"Ooo...!" Jamal shouted,
stretching the word as he jumped out of the stagnant puddle his sandal had just disappeared into.
"What?!" the driver barked from inside the bus. "What's happening?"
Jamal looked down at his trouser, then at his sandal, then back at the driver.
"Didn't you watch before parking? How do you suggest I get home now? You will have to refund part of my money to purchase a new sandal." He raised a brow.
The driver leaned forward, glanced through the window, and only smiled.
A broad, unapologetic smile.
He took in the flooded roadside and the lack of any proper parking space. Waterlogged potholes dotted the road like traps waiting for the careless.
"There wasn't anywhere else to park,"
he said with a helpless smile, engaged the gear and drove off.
Jamal's mouth remained half open as he watched the vehicle disappear into the damp evening road.
"Subhanallah."
He looked at his mud-splashed trouser. Then at the retreating bus. Then back at his trouser again.
The bus was gone. The mud remained.
He shook his head. "Well, alhamdulillahi." The words escaped his lips naturally.
After nineteen hours on the road, a muddy sandal was hardly worth complaining about.
He dropped his travel bag beside him and brought out a half-filled plastic bottle. Using the little water he could spare, he rinsed the mud from his sandal and splashed the remaining dirt from the lower part of his trousers.
The journey had been exhausting.
Nineteen hours on the road.
Passengers changing. Conductors shouting.
Engines overheating. Roadblocks. Bad roads. And now this.
He stretched his aching shoulders and rolled his neck slowly. "O, I wish I had a car." He laughed softly.
"Or better still, if my bike could travel nineteen hours without complaining."
Then he tapped his forehead. "Jamallll, did the long journey drive you crazy?"
After stretching, he finally lifted his gaze toward the town he had absconded from nine years ago.
Nur Afiya.
Nine years it has been. Nine whole years since he disappeared like a pin that fell into the ocean.
For a moment he simply stood there staring.
The evening sky hung low above the town. The rain clouds too were slowly dispersing.
The familiar roundabout still stood where it always had, but much around it had changed. It looked both familiar and foreign.
Then his eyes moved slowly across the landscape.
A newly constructed civil service estate now stood where empty land used to stretch endlessly.
His eyes drifted first toward the Civil Service Quarters before moving toward the remaining flooded stretch.
Several modern shops lined few portions of the main road.
A hospital also stood at the entrance.
He blinked.
A hospital?
There had been no hospital here before. Only an old rusted signboard that spent more time lying on the ground after storms than standing upright.
Now a massive inscription on the wall greeted visitors entering the town.
"THIS IS AFIYA; THE LAND OF LIGHT AND HONEY." It reads.
He stared at it.
Then looked down at the floodwater surrounding most parts of the road.
"The land of light and honey indeed."
His gaze wandered again before breaking into a frown. "But when did Nur Afiya start getting affected by flood?" he wondered aloud.
The Nur Afiya he knew had feared drought. Too much sunshine.
Cracked earth.
Women complaining that their vegetables dried before reaching harvest.
Children chasing dust through narrow paths beneath a merciless sky.
And now flood?
He looked around again but only found himself smiling.
"Is this also a miracle of Allah?" he muttered thoughtfully. "Or what exactly should we call this now?"
"What exactly has happened while I was away?"
Despite all the noticeable developments, the area remained strangely deserted.
Jamal's eyes searched deeper into the town.
Only then did he spot movement.
"Phew..."
He released the breath he had unconsciously held and pressed a hand briefly against his chest.
Then, adjusting the strap of his bag, he stepped forward into Nur Afiya once again.
A town he had spent eighteen years calling home.
A town he had spent the last nine years trying very hard not to remember.
The town looked richer. Yet somehow more wounded.
Modern. Yet tired.
Developed. Yet struggling.
The roads told stories the new buildings could not hide, as potholes has made it look like the map of one hidden civilization.
A cool breeze brush across Jamal's face, he wiped his face with his palm then let out a deep breathe.
At twenty-seven, he no longer resembled the frightened teenager who had vanished from Nur Afiya nine years ago.
He remained dark-skinned.
Still unusually short at barely four feet four inches. Still lean.
But time had hardened certain features.
A trimmed beard framed his face.
His shoulders carried a quiet firmness.
And his eyes... His eyes carried the weight of roads.
Years.
Silence. Searching.
Learning. Losing. Returning.
People often underestimated him when they first met him due to his nonchalant nature.
Until they looked into his eyes. Then they realized life had already argued with him many times.
As Jamal walked deeper into 'Main Afiya', memories followed.
His mother.
Allah have mercy on her soul.
She had died when he was fourteen. Just when a boy needed guidance. Just when he needed someone to answer the questions forming inside him.
His father had disappeared long before then. The man had abandoned the family while Jamal was still a toddler.
No explanation. No goodbye.
Nothing.
One day he was there. The next day he was gone. And he never returned.
After his mother's death, life had become a collection of surviving one day at a time.
Then there was his uncle.
The Alfa.
The man people visited for wealth concoctions.
Destiny mixtures.
Protection talismans.
The man who use the verses of Allah for inscription to process protection talismans.
The man Jamal respected as family but could never understand.
Then there had been his Shaykh; his mentor.
But during the period Jamal disappeared, the Shaykh had been away on pilgrimage.
And his elder sister?
Married far in the north.
The very person he had initially gone searching for after leaving Nur Afiya but he never found her.
That was how one month became three.
Three became a year.
One year became nine.
And now here he was.
Back again.
His original plans had already been laid out before he arrived here and it remained simple.
Stay with Fawas for tonight.
Rest.
Recover from the long journey.
Meet the Shaykh tomorrow.
Or perhaps the day after.
The meeting with the Shaykh for explanations and guidance is his main mission here but there was no need to rush.
He still has a lot to ask Fawas about this current situation of Nur Afiya.
He only needed one thing; which is as important as travelling with a cloth on.
Avoid Almeida and her sisters.
Simple.
They were part of the past.
Finished. Gone. A chapter already closed.
He smiled to himself.
"At least that's the plan."
The thought brought another problem to mind.
Chief Bala.
Fawas' father.
Even after nine years, the man's name still carried a certain weight inside him.
How could a person possess so much wealth and yet instill so much fear in people?
"Perhaps he has changed." He whispered reassuringly.
"Nine years was a long time. People change. Life change people. Right? Maybe age might have softened him. Maybe. Insha Allah."
The thoughts stormed his head as his heart raced uncontrollably for the unknown situation he might meet at Fawas' house. Yet he has nowhere else to reside till this mission is over. The shaykh's house sits at the outskirt of Nur Afiya else he would've arrived there directly. Still he needed to rest. And it's not like he is expecting the Shaykh to have died before his arrival.
He adjusted his bag and turned toward Ethiope junction.
The flooded roads gradually narrowed as he moved toward the inner streets.
Shop owners sat beneath bulbs and lanterns.
Children hurried home.
Old men gathered near mosques discussing matters only old men seemed capable of discussing endlessly.
The town felt alive.
Yet unfamiliar.
Then it happened.
He reached the junction and his steps slowed suddenly.
He had taken this route deliberately because it is the shorter path that cut through the heart of the neighborhood. It would save him at least forty minutes of walking to Fawas' house through the main road, and after nineteen hours on the road, his legs were screaming for rest. The longer route would have been safer without passing through Almeida's street, but this safety came at the cost of time and extra energy. And time, he reasoned, was not on his side to go get a good rest after a long journey.
Still, he had known the risk.
He had known this path passed by Almeida's house.
He had kept it persistent in his head that he might see someone familiar.
He had convinced himself it would be fine.
But unknown to him, Allah had other plans.
At first it was the strange shop he saw.
A chemist shop.
He frowned because that shop had never been there before.
Although the land belonged to the chairman of the local government as per government share; who happened to be Almeida's father.
Then the woman that sat beneath the white bulb outside caught his attention which made his heartbeat slowed.
He looked carefully.
"No."
"Surely not."
Although the years had aged her face, but he knew her instantly.
It was Almeida's mother.
The recognition hit him like a stone. She had been like a mother figure to him since his mother passed away.
Then his eyes dropped to the tasbih that is sliding slowly across her fingers.
The beads looked familiar.
Very familiar. Too familiar.
He narrowed his eyes.
The white bulb illuminated them clearly.
"No..." he whispered.
"Is that the same one?"
His fingers unconsciously moved toward his neck.
A neck that had not carried that tasbih for nine years.
"Or is it just a look alike?"
His eyes remained fixed.
"But how come she now has a shop here?"
Then the shop curtain shifted and someone stepped out.
Jamal's entire body stiffened on seeing the clear picture of the person.
"What?!" The word escaped him as his eyes widened.
"No..." He shook his head.
"What?!" He whispered again, uncontrollably.
It was Jamila.
Older now. More mature.
Changed by time.
Yet unmistakably Jamila.
Unlike Almeida and Maryam, she had never been the hijabi type. And somehow that made the recognition even more immediate.
Jamal's heart began pounding against his ribs.
Although he would've loved to go ahead and say hello to Almeida's mom; because it's been ages, but he had vowed to avoid whatever would link him with Almeida and her sisters. The sight of Jamila now only made it worse.
He stood rooted at the position, gaze fixed now at the changed Jamila as she walked in and out of the chemist shop with buckets to collect rain water.
He stood there staring. Unable to move.
Unable to think.
The years disappeared. The distance disappeared. The roads disappeared.
Everything collapsed into one shocking moment.
Here he was, trying to run from a chapter he had closed, and yet his very journey had brought him right back to the center of it. How could his path be so entangled? It was as if the threads of his life had woven themselves into a complex trap that only tightened with each step he took.
The spider's web of his past had caught him again; tangled, sticky.
A manly voice pulled him back to reality.
"Young man. Young man,"
Jamal blinked but said nothing.
The voice came again.
"Young man, is everything alright?"
He turned abruptly.
An elderly man in a soldier khaki was standing beside him. Watching him carefully.
Apparently he had been standing there for quite some time.
Jamal stared blankly.
Still half trapped inside the memory.
"What..." The word escaped before he realized he had spoken.
Then reality slowly returned.
"O." He blinked.
Then forced a smile. "Sorry."
"It's nothing."
The man nodded slowly and returned to his position.
Jamal remained still for another moment.
Then he adjusted his bag.
Turned around. And headed back toward the main road.
The shortcut was dead. Absolutely dead.
He had originally planned to sprint past Almeida's house like lightning and continue toward GRA Phase Two.
Quick.
Simple.
Fifteen minutes at most.
But this?
This was different.
Her mother now had a shop directly on the route.
And Jamila was there.
No. Not today.
Not after nineteen hours on the road. The worse part is the mother does not even know what transpired between them. He Imagined all the questions she has to ask. All the reasons he has to give. Where has he been for the past years which he has to explain even if it is a bit of it. And he wasn't ready to open old wounds. The unending stories of explanations.
"No, Jamal. I'm not ready for those. Probably not today. Not after such a long terrific journey."
With that he turned back toward the roundabout.
The shorter route would have been easier.
But peace was worth more than convenience.
Then another thought settled quietly inside his chest. "But what profit is temporary comfort if it purchases eternal regret?"
"Who knows where I would've been if I hadn't left then?"
Then he looked around.
At the developing Nur Afiya. At the partly damaged roads. Then laughed softly.
"Yet look where we are now, Jamal."
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Nine years.
And Allah had brought him right back to Nur Afiya. Or was it Allah? Or was it his own desire? Or was it destiny? Or is it just him seeking adventure? Or is he seeking truth? Or is it just him seeking what never lost?
He had hoped to find answers with his Shaykh. Possibly a clear explanation of that strange dream, and probably guardian on the next step.
When he got back to the main road, there was no means of conveyance.
No bike. No bus. No tricycle.
Nothing.
Just passersby struggling home after a long day of rain. Some clothes dark with moisture. Some faces pinched with fatigue.
Their feet splashing through the same brown water that seemed to have swallowed the town's spirit.
"Seems like this rain has really spoilt a lot for these people," Jamal thought to himself.
He had never witnessed such disaster in all his years in Nur Afiya. Drought was the town's curse, not flood. But here it was; water everywhere, creeping into places it had no business being.
He stalled a little, hoping for at least a bike.
Then he turned Westward, toward GRA Phase Four.
Suddenly the drizzle returned.
Soft. Cold. Persistent.
And with that the call for Maghrib rose from the minaret at the northern angle; slow, melodic, pulling the day to a close.
"Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar." The sound rolled across the evening air.
Jamal smiled as the familiar words settled something inside him.
He wasn't the only traveller caught in the aftermath of the earlier rain. Others also hurried along the narrow road to get home early before the drizzle gets worse. The entire movement seemed to rhyme with the rise of the Adhan.
He had walked for about twenty minutes when he heard footsteps approaching from behind.
"As-salamu alaykum."
The voice was old, cracked at the edges, but warm.
Jamal turned and saw an elderly man approaching, his kaftan wet at the hem. His face was weathered; deep lines around the eyes, a grey beard that had once been black. He was studying Jamal with a mixture of curiosity and recognition.
"Wa alaykum as-salam," Jamal replied, slowing his pace.
The man fell in step beside him. "You look familiar. Are you not the son of Khadija? The sister of Alfa Yakubu that lives in Eastern-shore?"
Jamal's chest tightened then he scratched his head. "I... yes. That's me."
He examined the man for a moment, "But I don't recognize you."
"Right!" the old man nodded affirmatively, his staff tapping against the wet ground. "I knew your uncle, Alfa Yakubu. We were neighbours. Before he... well, before he moved to the other side of town. Back when you were still very little your mother usually visit your uncle. You and I used to play a lot."
"Alfa Yakubu," Jamal repeated. The name felt strange on his tongue; heavy with absence. "I... I haven't seen him in nine years. We lost contact when I left Nur Afiya."
The old man clicked his tongue. "A pity. I thought you were like a son to him."
Jamal looked down at his feet. The drizzle had soaked through his shirt, cold against his skin. "I should have stayed in touch. Life just... happened."
"Life always happens," the old man said quietly. "But it is not too late to visit; if at all. He is still alive, as far as I know. Lives on the outskirts now. Near the old well."
Jamal's heart stirred. "Thank you. I will try to find him."
They walked in silence for a few more paces. This time the drizzle became harder, tapping on their shoulders like impatient fingers.
"Well," the old man said, stopping. "I must turn here. My house is just down that path. May Allah make your journey easy."
"Ameen. And may Allah bless you for the information. Kindly extend my warm regards to your family."
The old man smiled; a tired, knowing smile; and shuffled away into the gathering darkness. Jamal watched him for a moment, then turned and continued walking. The drizzle became rain. The rain became a downpour.
By the time he reached the junction that leads to GRA Phase 2, he was already soaked through. His clothes clung to his body like a second skin. His sandals squelched with every step. The weight of the past nine years seemed to press down on his shoulders; heavier than the bag, heavier than the rain.
A journey that would have taken just few minutes; had he taken the shorter route; had now taken him nearly an hour.
5 meters before him lay the huge gate into Chief Bala's crescent.
He stopped to catch his breath from the long walk. But even from here, he could see that things had changed.
His clothes were damp.
His shoulders ached.
His legs complained.
But his eyes remained fixed ahead.
Something happened here, Jamal thought.
Nine years ago, this crescent was the pride of Nur Afiya; clean, guarded, untouchable. Now? The gate was dented, hanging slightly off its hinges. The walls were stained with dark patches of mould. One of the streetlights was shattered, its bulb hanging like a dead eye, swinging faintly in the wind.
The crescent stood where he remembered.
Yet even from a distance something felt different.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
And for the first time since arriving in Nur Afiya, a quiet unease settled inside his chest.
He hoped Fawas was alright. He hoped Chief Bala was still alive.
He hoped nothing terrible had happened during those nine years away.
But the closer he drew to the estate, the less certain he became.
He noticed a small detail; almost hidden, almost insignificant. Near the gate, carved into the concrete pillar, was a date. Scribbled deep, as if by someone in a hurry.
15th jx//u#/.
Jamal frowned.
He stared at the numbers for a long moment, rain running down his face, and felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
What happened to Chief Bala?
What happened to Fawas?
And why does this town feel like it's been mourning for years?
He had travelled this long road to reside with Fawas before meeting his shaykh. He had hoped all was well.
But the sight of the estate told a different story.
He strode slowly into the estate, already drenched, his heart a stone in his chest.