Asad

Meeting Layla a few days ago to finally apologize had left more of an impression on me than I'd anticipated. It was one thing to expect understanding from someone, but her reaction caught me off guard. I had seen people practice maturity countless times in my life, but Layla had something else, a playful edge to her responses that softened the gravity of her words, an honesty that was as sharp as it was refreshing. Honesty, I've found, is rare to come by, especially in my line of work where appearances often overshadow sincerity.

Layla wasn't hiding anything, nor was she sugarcoating her response to me, and that's precisely what left me admiring her even more. She let me know she wasn't exactly happy with what had happened, and yet, she had heard me out. That was enough to remind me of her composure, even as she expressed her disappointment in a way that felt playful but earnest. I didn't get that much from people around me, but I know it's mostly because I intimidate them a lot.

Still, I couldn't quite say if she had forgiven me. Days had gone by, and although we had only exchanged a few phone calls and messages since then, I'd found myself looking forward to each one with an intensity that surprised me. Normally, I wouldn't pay much attention to someone's changing moods, I've grown accustomed to being deliberate and logical about relationships, leaving little room for guesswork. Yet, here I was, thinking over every word she said and didn't say and especially her tone. I sensed a hint of distance from her, a slight shift in the playfulness that had initially drawn me in. I couldn't say if I was reading too much into things, but with everything I'd heard from Nahla and Usman about women and what Google assured me, Layla was probably pretending to sound uninterested. I allowed myself a slight smile at that thought; perhaps I now knew better than to take Google's advice on courtship at face value.

Being intentional has always been second nature to me, almost as essential as breathing. I can't afford not to be. Every action, every word, and every decision I make must mean something, carry weight, and show purpose. I don't pursue things unless I'm prepared to see them through. It's what made me the person I am and allowed me to take on responsibilities that most would shy away from. With Layla, I'm realizing that intention alone might not be enough. If she has truly pulled back, then I'll have to rethink how I approach this. For once, it wasn't about logic, about just making things right; it was about understanding her, reading between the lines, and paying attention in a way that didn't come naturally to me. And maybe that's why she was different from everything else, why I felt driven to see this through properly and prove, even if subtly, that she was worth every bit of it.

I started walking toward Abu, who was seated under the vintage, shaded pergola in the middle of our family farmhouse. This place was his sanctuary, an oasis of calm and familiarity that he treasured more than anything else, especially now that he was retired. The farmhouse itself sprawled across acres of land, a vast investment he'd made over the years that had grown as steadily as his love for it. Around it, there were endless rows of fruit trees—mangoes, guava, date palms, trees that had matured over time. In between the rows of trees, tall grasses swayed in the breeze, where our cattle wandered peacefully, their coats a patchwork of earthy brown and warm grays, characteristic of the hardy Fulani breed.

The entire property held a sentimental weight that only deepened with age. Abu had poured his heart into this land, cultivating not just produce but a sense of belonging, a piece of heritage for our family. For the Fulani, owning farmland and cattle was more than just a livelihood; it was a way of life, a lineage stretching back generations. This was the legacy my father had handed down, a responsibility, a deep-rooted appreciation for the land, animals, and their symbiotic existence. He often told us how, when he was young, farmhouses like these were family treasures that represented not only prosperity but also pride in who we were.

Today being Friday, Abu was doing what he always did—spending part of the day in his favorite place, unwinding before his usual gathering with a few friends who'd made similar retirements here in Abuja. Our family farmhouse had turned into a weekly retreat for them, a familiar space that allowed for camaraderie, stories, and laughter. Fridays, especially, held a certain sanctity; it was the day family and community came together. Even back home in Yola and Saudi, it was the custom that family, both immediate and extended, would either gather at a parent's home or the eldest son's—something my father, as the eldest here in Abuja, upheld with pride.

Back at the main house, I could already picture it bustling with activity. My mom, sisters, aunties, cousins from my dad's side, and family who lived here in Abuja were all likely there, crowded around plates piled with food. Fridays were their tradition, a custom they cherished as much as the men's gatherings here at the farmhouse. The farmhouse would come alive with the women only in the harmattan when they'd join us out here, the colder months making the farmhouse feel warm and comforting. They'd cook, sing, share stories, and, sometimes, all sleepover, just like old times.

My dad had made sure that the farmhouse was more than equipped to accommodate everyone. He'd added rooms over the years, "to keep family close," he'd say, a twinkle in his eye. I would often stay over, too, joining the gathering as it grew louder and warmer into the night. Even some of my supposed friends, guys I knew and hung out with, joined me a few times.

Ahead of me, I saw Abu, comfortably seated, sipping his cup of kunu, a thick, warm millet drink that he loved in the late afternoons. At sixty-three, he had a preference for simpler things, nourishing and familiar. The kunu, often prepared by my mother, was something he cherished. I could see him gazing out across the expanse of the land, his expression as tranquil as the land itself.

After greeting Abu and settling into the seat beside him, a server approached, setting a steaming cup of kunu before me before quietly taking his leave. Abu sipped his drink with a quiet contentment, his face relaxed and marked with the lines of years of wisdom. After a long, reflective pause, he chuckled, setting his cup down and giving me a sideways look.

"Malam," He started, a smirk playing on his lips, "you're always too busy. You should learn to rest more."

I chuckled, "One day, maybe, Abu."

He nodded, but his expression turned serious, and he leaned back, folding his arms. "I hear there was trouble at the Lekki Port Project. How is it going now? Has the issue been resolved?"

"Mostly," I replied, "we've suspected the sabotage came from one of our two main competitors, either Imperial Nexus or Vertex Builders. Evidence points heavily toward Nexus."

Abu's eyebrows raised slightly, urging me to continue.

"There were several telltale signs," I explained. "One, there were tampered equipment orders that only Nexus somehow and our team were aware of. Additionally, an old supplier linked to Nexus admitted to refusing critical materials under 'new company policies'—policies Nexus has, and they have been notorious for delays through this approach with other rivals."

Abu's mouth twisted thoughtfully, and he took another sip. "I had a feeling they'd come for us," he murmured. "Especially after we took the previous contract from them. I suspect this was their way of trying to save face—or gain it back."

It was definite an act of revenge after they tried securing the new presidential project last year but failed.  "Let them try," I replied confidently. "We won't let them off without consequences. We didn't come this far by succumbing."

He nodded approvingly, and his eyes sparkled with something that could only be pride.

After a moment, Abu changed the subject. "Your uncles have just arrived from Yola. They'll join us here shortly. It seems the introduction will be quite the gathering."

I nodded, recalling how I'd had their flights arranged by my assistant, making sure they'd be comfortable. My mom's brother and his son, who would also be arriving soon from Saudi, would round out the family presence. It was customary to have the males of the family present for this first step.

The marriage introduction held a specific significance for Fulani families. Gaisuwa in Hausa marked the formal announcement of intent to join two families, where gifts and greetings were exchanged, and elders set the stage for the Nikah, which would come later at a time chosen by both families. Nowadays, though, there were extra ceremonies woven in, some influenced by tradition, others by modern society, I'd come to find out. The simplicity of the introduction, however, remained the foundation.

Abu's expression softened as he studied me, and in that moment, he looked every bit the seasoned, wise patriarch he was. His sixty-three years of age showed in his face, his Fulani features etched with lines that hinted at a life filled with experiences. With his high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and the beginnings of a grey beard that stretched along his jaw, he looked not only like the head of our family but like a man who'd earned every crease.

As Abu took another sip of his kunu, he set the cup down, clearing his throat almost hesitantly before he turned his gaze toward me.

"Malam," he began, his voice softened by the gentle authority only a father could have. He always called me Malam, just like my granddad I was named after, Muhammad, who was known throughout our family as a wise and learned scholar. The name, a Fulani honorific meaning "teacher" or "wise man," had become my own out of respect for my grandfather's memory and the knowledge he carried with him. Abu and my uncles used it with a reverence that reminded me constantly of the legacy I was meant to uphold.

"As I was saying," Abu continued, still measuring his words carefully, "marriage is... unlike any other relationship. It's more complex, but more beautiful, too. It will require patience, especially for someone like you, Malam, who's used to things being straightforward."

He chuckled to himself, and I felt a smile tug at my own lips. It was rare for him to speak openly about such personal matters, so I listened with a quiet appreciation for the moment.

"In marriage, you may find that not everything is spoken. She may want something... without directly saying it," he continued, an almost shy look on his face. "This is where patience comes in, hm?"

I nodded, taking in his words and the subtle smile that played on his lips.

"You must understand her," he went on, "and let her understand you in turn. Give her time, Malam, even if you feel like rushing forward. Remember that there is wisdom in kindness, in leaving certain things unspoken, and in protecting her peace which will in turn protect yours. That is how our fathers and their fathers taught us. This is how we honor our family."

He took another sip of his kunu, his face carrying a quiet depth as he looked away. There was an endearing shyness in his eyes, as if he was sharing something close to his heart that words could barely contain. His advice settled over me with a gravity I hadn't anticipated, each word ringing with the kind of clarity only years of experience could give.

Abu leaned back thoughtfully, his gaze steady as he began speaking with a gentle, fatherly warmth.

"Malam, you're a mature man, and your mother and I couldn't be prouder of you. Watching you handle the company, and the family, always warmed our hearts. But I worry there may be certain things you've yet to fully understand. When it comes to women, they need to be consistently reminded of their husband's love.

"If a husband assumes everything is fine and doesn't express his love often, his wife may start to feel a distance, even if he is devoted. She may not tell him directly that she feels a lack of connection, instead, she might believe he's drifting away. For a man, it might seem everything is running smoothly, but for a woman, love needs to be shown, and often.

"Trust me, Malam, this communication, this reassurance, it's key. Once you understand a woman, you only need to be intentional in your actions, and the rest will follow naturally."

Abu sat in quiet thought before adding, "With daughters, for example, it's different, Malam. They're delicate, and they need that extra softness." His gaze softened as he went on. "Maybe you haven't noticed in recent years because of your nature now, but even when you were children, I was gentler with the girls." he stopped, a sad smile graced his lips and he murmured a prayer of Rahma almost under his breath before continuing. "With you and Nadir, though, I was always a bit stricter."

But my mind had lingered where he'd offered the quiet prayer. That phrase had always carried weight in our family, an acknowledgment of the loss that still echoed through our lives. I understood it well, aware of the connections and memories it held, even if I never spoke of it.

Abu turned to me, his gaze direct and searching. "So, Malam," he began, "as your father, I need to hear your certainty one last time before we go forward tomorrow for the introduction. You know that once the elders are involved, they'll naturally take over and guide the rest of this journey."

His words held the unmistakable weight of tradition, the rhythm of our family's way of doing things. I met his eyes, feeling the gravity of the moment. "Yes, Abu, I'm certain." I paused, letting the sincerity settle between us. "And thank you for the advice and I'll hold on to it Insha'Allah Abu, I promise."

After we'd settled into the male majlis and Usman and I had eaten our fill, I leaned back, the savory scent of spices lingering in the air as the servers cleared away the dishes. The meal had been a blend of familiar Fulani dishes and traditional Saudi foods my mom had sent over from the main house—grilled lamb, jollof rice, couscous, miyan kuka, and bowls of spiced dates mixed with basbousa and kunafa.

In the main majlis in the main building, Abu seated on the carpet alongside my uncles and his friends, they held their conversations in easy rhythms, their laughter occasionally reaching over to where we sat.

Our legs crossed comfortably on the plush rug in the typical one knee up, the other resting flat way. Turning back to Usman, I decided to bring up something that had been on my mind. "About the technology subsidiary, since we're looking at options to break into the Asian market, the team suggested a potential collaboration with a competitor, but I'm inclined to explore if there's a more effective path in the market."

Usman shook his head, grinning as he leaned back against the majlis cushions, looking completely at ease. "No way, man. I'm sorry, but we are not talking about work today. Now that you've finally got a life outside of business, we're sticking to that. It's only fair."

He was right. I laughed softly, shaking my head as the maids began clearing the last of the dishes. Usman, though, wasn't finished. He watched me for a moment, his expression turning thoughtful. "Look, Asad, I know this is uncharted territory for you. But now that it is fast approaching, I feel obligated to remind you, that marriage isn't something you can strategize like a business. You don't treat her like a project with checklists and outcomes."

I listened, sensing he was going somewhere with this. Usman's tone was respectful, and mature, as he spoke from a place of genuine advice.

"Be intentionally emotional, my friend. I know you have it in you. With a wife, the 'small things'—a look, a word, a gesture—that matter more than grand gestures or milestones. She isn't something to achieve; she's someone to understand and experience, every day, with all the uncertainties that come with it." He paused, a small smile forming. "But you've got this. I trust you."

A grin broke out on his face as he reached over to slap my shoulder. "Now, that's enough advice-giving from me. Besides, I know you're too smart to make a mess of it. And if you do, well, I'll be the first one to say, 'I told you so.'"

"Does one have to redeem himself each time they make a mistake?" I had just asked remembering how the car insurance conversation with her didn't end in her believing I didn't do it. I sincerely didn't tell her brother based on her request.

"With women? Yes, of course." He answered with a scoff.

"What if you didn't actually do it?"

He shook his head with a mocking smile before replying. "It doesn't matter to them. You still did it somehow.""

I was about to come back with some retort when my phone vibrated. Glancing down, I saw a message appear on the screen:

Come, I can spare you a few minutes. Maybe.

It was followed by a sassy emoji, and I couldn't help but smile, trying to hide it as I looked back at Usman.

He raised an eyebrow knowingly. "You've got somewhere you need to be, don't you?"

I stood up, shaking Usman's hand with a small nod. He'd probably go join my father and the uncles, not wanting to feel left out while I was gone. But for now, I had another engagement to attend to, one I knew I didn't want to miss.

As I left the majlis, the message stayed on my mind, leaving a hint of intrigue for whatever awaited me next.

———————
Hello readers,

Hope this met us all well? 😁

I'm very impressed with your guesses in the last chapter🙂‍↕️

How is Abu doing so far? Do we like him? How does it feel to hear marriage advice from an elderly male perspective as opposed to the female we mostly know?

How was that last message from?🙂‍↔️😉

Be sure to vote and comment! If we beat the comment on the last two chapters, guess who will be getting another update this weekend!

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