Aisha had prayed endlessly for this moment. She had wished for it with even more ardour. Yet faced with the reality of her prayer heeded, she stumbled with feelings she wasn't yet certain how to master.

Her father is dead.

When? How? Why? Innaa lillaahi wa 'innaa 'ilayhi raaji'oon, Allaahumma'-jurni fee museebatee wa 'akhliflee khayran minhaa. We are from Allah and unto Him we return. O Allah take me out of my plight and bring to me after it something better. She struggles to understand despite the supplication which wouldn't leave her lips in such a dangerous time.

It was true she'd thought of it, and even truer that she'd imagined it countlessly, however nothing was happening the way it was supposed to, and even in that stupendously crazy moment, the knowledge slaps her. She wasn't supposed to loose her footing and have strangers support her. She wasn't supposed to be dazed into an auditory illusion either or her eyes forced into a makeshift stream. But her father is dead and these things were happening.

What was happening to her? She was unsure yet it would seem her brain hadn't quite catch up to her haywire feelings. It seems stuck with the startling image of the man she'd had a rather complicated relationship with all her life in the mortuary. She couldn't believe she had escaped unscathed from one nightmare only to find herself knee deep in another.

Nonetheless, it was true. The nurse that had attended to her father since he was admitted had confirmed when she'd asked about him when she'd find her way to the hospital and found an empty bed after her ordeal with the police. She'd been kind enough even to console her.

"I am truly sorry for your loss, Aisha. Good thing he didn't suffer. He had died in his sleep."

Loss? Good thing? Sleep? She hadn't been able to comprehend those words for moments undefined as her senses had dulled into an eerie nothingness. What did she mean by loss? How was loss a good thing? Does it mean her dad had. . .

. . .Died? In a terrible bout of a fear, she had found herself staring into startlingly kind raven eyes full of pity it stained her. She'd been forced to look away at the onset of emotions unimaginably clear despite raw & uncertain.

It's been a haze ever since. She remember answering questions; Is she going to take his body home? No. Was there someone they can call? No. Would she be able to make preparation for the funeral? No. She remember telling them there was no one. Just her. Her mother died a year ago. He was her only living relative.

Helping hands to bury the dead are never far. Aisha was quick to realise when in what would seem like the longest hour of her life, her father had been washed and dressed according to the Islamic funeral rites, and she'd been asked if she wanted to see him for the last time before the funeral prayer and he was taken to his final resting home.

She'd nodded in affirmation even if she was unsure what it was she wanted to say. It seems like years ago even if it was just yesterday when she'd mocked him for clinging to life despite living in such squalid conditions and staring at his face suspiciously radiant despite lifeless, she wondered where was the relief she was sure she would feel. It didn't come but neither was her hatred. Instead, her lips moved in what she would later understand to be her most desperate prayer;

Allaahum-maghfir lahu warhamhu, wa 'aafihi, wa'fu 'anhu, wa 'akrim nuzulahu, wa wassi' mudkhalahu, waghsilhu bilmaa'i waththalji walbaradi, wa naqqihi minal-khataayaa kamaa naqqaytath-thawbal-'abyadha minad-danasi, wa 'abdilhu daaran khayran min daarihi, wa 'ahlan khayran min 'ahlihi, wa zawjan khayran min zawjihi, wa 'adkhilhul-jannata, wa. 'a'ithhu min 'athaabil-qabri wa 'athaabin-naar. O Allah, forgive him and have mercy on him and give him strength and pardon him. Be generous to him and cause his entrance to be wide and wash him with water and snow and hail. Cleanse him of his transgressions as white cloth is cleansed of stains. Give him an abode better than his home, and a family better than his family and a wife better than his wife. Take him into Paradise and protect him from the punishment of the grave (and from the punishment of Hell-fire).

Hatred in the face of death seemed futile, Aisha wept. He was a monster in life. She hated him in life. He deserved the eternal burning flames of hell. Yet in the wake of his death, there had been regrets. There were a lot of things she felt she could've done differently. There were a lot of things she could have said and had said to her. And now nothing. Just an empty hole which would forever remain.

Janaza, funeral prayer, was conducted and her father was laid to rest. It was surprising, her father who had no one whilst living, was escorted to his grave to what would seem like a horde. This generosity he'd been blessed with humbled her. When faced with his death, she had feared for a moment that he would be alone in death as he was in life and for some unknown reason, it saddened her. She could never wish him such an accursed fate despite her hatred especially now that he is dead. And in the end, there was nothing but the realization that, for the very first time, she was truly and utterly alone.

After the funeral, his personal effects were given to her. His clothes, a gold studded watch he had stubbornly held onto despite their dire circumstance and a lalita, a waist bag. Curious about the black fanny pack; it was her first time of seeing such a bag, she'd opened it to reveal its contents.

Eighteen letters to the same address though stamped RETURN TO SENDER in red, a letter with no address and a picture of her parents and a man whose resemblance to her was uncanny. She had stared at the pictures for the longest time. It was strange. She had lived with her father for twenty years but the only time she'd seen him laugh was in this photograph. Even her mother looks different in this photograph. Lighter. Calmer. Happier. She doesn't look at the other man for long. Not now. She couldn't look at him without a biting guilt for the father she'd just buried less than an hour ago.

So it was on the evening of the last day of September of the year 2015. What a year! 2015. Later, the FIFA scandal, Iran nuclear deal, the Syrian migrant crisis, Greece debt crisis and the reestablishment of the Cuba and America ties would top the major events in that year. No mention would be made of her despair, or of her loss. But she would know. She lived it. 2015 was the loneliest year of her life.

. . .I never hated you, Jiddah. I know I said all those mean things and did all those mean things but it was never because of anything you did or didn't do. The hate I felt was for myself. For hurting you. For hurting Ansar. For everything. You might not believe me, but there was no day that passed that I didn't regret what I did to him. . .to you. . .to us.

What would have happened if we met under different circumstances? Would you have chosen me? I did see you first. Or would he still be your choice? What would have happened if I hadn't let my jealousy cloud my judgement? I was selfish. I know. But I couldn't lose you too, especially not to him. He has everything I ever wanted and with such ease that makes my hopeless feelings feel petty and I couldn't understand why I should always lose to him. I simply couldn't lose you. Not you! Yet I had you for more than eighteen years but there was never a day in those helplessly long and cold years that I didn't feel like a third wheel. I would stare at you and feel invincible, Jiddah. I would stare at you and see him. Only him!

You said you forgive me for hurting you. You said you never truly hated me. You said you loved me. I believed you, Jiddah, I really did. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for the scorn I showed your daughter. She was yours and she was his and I loved you both, but I couldn't stop my ire. It was petty, I know. But she was a reminder, Jiddah. This absurdly beautiful girl with the features of the people I had ever loved yet hurt terribly. I couldn't love her without hating myself. I tried. I really tried.

I am truly sorry for hurting you and it was never my intention to hurt you. I love you more than you'll ever know.

And just like that, a new chapter had begun. Was she ready? She was twenty, an orphan, with no home, no money. It would look as if she was right where she was two days ago but not quite. Two days ago, she had someone she hated and blamed for her shitty life. Two days ago, she had hope in a 'friend'. Two days ago, she didn't know what the interior of a police station looks like. Two days ago, she wasn't an orphan.

Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed, and squatting besides the gates of the Mando public health centre with her head between her knees with what would seem her father's last will and testaments and crying her eyes out, what next was the furthest from her mind despite it being the most important question of her life.