Dedicated to Faizah04G

CHAPTER THREE

Kaduna, Nigeria
September 19th, 2016
06:20am

A MIRACLE IS said to be a sign that someone is watching over you, loving you and protecting you—like a guardian angel, and as rare as miracles can be, it is estimated to occur, at the very least, once in a lifetime.

—like the blue moon.

Or perhaps not—

Why?

One—

I survived a car accident.

Two—

I was once married to a good Samaritan for three days who practically saved my life at the last minute

Three—

I got called by REHAN for an interview.

All miracles which as far as miracles goes, can't get any better—at least not if you've survived all that I have.

It's just not possible.

I mean—

REHAN. CALLED. ME.

They chose me—

Reima Ahmad.

I can't believe I got selected either. I mean what were the chances, honestly? 0.00001% And because I did, I let myself hope again. Perhaps I can survive. Perhaps it's not over for me. Perhaps I can find happiness once more.

Why? Surely there's someone, somewhere, looking out for me even if I had thought my despair had shooed them away.

Not that I was feeling particularly loved right at this moment.

It is 6:47am on a Monday morning.

Although that might not seem like anything out of the ordinary but trust me it is actually worse.

It is 6:47am on the Monday morning scheduled for my interview at REHAN. But that's not the worse either.

It is 6:47am on the Monday morning scheduled for my interview at REHAN and I am a mess.

Completely. Utterly.

Not combing wavy hair, flawed make-up, indecisive wardrobe mess.

Not that it helps that I have been staring at my mirror consistently in the last fifteen minutes hoping and praying for a miracle that would help mask the scary dark circles crawling around my eyes or at the very least restore the glow to my face and make me look the confidence I wasn't feeling. It's not working. Nothing is working—definitely not the concealer—I am clearly no make-up expert

Frustrated, I switch my attention to my red flowing gown and golden high-heeled shoes wondering for the umpteenth time if they looked professional.

If not my face, at least my clothes, I thought as I looked at myself critically.

I stood at five foot seven, willowy with a flawless ivory skin. Thick and full eyelashes stood atop my almond shaped inky eyes which stared back almost lifelessly from the mirror with my naturally blushing cheeks a bit dull and my full pink lips dry despite the lip gloss I had applied just moments earlier.

Like I said, a mess.

A pretty mess?

I can't deny that I am pleasing to the eyes when based on society's concept of beauty however my flitting nerves is making it quite difficult for me to feel anything

Just emptiness. And perhaps a little restless.

Biting my lips as a bolt of anger lace through my body in high voltage, I rolled my long, wavy hair with a red ribbon into a messy bun and wrapped it with a red Pashmina veil not wanting to care anymore deciding there's nothing I can do anyway as I grabbed on my black blazer and walked out my room before I can change my mind again. I was getting late anyway.

I pause briefly at my Mom's room on my way out to greet her and bid her prayers for the interview but I met her sound asleep much to my dismay.

She was suppose to add the extra to my ordinary day.

For a moment, I was tempted to wake her up but I couldn't. She spends most part of her nights praying and I knew without a doubt that it was for my sake. She does that a lot lately and to say that it wasn't filling me with guilt would probably be like saying Mount Everest is a river; it was an impossibility.

Slowly, I tiptoed out of the room and head for the kitchen, taking extra care not to wake her up; she is a lightweight, and had become worse ever since my dad had died. I fear she was suffering from some psychologically-induced insomnia, but she was the psychologist and knows best.

Walking into the kitchen, I went straight for the fridge to grab a bottle of coke deciding I needed the caffeine to get me through the morning when I saw a note sticking out.

"My prayers are with you and so is my love. Be true to yourself and success is yours. Mom."

I ponder for a moment why she always talked in riddles.

Be true to myself? What does that even mean?

However I didn't linger. I couldn't. Not when time steals away in silence.

Shrugging, I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of coke and downed it in one gulp

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

It was precisely 7:14am when I stepped out of our house that morning. The road was deserted as it always was save for the occasional cars that were passing. A faint trace of rotten debris linger in the chilly air as a soft wind blew across, making the trees lining the pathway from my home, which was thankfully at the edge of the city, dance to its tune and making me to hug my blazer closer.

I spared the sky a hurried glance.

The clouds were quickly gathering with the sky overcast with bouts of lightning and a raucous thunder; rain was imminent.

Just what I needed, I hiss upping my pace. There is a fair distance between my home and the main road but thanks to my dad, I could follow the forest path behind my house which made it easier.

Ours is a relatively new neighbourhood far from the bustling city splendour and yet lacked the subtlelities of a rural settlement; it was somewhere in between. The houses—each far from each other and marked by ornate fences and grand buildings, makes one feel as if one was in one of those fancy magazines. It was an area once reserved for public servants; my dad was one, which was before his death ten years ago. But it has over the years gradually evolved and was now an area for the 10% of the population

—the incredibly rich.

If you are the type that crave the beehive city vibes, Malali might not suit your palette.

The path is flanked with varieties of trees, mostly neem and mango trees, and grasses. My dad had made that path himself. He liked walking and using public transportation to work, which he said allows him time to think, and didn't want to use the main road in Malali which was longer and had motorists about. I guess we are similar that way. We are in many ways.

"No sad thoughts, no painful memories." I reminded myself. Today was going to be the beginning of the rest of my life; I had no doubt about that. I could feel it in my bones.

After walking for about ten minutes, I finally got to the bus station. This was one of the reason the pathway was important, this was the only place in Malali GRA where there were hired motorists.

I stood there, waiting anxiously for the workers bus or a taxi. It was sometimes rare, but there were days the road ran with none available and after a few minutes of waiting I was beginning to despair, today seem to fall among the rare days. Why today of all days? I thought dejectedly, I needed to get there before 8am and considering the distance between here and where the offices were, I'm afraid I might be late.

"God, please," I found myself whispering softly, "I need a miracle."

*****

It came in an old, battered bus whose outlook might make you question whether the thing ran or not, and seeing it does makes you stare with awe at it. Buses like this always reminded me of a broken heart: they've been bruised and shattered to pieces, and yet still manages to function.

Beggars can't be choosers, I smiled as I read the inscription on the bus. It somehow felt perfectly right for the bus. I allowed those dropping to file out completely smiling and voicing out greetings at a few faces I'd come to know from the times I had used the bus.

"Baby, where are you going

to this early?" A voice asked softly in Hausa.

I looked at the person speaking and smiled. It was Mallam Bello Mati who is fondly called baba maigadi by everyone in the estate.

He stood with the aid of a stick with his gray hair peeking out of his hula . He has always being this old for as long as I have known him from the days of my dad and was always in his milk colored babbar riga and red embroidery cap.

"Good morning, baba." I greeted in Hausa, squatting a little to show respect to the ancient one

He smiled revealing a set of white teeth which for some reason had escaped the wrath of time. "I am fine. How is your mother?"

"She's fine. She sends her regards." I replied with a smile feeling a lot less nervous and anxious.

"Tell her I'm grateful."

"Okay, baba. I am leaving now." I nodded in the direction of the bus.

He nodded with understanding littering his time worn though kind eyes, "May God protect you, Child,"

"Amin, amin. Thank you."

Quickly, I hopped on. A light shower had began.

* * *

The drizzle turned quickly into a heavy downpour forcing the bus driver to move at a snail-like pace much to my despair and from the look of it, it doesn't seem like it would ease off anytime soon. It was an unlikely happening almost like my interview if I didn't get there in ten minutes, I gasped as I stared at my wristwatch.

It was at this moment in time that the car engine hissed and died and to say I was devastated would probably be an understatement. The car could have held on a few more minutes and I would have been in a walking distance, hopefully. But now, I have to look for another vehicle and with the rains, I fear it was a hopeless venture.

Dejectedly, I hopped down from the car, holding open my umbrella and taking extra care not to get soaked by the rain but instead I felt my feet get swamped in a pool of stagnant water by the roadside as soon as I took my first step. I was shaking off my legs when a car sped past me splashing some more water on me.

"Idiot!" I shrieked too annoyed to let the mishap go uneventful. I was already late, wet and stuck with no car under a very crazy weather and now because of whoever that person was, I was now wetter.

I can't believe I had almost believe I have a guardian Angel.

I stared helplessly at the road. There was no car in sight except for the red sports car reversing towards me, I moved away. It's just weird having the car chase after me.

It is a Mazda MX-5 Miata. I know because it is a car I had been crushing on for days now and I can't deny that seeing it here was gave brownie points to my not-so great day.

I stopped just to see if my hypothesis was right and unfortunately for me, it was.

The car pulled over right in front of me. It was scary but I stood my ground nevertheless, I wanted to know what the hell was going on.

The car glass winded down. "I'm sorry about the splash." the driver said. I couldn't see who it was, but from the sound of his voice, I knew it was a man.

"Never mind," I replied. It didn't matter. I began walking away. He followed me again. I stopped.

"Hop in, let me give you a ride." The voice said again which for some reason was giving me goosebumps as a déjà vu feeling finds its way into my system.

I considered declining but even I knew that wasn't an option—I needed the ride, and so with a low murmur of thanks, I folded my umbrella, opened the door and sat, busying myself with buckling in the seatbelt only I ended up retracting the convertible door suddenly letting the rain into the car.

"No, no, no," I shrieked, fumbling for the button again but the damage had been done; we were already wet, or in my case, soaked.

I spared him a glance only to be caught by a pair of widened amber eyes upon a very pleasing face with at least three days old worth of stubble. He looked positively wet and cute as he sat there shocked, and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself laughing.

"I'm sorry," I said trying to curb my laughter.

"No problem." He removed his army green headwarmer and flung it at the backseat, shaking a thick mass of hair.

I didn't know Nigerian men were supposed to have such beautiful hair and so I watched on, entranced. He sheds off his black blazer next revealing a muscled bod made apparent by the hugging of his body by his white turtlenecked sweatshirt. I glanced away

"Where are you going to?" He asked as he put on the ignition a few seconds later

"REHAN Publishing," I said sparing him a sidelong glance. His eyes were on me.

"REHAN?" He sounded surprised.

I nodded.

He looked as if he wanted to say something and I could almost feel like he was going to but he didn't. Instead, he began driving.

I looked out the window; anywhere but that face, I thought. The impact of that moment earlier lingered and his face more so. For some odd reason, I found him attractive.

An awkward cloud of silence settled in next as he focused on the road and I on ignoring him.

"This isn't a kidnapping, you know." He broke the silence.

I stared strangely at him and found out quickly that he was making reference to my hand clutching the doorknob tightly. I released my hold. It was just one of those many weird habits I couldn't shake off. I maintained silence though, I just didn't know what to say to him, for some reason he rendered me tongue tied. I would have continued that way if l hadn't seen him speeding past the gate of REHAN publishing.

"Stop...STOP." I called frantically, "This is my stop." But he sped on anyway.

"Hey," I tried again, louder this time. "You just passed my stop."

"Oh...sorry, my mind was faraway," he stopped the car and stared at me apologetically.

"Where?" I found myself asking before I could stop myself. It was my mind musing I didn't realise I had spoken out loud. Damn his eyes, they seem to be like a virus to my brain.

"What?" He sounded taken aback

I remained silent. I simply stared at him as he did me. I wanted to apologise but nothing was coming out. Truth was I was rendered speechless by him or rather by my befuddled mind. Normally I wouldn't have spared him another glance - good looking or not, but for some strange reason I found myself curious about him. He glanced away first.

"Okay ," he muttered softly and then began the car.

We were at a roundabout. He took the turn and in a matter of minutes I was in front of the three storeyed building which housed REHAN publishings, out of the car a running into the building, a certain amber eyed man forgotten.

But from some distant part of my consciousness, I thought I heard him say ' See you soon ' after me, but it hadn't matter.

He didn't matter!