned. "Maybe. But it's just so good!"

Hisham shook his head. "I'd rather watch something with real action – the Champions League match."

Mufida scoffed. "Football? No way. I need my dose of high school drama."

Hisham smirked. "You're still living vicariously through Cady Heron, aren't you?"

Mufida laughed. "Maybe a little. But it's just so relatable!"

Hisham raised an eyebrow. "Relatable? You were never a Plastic."

Mufida playfully hit him. "Hey, I had my moments."

Suddenly, Hisham's expression turned sly. "Deal?"

Mufida's curiosity piqued. "What kind of deal?"

"If I watch Mean Girls with you, you have to watch the next Champions League match with me."

Mufida hesitated, weighing her options. She hated football, but wanted to watch her movie.

"Okay, deal!" she said finally. "But if we watch sports, you have to promise me one thing."

"Anything," Hisham replied, his eyes sparkling.

"You have to explain every single rule and regulation to me," Mufida said, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Hisham's face fell, dramatic and exaggerated. "You're trying to torture me, aren't you?"

Mufida giggled, snuggling closer to him. "Maybe just a little."

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