Khadijah.

"Are you like, demented? Of all the things I told you," I asked, feigning hurt while placing my palm over my chest, right over where my heart is—or so I thought.

"What?" she asked, rolling her eyes at me, then her lips pushed into a little pout. "I've never for once liked Zayd. After all, plastic smiles are all I've been giving him just so you won't feel bad. So, Tahir or Faruk, the approachable ones among Ya Kamal's friends, hm..." she paused, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Remember the time when you had a crush on Tahir?" she asked, jabbing my sides playfully and wiggling her brows mischievously before bursting out laughing. She cackled like a deranged hyena.

God help me.

Amna has a long-term memory that only fails on purpose.

"Spare me," I muttered, "That was when I was a 12 year old girl please, we all had gigantic crushes. I'm still patiently waiting for Ya Mukhtar's response though. We don't know who among them will agree to marry the little girl, do you know that Tahir actually told Ya Mukhtar that I was young? It annoyed me, hasn't he seen 19 year old married women before?" My lips pursed as I recalled the phone conversation I had with my brother earlier.

"Who would let the opportunity to have this whole package pass him by? Babe, are you crazy?" she exclaimed, illustrating a figure in the air, a fine one that was apparently my figure—I simply stared at her in silence.

She's crazy, I'm telling you.

I have no hourglass figure and I know it. I also have no model's body, but Amna? Oh she could easily pass as a model with her natural fox eyes, high cheekbones that fit perfectly on her face, and skin the color of melted caramel. She gives whiplash. But, the permanent scowl and resting bitch face she always has on would have you turning around in haste—if she doesn't have the black lipstick on already. That alone in itself attracts attention. And Amna cares not a whit, she wears it to class.

"Anyway, I cannot believe this is truly happening," she said, pulling me closer and placing a hand over my shoulder, patting it gently in a show of sympathy.

Okay, now this is the sympathetic version of my best friend. The one that began planning my wedding was the crazy possessed Amna. She has many sides, I tell you, depending on her mood. My best friend has a switch at the farthest end of her brain, it serves a lot of purposes. I found its location after hitting the nape of her neck about a thousand times. Besides, I had zero idea where the brain was situated at.

We chatted a little more, then she ran out of slushiness and started suggesting potential suitors to me.

"So, Habeeb is 30 years old. He's my cousin, married, but the wife is trouble," she began.

"Stop right there!" I interrupted, grimacing at the mention of 'trouble', not to get to the married part.

"Okay, Muhammad. My friend—the guy is fine, but you have to bear with him, though. He's a loverboy, through and through, 27 years old..." she added, her voice trailing off.

"I'm the possessive type," I whispered, cutting through her statement quietly but firmly. My eyes widened as I pictured myself married to a man who talks to other girls that way.

Dead. Rest in peace, man and wife.

"Well, Uncle Salmanu is—"

I raised my hands in surrender, "I don't like the name, no offense," I ground. We're talking about my future here.

Or maybe Salman. But the fact that he has an old man's title in his name had me suppressing a shiver.

"Really Khadijah?" The resting bitch face appeared in my view. "You're not looking for a husband. You're too choosy. You have no choice but to let Baba do his thing!" She hurled at me, feigning annoyance.

Groaning, I put my face flat on a pillow, utterly exhausted from everyone telling me to let Baba select a husband for me.

"Toh, this is the truth, ai, and I'm sure the person will be the perfect husband. Keep praying, Khadi, and be obedient. Respect his decision. He's your father, he would only choose the best for you, no matter the situation. Be happy he's even available to choose a husband for you, even though it's under dire circumstances," her voice was cool and comforting.

Amna has no primary knowledge about her Dad. She's seen his pictures and all, but that's not enough—never enough. He died before she was born and she was raised by her mother alone. A resilient and steadfast woman who juggled her job too perfectly, a single mother who doted on her daughter and taught her values and propriety without coming across as a strict mother. Amna's mother—Mommy—sits and talks with us as though we are friends, she makes chicken popcorn for our slumber parties and knows the best way to reprimand a child for staying out late without raising her voice. Not that I will ever tell Amna this, but I've never come across a more respectful and loving girl like her.

Cringe!

Her words sent a sense of calm washing through me, and I felt the urge to abide by them. Could you believe it? My siblings all told me the same thing, but I didn't heed their advice, and now my half-crazed friend is repeating it, and I'm willing to agree.

Wonders..

"Okay, Amna," I said, lowering my head and pursing my lips thoughtfully.

"Good girl, now let's go to Mommy's house. You need to see my new collection." Mommy's house meant her house.

My eyes widened in excitement. "For real?" I asked, feeling a buzzing sensation starting from beneath my feet.

"Yes, yes and yes!" she exclaimed, and we did a happy dance, ditching my worries into a shoebox for the moment.

We made goofy dance moves.

The new collection was a collection of chocolates. Amna is—I mean, we are obsessed with candies, chocolates—anything sweet. We're basically foodies, but then I remembered Baba's new rule.

My feet immediately wobbled and I abruptly stopped.

"But Amna, I can't leave the house," I reminded her, feeling a sheen of whatever clouding my vision.

"Ohh yeah, this dummy totally forgot!" she exclaimed, smacking her forehead in realization. "Anyway, let's do something. I am B-O-R-E-D," she spelled out, making me roll my eyes in exasperation.

"Amna, when are we resuming school?" I asked, hoping for anything that could pass as a valid reason for Baba to let me go out. Or else, it'll be "Khadijah loco" to the world.

The lights in her eyes immediately went off. "In four weeks, can you imagine? They barely gave us any break," she grumbled, ending her words with a dramatic groan.

Seriously, I doubt if there was anyone in the world who hates school more than Amna and I. In another world, Amna was definitely the villain who burned all the educational facilities down, and I was definitely the sidekick, or the hype girl.

"At this moment, I would opt for school and ditch the whole caging thing, I'm that desperate to be let out." I groaned, feeling frustrated and helpless.

We talked for a while longer, drawing up plans on how to get our hands on the white chocolate tub Amna was raving over, until my phone started ringing. I glanced at the caller ID and almost swallowed my dear tongue. Baba's name was flashing boldly on my screen. Panic set in, and I quickly picked up the call.

"Assalamu Alaikum Baba," I began, adopting the calmest tone I could muster.

"Wa alaikumus salaam, Khadijah, where are you?" his voice gave absolutely nothing away.

"I'm at Ya Aisha's house," I replied, throwing a glance at Amna who was taking out a candy bar from her bag.

"Come back home," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"In shaa Allah. I'm on my way," I replied, quickly grabbing Amna's hand, accidentally snatching the candy she had unwrapped and mistakenly shoved it into my mouth. We fled the house, shouting our goodbyes to everyone on our way out.

We practically sprinted back home, impishly laughing along the way. We went through the main entrance and found Baba in his living room. Ya Kabir's parents—Baba Kashim and Aunt Habiba were there, as well as Mama whose eyes beckoned at us to join them. Our eyes crossed through the sliding glass doors and she did that thing mothers do with their eyes, when they communicate without saying a word.

My good friend and I sat on our heels and greeted each and every one of them, my heart thumping wildly in my chest for reasons I couldn't fathom as we were quickly told to take our leave.

Suddenly feeling nervous, I turned to take a glance at them, having a vague feeling that they were discussing about my future. I laid flat on the rug in my room while Amna took the bed, chatting on the phone.

Pushing off the ground, I went straight to my wardrobe, retrieved two sleeveless tank tops and shorts for Amna and I. I knew she was sleeping over because I had overheard her on the phone with her mom, saying something about staying for the night. We had sleepovers as frequent as possible.

The Adhaan for Maghrib prayer rang on my phone, interrupting my crazy thoughts. I quickly performed wudhu, laid out a prayer mat and prayed. As I was reciting the Holy Qur'an after saying my evening adhkar, I heard Mama calling my name, so I had to pause and jog to her room, leaving Amna to get comfortable.

I found her in her room, clad in a long hijab and sitting on a prayer mat. Calming my jumbled breaths, I walked in with a Salaam to which Mama responded in kind. Mama instructed me to come closer, and I did, feeling a flutter of anxiety as she leveled a look I couldn't quite comprehend at me.

"Khadijah," she began, her voice warm. "I hope you have been praying over your father's decision,"

I nodded, swallowing a sigh. "I have."

"And what about the man you were talking to? Have you informed him about everything?" she asked, despite knowing the answer to the question, I know Ya Aisha had already told her all about how impossible marriage between myself and Zayd was.

How I've gone from being a happy-go-lucky girl to the one whose eyes stare off into space in silence amazes me.

"Khadijah, have you?" she repeated her question, reminding me that I was yet to reply her.

See? I did it again.

I cleared my throat. "I've spoken with him and.." I shook my head, unable to continue speaking. It felt weird talking about Zayd with my mother.

"He's not ready for marriage." She completed my sentence, "If that's the case then I won't make any mention of him again. You're not going to get married to a stranger, your father has chosen a husband for you and I want you to respect his decision without a fight, this isn't one of the moments when your rebellion pushes forward."

That fast?

I wasn't able to secure me a man, but my father was able to do the job that fast?

My lips trembled.

"Yes Khadijah. We will never make a decision that will hurt you, keep that in mind at all times."

_______
Kindly Vote, Comment & Share!!!

You can follow me on Instagram @ameenatou_ or @x.wiltedrose

NanaAmiinah🤍