The way his heart was troubled, he knew that only Muazatu could calm his worries. But he had wronged her—he hurt her feelings and had been ignoring her calls since yesterday. Before he even reached his room, he called her. He held the phone to his ear, twisted the doorknob, entered, closed the door, and even locked it.

As if in a dream, Muazatu Rufai, who had been mentally distressed for two days, stared blankly when she saw the name Habeeb-qalby (her saved name for Abdulazeez Dakata) on her phone screen. She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her again, as they had been since yesterday. She didn’t touch the phone; the call ended. Instead, bitter tears ran down her face.

The phone rang again. This time she grabbed her hair and bit her lower lip, silently pleading to God to wake her if she was dreaming.

On his part, Abdulazeez felt regretful. He realized he hadn’t been fair to the woman he loved. Was he acting like someone who married for love but suddenly withdrew just because he was given a new bride? What did the new wife have to do with his mistreatment of Muazatu?

A voice inside him told him it wasn’t about the new wife—it was Muazatu’s words. She couldn’t communicate properly. He hated anyone intruding on his personal life, even his parents. That's how he was. That’s why he disliked this arranged marriage. In his view, his mother (Mammah) had interfered too much and ruined his plans by forcing him to marry someone who didn’t fit his lifestyle.

He would do everything possible to fix his life as he had always intended. Though he was angry with Muazatu, he had calmed down and realized he couldn’t live without her. He had to make amends.

“I’m sorry, Muazatu.”

That’s what he typed and sent to her.

Muazatu read the message. She closed her eyes. A wave of mercy swept through her heart. The words were short but deeply meaningful—they cleansed her heart like a river. Still, she didn’t reply or call back.

He sent another message:

“Muazatu, please, I’m sorry.”

Then he called again.

This time she answered. But instead of speaking, she cried. He let her cry until she was exhausted. Then she wiped her tears and said,

“I’m no longer angry.”

He smiled, adjusted himself on his cozy bed, pulled the quilt halfway up, and switched the phone from his right to left hand.

“That fast?”

She smiled, as if he could see her.

“Since you admitted your wrong and apologized, what’s the point of holding onto the anger?”

“Oh really? You don’t think you did anything wrong? Look into my eyes and—”

"In reconciliation, we don’t reopen wounds," she interrupted him.

“Just admit that we both hurt each other. Muazatu, I hate disrespect. Even if we’re married, you shouldn’t have told me not to go near my wife. That’s my personal life, not yours. I’m sorry again for ignoring your calls. If I say I didn’t miss you, that would be a big lie. I love you, Muazatu. You’re my goal now, believe it or not.”

Muazatu sighed deeply. His earlier words had hurt her, but the latter ones healed the wound. That was how he was—he didn’t hide his truth just to please anyone. He never lied to be loved. If you were to love him, it had to be the real him. She had long understood that.

“I’m sorry too… and I love you more…”

She let out a soft laugh, full of emotion. They continued chatting like old times, but today’s talk was more intense.

After he left and closed his door, Hafsat came out and took the bags he had left. She opened them—grilled chicken, Yahuza fried items, juice, fresh milk, and five wraps of shawarma. Harira entered with a greeting and was allowed in. She dropped the food she had cooked (express) and said,

“And he also bought ready-made food.”

“It’s okay. I’ll warm it and eat tomorrow.”

Hafsat handed her one bag. Harira thanked her and left, saying,

“May God wake us in peace. Take your medicine after eating.”

"Insha Allah," Hafsat replied and shut the door.

She sat in the middle of her room, ate the chicken to satisfaction, took her medication, and performed voluntary night prayers. Then she changed into soft sleepwear, made dua, turned off the main light, left the dim light on, and lay down.

“Good morning, Hafsat-Suhaana.”

---

The next morning after the dawn prayer and her bath, she dressed in a soft, crisp Holland wax fabric, her headwrap perfectly styled. Mammah insisted she dress like this now instead of her usual long gowns. She sprayed herself with sweet-smelling perfumes that Mammah had filled her dresser with. She wore light green flat shoes (Polota design) and stepped into the living room.

She heard Harira in the kitchen and walked there. Standing at the doorway, she smiled.

“Aunty Harira, good morning. Did we wake up well?”

Harira laughed at being called "Aunty" and turned around.

“We’re fine, Hansatu. How are you feeling?”

“I’m much better, no pain anywhere.”

“Good. I’ve finished breakfast and was about to bring it.”

“Why didn’t you wait for me so we could cook together? Even yesterday you cooked alone.”

Harira smiled to herself, thinking, “What’s my worth?”

Out loud she said,

“You were ill, Hansatu, I couldn't let you work.”

“But I’m healed. From now on, we’ll do things together—sweeping, dishes, and all chores. Leave the cooking to me.”

“Alright then. You know what? The house is stocked with food. The fridge is full of meat, fish, and even a whole bucket of blended spices!”

Hafsat followed her into the kitchen and silently blessed Mammah in her heart. She took a tray of fried yam, plantains, and a mix of cow innards and set them on the beautiful dining table in the corner of the living room. Then she arranged tea, cups, and everything for breakfast.

She was about to turn on the TV when he came out—holding his black lawyer’s gown and wig, tying his necktie. The room filled with the masculine scent of Creed Aventus. His Italian leather shoes tapped firmly across the floor. When their eyes met, they both looked away quickly. She remembered a childhood lesson from Mammah: “Always greet your elders, even if they’re just a year older.” She stood up and quietly said,

“Sabahul khair.”

"Lafiya lau," he replied shortly and continued walking out.

Then she found herself saying,

"Breakfast is ready," in her soft Brussels accent.

To her surprise, he replied in English. He wasn’t fluent in the language, but he understood it.

“I’m late. Just pack it in a basket and put it in the car.”

She went to the kitchen, packed the food in new flasks and a food basket. When she brought hot water to add, he said,

“Leave that. I have a kettle. I drink coffee at the office.”

She quietly said,

“Okay.”

He entered the car and opened the back seat for her to place the basket.

"Thank you," he said.

Then he drove off.

---

Two weeks into the marriage, that’s how Hafsat-Suhaana’s life with Abdulazeez looked. She cooked three times daily. Breakfast he’d take along, lunch he’d either eat if he returned or send his office driver to pick up, and dinner he’d eat after Ishaa prayers. His weakness was food. Had Hafsat been smart, she’d have realized that early.

He didn’t like restaurant food; she had to cook. While schooling, he used to cook for himself. During law school, he ate food sent from Muazatu’s home. After graduation, his mother’s cooking spoiled him. And now, Hafsat’s food matched what he was used to—probably because she learned from his mother or they cooked together.

Still, Hafsat felt like a prisoner. She missed her family—no calls, no visits. Abdulazeez didn’t speak to her unless necessary. She cried quietly while eating one day, remembering how he wouldn’t even look at her. When Harira came and asked her to deliver food to him, she reluctantly did. He was already in the car, waiting.

She placed the food and left without a word.

---