Khadijah called Zayd to inform him about the current predicament she found herself in. He picked up after the second ring, and after she was done recounting everything that had happened, an uncomfortable silence followed.

She had to call his name three times before he finally snapped out of his reverie.

"Khadijah, please don't joke about things like this." His voice sounded dejected, and she felt a strange weight in her chest because he rarely called her by her name.

"Zayd, wallahi I'm serious. I know this isn't what we planned for our future, but kana naka Allah na nashi." She explained.

"Yeah, that's true, but it seems like you are not affected by this at all." He said, spurring her into staring at her phone, tongue-tied, mouth hanging open.

Khadijah shook her head despite knowing he couldn't see her. "Zayd, had it been you knew what I went through, you wouldn't have said this."

He scoffed. "It's the flippancy, you don't sound like you care too much about it," he began, but she cut him off, her temper brewing.

"Stop talking like this Zayd, I act like I don't care? You don't know Baba. He has left me with no choice! How do you expect me to introduce you to him or any other person in a week's time? That's impossible! I have no one, and you are too—" her voice trailed off at the end and Khadijah bit hard on her lower lip, staring blankly at the wall.

"I'm too what?" He questioned impatiently. She could practically picture him gritting his teeth in frustration as he was wont to do whenever he was annoyed.

She released an audible sigh, waving the red flag at the bull. "You're too young to be married. Baba will be like, you're still in school; who will feed who?'" She snapped back, her frustration bubbling over.

He sounded genuinely angry at her words when he replied, his tone flat. "And you knew I was too young while you dated me."

"Look, you are being unreasonable right now. I thought you would understand this situation, but I can see it's the total opposite." She pinched the bridge of her nose in aggravation.

"Okay then, Khadijah, what do you expect me to say? Do you want me to tell you that I wish you the best or what? Anyway, if that's what you want, then you can have my best wishes. Goodbye." With that, he ended the call before she could respond, leaving her staring at her phone in utter disbelief.

Khadijah.

A couple of minutes later, I found myself gloomily seated, contemplating my next move. My conversation with Zayd had undeniably soured my mood and I doubt if anything could brighten up my day. In a desperate bid to find a crumb of solace and not succumb to the temptation of licking my wounds in my room until my head starts pounding like it did yesterday, I decided to call Ya Mukhtar. I dialed his number twice to no avail and left a text message telling him to call me as soon as possible, which he did after just two minutes. My text might have hinted at an emergency.

"Hello, Khadijah, is everything alright?" He asked, the noise in his background made it hard for her to hear him properly.

"As good as it could be, Ya Mukhtar," I replied, shoving my lower lip between my teeth in anxiety. "There's a situation."

"Well, get straight to the point," he said, knowing me all too well.

"Any progress?" I asked, pouting my lips as though he could see me.

"Are you serious?" He asked, his voice stern.

I groaned out loud, throwing a tantrum, "You promised to do something about it," I cried and he heaved a sigh. Sometimes I feel like Ya Mukhtar lets me get away with anything and everything, deliberately.

He moved away from the noise, I heard the shuffling sounds. "I'm with the guys right now. I haven't spoken with Faruk yet, but Tahir and I rode to Kamal's apartment together and I told him a bit about your situation." He responded and I shifted in my seat, anticipating his next words.

"And, what did he say?"

"First, he pointed out how young you are. Then when I.. God I feel stupid talking about this."

My brows dipped into a frown. "Just tell me everything Ya Mukhtar. I won't be mad, I promise." That might be a lie, depending on what he said next.

"Okay, when I hinted at a union between you guys the idiot just laughed it off, repeated how young you were and said he wasn't ready and fit for marriage."

"Send me his number, please." I said, rolling my eyes. I might know the perfect way to convince him.

Whoever told him it was going to be a real marriage? He said it too, I am too young for that!

"Ah no, you're not desperate," he argued, his tone dripping with disapproval. Men and their pride.

I rolled my eyes once again. At this point, the beauties were on a free ride to rolling all the way down to the ground with how often they kept going at it.

"What choice do I have? Ya Mukhtar, this whole thing is destroying my sanity. What if Baba marries me off to someone twice my age, or someone close to him in age. I won't have any choice but to flee." I confessed, considering the options I have if that happened to be the case.

Who would actually host a runaway bride at their home? I would.

"You must be joking, right? Baba won't do that," he said, trying to calm me down, but La, I was becoming more hysterical.

"Please, beg Faruk or someone if you have to. I need this!"

"Khadijah!" He scolded. "You're going to let Baba decide. You need to calm down, stressing yourself won't do you any good. Get some rest and everything will be fine. No one's begging anyone, and no one's running away from home." He raised his voice a bit, a hint of frustration edging his tone.

"Bye then," I sulkily replied, feeling defeated.

"Promise me that you'll calm down first."

"I promise." I muttered, drained.

He sighed, audibly. "We'll talk later, get some sleep."

With that, I ended the call and went straight to Mama's room, but she wasn't there. So, I headed back to my room, grabbed a black Abaya along with its veil and left the house.

I met Ya Bashir outside, sitting on his car's boot, likely on the phone. My guess was right, so I stood there waiting for him to finish. It took an eternity, honestly, I was so engrossed in trying to eavesdrop, but Ya Bashir was talking as though his mouth was aching. I could bet my meagre lifesavings that the person on the other line could barely hear him too.

My best friend, Amna, once said Ya Mukhtar and I stole Ya Bashir's speech volume. Does that make any sense? No. Not at all, but it's Amna Kabir Bello who said it. It wasn't like she had sense flowing through her head in abundance.

"What are you doing here?" Ya Bashir asked me with a straight face.

It wouldn't hurt him to smile, though I refrained from voicing my thoughts, else my plans to escape this house would flow into the air.

"Please and please, please and plea—"

"Can you shut up? What do you want?" He snapped.

"Toh, please, I need you to take me to Amna's house," I spoke with a cheeky grin, trying to charm him. Trying, being the keyword.

With this amazing brother of mine, you could only try. And most likely, you'll rot trying.

"I'm busy," was his short yet rude reply.

"Ya Bashir, please, Mama isn't around, and I need to see Amna," I pleaded. At this point, I wasn't above groveling because a minute more inside that house, alone? The world should be getting ready to bid farewell to one of its greatest gems.

"Well, your father said not to let you leave the house," he replied nonchalantly, his expression unchanged, as if this was just as casual as telling five year old me that I couldn't eat any more sweets because I've had enough.

Well newsflash; I want it, I get it. That is my motto, or one of my mottos.

"Ya Allah. Ya Bashir, dan Allah, I beg of you!" I implored, moving closer to him so he could see how close to delirium I truly was.

Two more minutes of this, and I promise to roll on the grass carpet all the way to Ya Aisha's home, and back.

"Tell her to come over. I can't cross Baba's orders, honestly. I can even go pick her up for you, but I can't take you there," he offered, trying to find a middle ground.

My eyes widened as I considered his words. Knowing how deep Ya Bashir's loyalty, sense of right and wrong ran, I knew it was either that or nothing. On a good day, Ya Mukhtar could smuggle me out, but Ya Bashir? He'd rather be the villain than go out of his way to please me.

"Okay, thanks," I murmured, feeling slightly defeated but still hopeful.

A few minutes later, Ya Bashir was on his way to Amna's place. Bored out of my mind, I leaned against Baba's Acura, took three gloomy selfies to capture the moment. I used the cutest one for my snapchat streaks and saved the rest on my phone for keepsake. I was optimistic to believe that in a year, I might look back at the pictures with a smile and recount how on the cusp of delirium I was when I took them.

In my perspective, no matter how tense a situation gets, taking pictures is a must-do. It's essential to save both the good memories and the bad.

I strolled to Ya Aisha's home and upon arrival, I was warmly greeted by Husnah, her firstborn, with a big hug, as she liked to call every welcome hug. She took my hand and led me into the house, chatting away about something that has to do with a goldfish. I struggled to keep up with her story and the mixed-up words she used, but then, some of Husna's stories were totally incomprehensible. On a normal day, I would have tried harder to understand, but today, my brain was apologetically muting her sweet voice.

She guided me to the kitchen, where I guessed her Mommy was busy.

"Good afternoon, Ya Aisha," I greeted, my eyes searching for food on autopilot.

"Afternoon, Khadi," she replied with a smile.

"Mommy, you see, I've been talking to Aunty Adija, and she's not listening, she's not answering me." Husnah complained in her adorable broken language, pouting her lips for emphasis.

"Sorry, Husnah," I apologized, hauling her into my arms. "Wow, someone is getting heavy! Where is Zara?" I asked, pertaining to her younger sister.

"She's with Daddy. They're playing hide and seek!" Husnah exclaimed gleefully.

"Why are you not playing with them?" I asked her, genuinely curious.

"I want to help Ammi bake," she replied, pointing at the oven. "You see, she's baking cookies."

Ya Aisha has three kids: Asma Husnah (5 years old, named after Ya Kabir's mom), Abubakar Sultan (3 years old, named after Baba), and her youngest, Fatima Zara (1 year old, named after Mama's mom).

I helped with what I could in the kitchen, and after a little while, Ya Kabir joined us. I greeted him warmly before taking Zara and heading to their room, where we found Sultan engrossed in his toys, he was making loud engine noises. I sat down, glancing at the clock for the ninth time wondering why Ya Bashir and Amna were taking too long.

I unlocked my phone and settled Zara on my lap. We took pictures and recorded videos, hoping to lighten up my mood because Zayd had really trudged around my spirits earlier today.

After about an hour, okay, I might be exaggerating, maybe half an hour, Ya Bashir called me, asking where I was. I told him that I was at Ya Aisha's, and he informed me that he had dropped Amna off at the gates of our sister's home and had left.

I rushed to welcome my friend into the house with Zara in my arms. We made a quick stop at the kitchen where she greeted Ya Aisha and Ya Kabir. Eager to have her to myself, I took her hands in mine and led her to the room I claim as mine in my sister's home.

Honestly, I could bet my bestfriend's examination scores that the waterfalls began before I had crossed the threshold. I cried for about five minutes straight, clinging to her as though I had just received the worst news imaginable.

The minutes ticked by, with Amna gently patting my back, trying to comfort me. Then, she opened her bag and brought out a tub of chocolate ice-cream. She knows me best. I gladly accepted the frozen delicacy, eating and pouring my heart out to her, leaving not a single detail out.

Tick Tock.

The clock ticked without a reaction from the goon. She was literally frozen in her seat.

"Oh my God Khadijah!" She exclaimed, her eyes widening comically. "Khadijah!" In a trance, she took her phone out of her bag, biting hard on her lower lip, as though she was trying to tamp down her feelings.

"Amna?" I called out her name, warily, hoping to bring her back to reality.

Her heavily lined eyes met mine. Amna wears kohl and eye-liner like a koala. A pretty koala. She's gothic.

She swallowed hard, running her tongue across her lower lip. Daintily, she cleared her throat, excitement practically buzzing through her body.

Amna got up the bed, she began pacing. Then, as though struck by lightning, she turned to face me. 

"I have a wedding to plan, I know the right vendors, the best designer for your outfits. Girl I know the perfect place we could use for your bridal shower. Oh my God," she fanned herself, dramatically. "I'm the best friend. Wait, I'm the only friend!" She exclaimed, clapping her hands enthusiastically while I stared with my mouth sweeping the ground.

Did she hear me right?

She was acting like she had won the lottery. Me? I was the sore loser who couldn't believe her bad luck.

She must have heard me wrong. Or, her ears and brain decided to pick the parts she only wanted to hear, leaving me with the fear of getting married to an elderly man with a bulging tummy.

________

Who's got a crazy friend like Amna?

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