The Colors Of Love - Episode 8

 

Love... And Its Colors 

Read at your own risk. Most Unedited Chapter in this book.

This chapter us dedicated to all the Wattpad Banters girls. I cherish your craziness.
*****
I'm Royally Screwed.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Huffing, panting, pacing and clawing out my hair, screaming into the empty room. These are the things I want to do right now_but for reasons unknown even to me,  I can't.  I'm surprisingly calm . I'm curled on my bed, my knees hugged to my chest. I'm rocking back and forth staring at my phone as if waiting for something. I'm sure I have blank eyes,  because that's how I feel_blank and empty. 

Maybe I should call Dr Abdulrahim back.  
But then what would I say, that wouldn't make sound like a desperate cheapo? Maybe I should just wait for Ilhaam and Aliyah come back. I will do as they suggest. 

As if reading my thoughts,  my phone rings. I quickly sit properly to pick up but the name I see makes me freeze. 

Uncle Imraan.

I scramble to pick up. 

His booming voice echoes in my eardrums. "Assalaamu alaykum warahmatullah, Aarfa"

His voice always sounds as if he's scolding or angry with me. 

"Aarfa, you need to come

All episodes of this story can be found here >> https://www.ebonystory.com/story/the-colors-of-love

. Hamma Hakeem has been trying to call out for you. You need to come over today if possible. The driver is on his way to pick you up. Pack for five days, so that you'll return to school on Saturday, is that okay? "

He hangs up without hearing my answer. I'm sure he didn't even notice I didn't answer his salaam. I want to ask him if Daddy is better. How did he know he was calling out for me, what happened? Was Daddy alright? Was he hiding something from me? The questions many, but I knew I couldn't call him back. 

Uncle Imraan is one of the most reserved and introverted people I know. He's my father's only sibling and has been our life support ever since Maama left in 2004. He's the only relative of  Daddy's that treats me nice. The only one I know, to be honest. The others don't care about me and my father, and I just don't care. 

Yap. The conversation we just had is proof of how he treats me. Like a boss would treat his favorite PA. Don't get me wrong. He never scolds me or maltreats me or even glare at me. It's just as if he can't bring himself to be any nicer than he already is. But then, come to think of it, the only time I remember seeing him smile was when he got married, that was eight years ago I think. He calls me every Friday to check on me.  I have his words crammed. There's not even a remix,  it's the same time, same words every week.  For the past three years.

'Assalaamu alaykum my daughter. How are you? How are your studies? I hope you're doing well?  Your father is well and sends his love. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask,  okay? Take care of yourself.'

There are different variations of the name though, some days, he calls me Aarfa,  sometimes my niece,  sometimes my dear, but the message content is always constant. He also sends me money every two weeks. Normally, students get very happy receiving credit alerts, but not me. I'd trade every hundred thousand I receive in two weeks and even more,  to have my father call my name, or smile at me. 

When I'm on holiday,  I get to choose a place I've never been to, it doesn't matter if it's within the country or outside,  he will sponsor my trip. I used to want to travel around the world but now,  it no longer gives me joy. I even have my world book as I call it, filled with pictures of the places I've visited. And my camera, a sleek Nikon D3400 that I got on my sixteenth birthday from Uncle Imraan, is just so perfect. I have been to eleven cities in different parts of the world. Cape town, Albuquerque, Chicago,  Oregon Coast, New York City, Sri Lanka,  Chennai, St. Louis, London, Mauritius, and Paris_Did you ever know French people are black? Just like me. I feel betrayed, I always thought black Americans were the only black people in the world apart from we Africans. And that should be because they moved and became citizens.

I sluggishly stand up to pack, and I finish in ten minutes.  I only pack inner wears and hijabs. My wardrobe is filled with enough jeans and sneakers that'll last me at least a year, but you probably won't notice because I have the about thirty jeans that look the same. That's how my shoes also are.  If you don't notice closely, you'd think I'm wearing the same clothes for a week. But I don't care. 

Have I mentioned I live in Zaria? My home is in Zaria. Probably. The driver arrives Kano in no time and he calls. Aliyah and Ilhaam are still no where to be found. I try calling them but their phones aren't available. It's been almost four hours and it was starting to get dark.  Almost 6 pm.  I look around the hostel and ask a few people but no one has seen them.  

I hop to the car as I hate being kept waiting, and I just made Malam Isah wait. He has been our driver since I was six. We exchange pleasantries and I ask about his family. He's a middle aged skinny man with thinning grey hair, with a smile always pasted on his slightly wrinkled face. 

I politely ask. "Malam Isah, have you see Daddy recently?  Is he better? 

"Wallahi small Madam,  I have no idea. He has been secluded for the past two weeks and nobody is allowed to enter except for Small Oga. I've been asking about his health but all he says is Alhamdulillah,  that Oga is better. Even today,  he just called me and asked to me hurry and drive to Kano to pick you.  He sounded disturbed, gaskiya (really). 

I've told Malam Isah to stop referring to me as Small madam times without number to no avail.  Uncle Imraan is the small Oga and Daddy Oga.  The man had a quirky sense of humor that made me laugh but today,  his news only made me worried. 

What was Uncle Imraan hiding from me? My dad had been secluded for two weeks and he didn't tell me. Was Daddy fine? What if his health was deteriorating? What if he was dying? Or worse already dead?  

Hasbunallahu wa niimal wakeel.  Ya Rabbi.  Please no.

Malam Isah seemed to have noticed my almost distraught state through the mirror. "Don't worry small Madam, Insha Allah he'll  be fine. Just pray for him. We are always praying for him.

I folded my hands in prayer and cried silently to the Almighty. Please let Daddy be alright. Ya Ilahi. What would I do with my life if Daddy die now? I don't want to dwell on that thought. Please Dear God.  Please let him be better. 

I was still deep in thought when I heard Malam Isah telling me we have arrived. I check my watch and the time reads 7:15. I look up and notice we are already in ABUTH. The hospital is impeccably clean as always, the grass mown to perfection,  the street clean as if nobody walked or drove on it. 

Malam Isah gets down to open my door but I beat him to it. I hate being treated like a superior. He's as old as Daddy if not older. I give him a small smile as he frowns and looks around_probably for Uncle Imraan. He would scold him if he saw me opening my door but that was the least of my worries right now. 

"Malam Isah, you can leave. I will spend the night here. My regards to Maman Anisa and the kids." I say, dismissing him. 

"Are you sure Madam?  Let me confirm from Oga first". He questions in an unsure tone.

I hurry, taking the steps three at a time. Thank God for trousers and sneakers. Imagine if I was wearing a fitted gown and heels. I chuckle, seeing the horrified expressions of people I pass by, the nurses laugh and point at me. In a weak attempt to cheer myself, I wave at anyone I lock eyes with. I slow my stride when I reach the hallway leading  to the room and came to a halt when I reached the door to his room.

Room 101.

This has been Daddy's home for the past fourteen years. 

I take deep breaths and pray he was well again before I raise my hand to knock. The door open just in time for me to knock on Uncle Imraan's face. 

Way to go Aarfa. 

I look at him with a horrified expression and stutter my apologies. 

"Subhanallah, I didn't notice the door being opened. I'm so sorry uncle Imraan.  Kayi haquri  Dan Allah (Please pardon me).

He smiles and I gape. Uncle Imraan never smiles. I am so confused.

"It's okay Aarfa. Come on in. I have something to show you" he says with a mischievous glint in his eyes. I eye him suspiciously and tag behind him. 

So help me God. I hope he didn't get me married to someone. I hope I won't enter and he'll be like 'Tadaa, this is your husband Aarfa.' Trust me Uncle Imraan can do worse. Out of love of course. 

"Sorry,  you said something?" he enquires

Did I mumble that out loud. Ya Rabbi. 

"No, I didn't. I was just wondering why you're in an unusually good mood. Where's  Daddy by the way? Is he fine? "

At the mention of Daddy's name he kept a straight face and said "I'm sorry if what you'll see will shock you but.... " he trailed off. 

Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun. I knew it. So Daddy was gone. 

I turn to him with glossy eyes full of hurt.  Why would he be happy about something like this? He looks filled to the brim with joy. But why? 

'Well,  he's going to be a millionaire dumbo. Obvio. ' My brain chipped in. 

But really? I thought Uncle Imraan genuinely cares about Daddy. I thought he was a good man.

I am snapped out of my thoughts when I hear a very familiar voice call out my name. I jerk back to reality and look ahead. It is Daddy. He is sitting up on his bed with his arms wide open. 

I turn to Uncle Imraan, confusion etched on my face, waiting for him to say something but he just gestures towards Daddy. It seems I am glued to the spot. I'm laughing, tears racing down my cheeks. And then suddenly I run,  I could feel the fan blow on my face.

I know. It sounds like a movie.  But trust me I could feel it .

I fall into his arm with a force that knocked both of us to the bed.

"Daddy,  you're alive. You're fine and okay". 

I draw back and look at him again. A wide smile curves the lines of his face. He's also crying. I hug him again, so tightly I'm sure he probably can't breathe properly. 

"Ya Rabbi. Alhamdulillah. I've never been this happy. Daddy, please pinch me so I know its not a dream." I say giggling. 

I can't explain the joy I'm feeling. Words are not enough to express the gratitude I feel.

"Look at you all grown up and pretty, my dearest Aarfa. I've missed you so much habibty. I've missed so much of your life."

I smile and snuggle deeper into his chest. I look up to Uncle Imraan who's reclining on a chair and I suddenly feel guilty. I misjudged him,  Thank heavens I did not say it out loud. Imagine how embarrassing that would have been. 

Thank you brain for not making me say it loud. 

"How did this happen? When did this miracle happen?" I ask in wonder. Daddy's recovery is nothing short of a miracle, its like magic.

"Ooh it really is a miracle. And the work of a Godsend_ this amazing physiotherapist. Dr Abdul." Uncle Imraan says gesturing to the tall shadow standing at the end of the room.

"Masha Allah. May Allah bless you abundantly Doctor. I don't know how to express my gratitude wallah. I promised to fast for a week when daddy recovers. What can I do for you to show my gratitude?" I question sweetly.

I'm so excited I could marry him if that's what he wants. Don't mind me, I'm just kidding. He'll probably wave it off and be modest. Doctors fake modesty a lot. But then I'm indebted to this particular doctor, so I better be nice.

He chuckles as he comes into view.

"Well, if you really want to show your gratitude, you could just marry me". He says.

I look up to confirm that he just has a sense of humor and is cracking jokes but the eyes mine bore into are not joking. Of course he isn't. 

"Dr Abdulrahim? " I stutter.

He gives me a lopsided grin." Yes, Aarfa. Its me" 

You know when the elders always say 'Be careful what you wish for_it might just come true'?

Well I wasn't careful.

So yap. Now I'm really royally screwed.

Hey people... 
Okay I can see some of you about to throw daggers at me for updating late. Writer's block sucks I tell you. 

And I promise to update ASAP Insha Allah. 
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Adíos,  Gracìas. 

Zeenah