As Imran stepped into the closet, his phone buzzed in his hand. He answered the call, pulling out an outfit with his free hand.

"Assalamu Alaikum," he said smoothly into the phone, his voice calm but curious.

"Wa Alaikumus Salam. How far, man? I missed your call," Ibrahim responded, his tone light and easy.

Imran wasted no time. "Where is Khalifa? Did you take him somewhere?"

Ibrahim chuckled on the other end. "His mother's in the country, so he's with her. You haven't spoken to him?"

Imran laughed, shaking his head. "No wonder. He's abandoned me. But it's good; I hope he's having fun."

"His younger siblings are here too, so every day I'm trying to escape hours of video calls with tiny kids screaming into the phone," Ibrahim said with mock exasperation.

Imran laughed as he slipped out of his jallabiya, tossing it aside. "I'll call him today. Anyway, are you around later?"

"Nah, I'm heading out to train some new soldiers on my team," Ibrahim replied.

"What kind of training?" Imran asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Shooting. It's been a while since we went to the hills Zakazo?" Ibrahim suggested.

"Perfect. I'll meet you there," Imran agreed, ending the call as a plan formed in his mind.

Once dressed in his pants and a long-sleeve sports shirt, Imran selected a sleek black hat that matched his outfit. He moved toward the corner of the closet, where a brown leather bag lay tucked away. As he unzipped it, the soft creak of the leather broke the silence. His eyes immediately locked onto the gleaming metal of his favorite gun, nestled securely within. It wasn't just any weapon—it was a customized piece, polished to perfection, its grip molded to fit his hand like a second skin.

The gun carried a weight not just in metal but in memory. Every scratch and mark on its surface had a story. He ran his fingers over the barrel, inspecting it meticulously. The cold steel sent a familiar, grounding sensation through him. Turning it over, he checked the magazine, ensuring it was fully loaded. The bullets sat snugly, their brass casings catching the faint light filtering into the closet.

Satisfied, he gave the gun a quick spin in his hand, the motion fluid and practiced, before sliding it back into the bag. He double-checked the contents, a spare magazine, a cleaning kit, and a compact holster before zipping it shut with precision.

Meanwhile, in their shared bedroom, Jadwa had heard his laughter through the closet door. It was rare these days, and the sound had sent a little thrill through her chest. He was in a good mood. She hesitated briefly, debating whether to stay and bask in his presence or head to the kitchen and make him something. The decision was made quickly— food, his favorite breakfast. She almost sprinted out of the room.

In the kitchen, she directed the chef to gather the ingredients for shakshouka and cheesy bread, dishes she knew he loved. She busied herself pulling out spices, heating the kettle for tea, and shredding mozzarella cheese. Her hands moved swiftly, her focus absolute, until the sound of heavy footsteps behind her made her neck snap around.

Imran stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway. She blinked, startled to see him. The chef greeted him politely, and he acknowledged with a polite nod.

"Can I get some hot water?" he asked the chef, opening a cabinet and easily retrieving his preferred mint tea.

Jadwa hurried to the kettle, pulling it off the stove before it began to whistle. She stepped closer, her petite frame dwarfed by his towering presence. Her head barely reached his bicep as she extended the kettle toward him, her voice soft but warm. "Here's the water."

He accepted it with a nod, his approval subtle but reassuring. As he poured himself a cup of tea, she ventured, "I'm making breakfast. It won't take long."

"You shouldn't bother," he murmured quietly, his tone unreadable. His focus shifted as he moved toward the fridge.

Jadwa froze, her heart plummeting into her stomach. Oh Allah, na shiga uku (I'm in trouble) She watched helplessly as he grabbed something from the fridge, a quick snack, perhaps and walked out without a glance back.

Her hands froze mid-motion, the cheese grater hovering just above the bowl. The rich aroma of cumin and coriander lingered in the kitchen, but it did nothing to warm the sudden chill that crept over her. She let out a slow, unsteady breath, then turned toward the sink.

The warm water ran over her hands as she scrubbed, harder than necessary, her nails biting into her palms beneath the soapy lather. "Could you take it from here?" she called, her voice carefully measured as she addressed the chef. She dried her hands briskly, eyes fixed on the counter. "I have... things to make." The pause betrayed her, but she turned quickly before the crack in her voice could deepen.

She retreated to the living room, her phone pressed tightly in her palm like a lifeline. Sliding onto the couch, she glanced at the screen. Notifications from the family group chat blinked back at her, taunting her with their cheery persistence. She hesitated, then opened the chat.

Pictures filled the thread, Ameerah and Ahmad, radiant and carefree, standing against the backdrop of Istanbul. Ameerah's belly, round and perfect, was cradled gently in Ahmad's hands. Another photo captured them laughing during a doctor's visit, the kind of joy that lit up their faces and made the world feel soft and safe. Jadwa's thumb hovered over the screen as she stared, a strange weight pressing on her chest.

The love in their eyes was palpable, almost too bright to look at. Her throat tightened as she took in the image of Ameerah smiling, her hand resting protectively on her bump. The glow of anticipation surrounded her like a halo.

Jadwa shut her eyes, her lashes damp. She drew a breath sharp, jagged and opened her lips to whisper a prayer, her words soft but trembling. She willed the envy that coiled in her chest to dissipate, yet it clung stubbornly, heavier with every passing moment.

What was she thinking? Jealousy? No. She shook the thought away and murmured a prayer for the couple and their baby. A short video of Ahmad beaming at the ultrasound screen, his awe so raw and unfiltered it was almost unbearable to watch. Jadwa's breath hitched, and before she could think, she exited the chat, the images still seared into her mind.

Her chest ached with the familiar weight of grief. It wasn't the sharp, gutting kind anymore; it had dulled, like an old wound that still throbbed in the cold. But grief had layers, and hers had twisted itself into something unrecognizable, a mourning for what she had lost, for what had never been, for the child she had carried only briefly but loved more than life itself.

Grief was a strange, unwieldy thing. It came in waves, unrelenting and cruel, consuming her with its weight. She found herself mourning two lives she had never met yet loved deeply. Her child and, in a different way, her mother.

The miscarriage had unraveled her in ways she hadn't anticipated. It had cracked open every fear, every insecurity, until even the foundation of her marriage felt fragile and strained. She had built walls around her pain, but the weight of them threatened to crush her.

Desperate to distract herself, she opened TikTok, only to be met with an endless stream of glowing pregnancy updates, gender reveals, and nursery tours. The algorithm seemed cruel, relentless in its precision. Jadwa's hand shook as she closed the app and deleted it.

Instagram wasn't kinder. The mom pages and pregnancy influencers she had followed during her brief, fleeting joy were everywhere, each post a knife twisting deeper. A notification popped up, from a pregnancy app she'd downloaded. Its cheery reminder made her flinch. Her jaw clenched as she bit her tongue, the sharp sting grounding her for a moment. She deleted the app without hesitation, then methodically emptied every online shopping cart she had filled with baby clothes, soft blankets, and toys.

Her hand lingered over one tiny onesie, its embroidered stars so innocent, so hopeful. Her chest tightened painfully, and she pressed "delete," the emptiness threatening to swallow her whole.

A sound broke her trance, soft footsteps approaching. She tilted her head toward the window, letting a single tear escape before quickly swiping it away.

"Good morning, madam," the maid greeted softly.

Jadwa hummed in acknowledgment, her back still to the room. When the footsteps retreated, she let herself exhale, her shoulders sagging under the weight she carried.

She forced herself into the kitchen, her movements robotic as she prepared a modest breakfast. The food tasted of nothing, but she chewed and swallowed, knowing her medication demanded it. Her eyes darted to the clock.

The wedding. Zarah's wushe wushe event was only weeks away, and her to-do list stretched endlessly in her mind. She grabbed her phone and opened the planning group chat, typing out a flurry of messages about catering options and venue details.

The event was shaping up to be grand, as Imran had insisted on covering more and more of the expenses. Some she had approved weeks ago before the fight, but now new surprises kept cropping up decisions made without her input. Her pen scratched against paper as she jotted down a fresh to-do list: schedule her fittings, book the glam team, finalize décor details.

Planning had become her lifeline, a way to drown out the chaos of her heart. But even as her pen moved, her hand trembled, the ache beneath her ribs refusing to be ignored.

•••

Ibrahim stood with his arms crossed, his rifle slung over one shoulder, as he watched the three soldiers struggle through their drills. The trio fumbled with their movements, their attempts to synchronize painfully offbeat.

"This heat is no joke," one of them muttered under his breath.

They were not junior soldiers; they were the best of the best, specially chosen. Yet with Ibrahim, they were still below him and his to train.

Ibrahim, who had been observing in silence, finally spoke, his voice sharp and commanding. "Enough!"

The soldiers froze, their heads snapping up like startled deer.

"What is this?" Ibrahim barked, stepping forward. His usual funny and easygoing demeanor was gone, replaced by an intimidating focus. "Are you training to ruthlessly kill terrorists, or are you rehearsing for a comedy show? Because right now, I can't tell the difference!"

They swallowed hard, attempting to straighten up.

"Sir, we're trying—"

"Trying?" Ibrahim cut him off, his eyes narrowing. "If this is your version of 'trying,' remind me never to rely on you in an actual firefight. You don't 'try' when lives are at stake you execute. Or do you want to explain to me why you were too busy tripping over your own boots?"

A tense silence settled over the group.

"TJ!" Ibrahim snapped, turning to the broad-shouldered soldier who stood awkwardly with his jammed rifle. "Do you think the enemy is going to wait for you to fix that rifle? No? Then why does it look like you're fumbling with it like it's your first day in training?"

TJ stammered, "Sir, the mechanism—"

Ibrahim interrupted, his voice icy. "Fix it. Now. I want that weapon operational in 60 seconds, or you'll be cleaning every rifle in the camp by the end of the day."

"Yes, sir!" TJ barked, fumbling to unjam the rifle with trembling hands.

Ibrahim turned to the last one, who was still wiping sweat from his face. "And you," he said, his tone calmer but no less cutting, "if you can't handle a little heat, how do you expect to hold your ground when you're under fire and your adrenaline's draining faster than your water bottle? Stop whining and focus. This heat isn't going anywhere, but your discipline needs to show up."

"Yes, sir," they mumbled, standing straighter and clenching their jaws.

Ibrahim stepped back, his piercing gaze sweeping over all three of them. His voice softened, but it carried a weight that was impossible to ignore. "Listen carefully. Mistakes here cost you nothing but my patience. Out there, mistakes cost lives. Yours, your teammates', and the people you're meant to protect. So you don't have the luxury of tripping, fumbling, or whining. You will get it right, or you will keep trying until you do. Morning, day, and night—you know me, I don't get tired."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "Now. Start over. Synchronize your movements, secure your weapons, and act like the great soldiers you are—not civilians playing dress-up." He hit the tip of his rifle on their knees, and they dared not let out a single whimper.

"Yes, sir!" the three men shouted in unison, determination replacing their earlier clumsiness.

Ibrahim nodded curtly. "Good. Move."

As they resumed their drill, this time with sharper focus and tighter execution, Ibrahim stood back, watching silently. His stern expression gave way to a faint, approving nod.

Imran stood there, watching his friend in his element. Ibrahim was the best of the best—the most sought out.

He walked a long distance before reaching their usual spot, which had been their solace since their twenties, long before life took a huge turn for him and Ibrahim. He took a deep breath, taking in the beautiful view of the whole city visible from where he stood.

He saw a few soldiers in their khakis and spotted Ibrahim in his usual hat, khaki pants, and white shirt.

When the soldiers' attention turned to Imran, they all saluted him. He waved it off. "Assalamu Alaikum," he said, shaking the soldiers' hands, while Ibrahim revved his gun.

Ibrahim pointed it at Imran, who shoved it away, smacking Ibrahim's bicep before they both laughed and went in for a brotherly hug and handshake.

"I haven't been here in a year," Imran said, rubbing his hands together as he shifted his rifle bag to Ibrahim.

The sun peeked over the horizon, spreading a soft, golden glow across the rugged terrain. Ibrahim and Muhammad walked side by side, their boots crunching over the dry soil. Their rifles swung lazily over their shoulders, the silence punctuated by occasional bursts of chatter.

Ibrahim stopped near a boulder, his sharp eyes scanning the area before picking up a rusted metal drum and setting it against the rock. He turned to Muhammad, his face breaking into a sly grin.

"All right, Moh," he said, dusting off his hands. "Let's see if you still remember how to hit a target. Or has your aim retired along with you?"

Muhammad snorted. "Don't start with me, Ibrahim. I'm still sharp as ever. Watch and learn."

"Sharp? The last time you shot, I thought you were trying to scare birds out of the trees," Ibrahim teased, leaning casually against the boulder. "Honestly, I've seen blindfolded recruits with better grouping." Ibrahim laughed out loud.

Muhammad rolled his eyes but couldn't help grinning. Dropping to one knee, he shouldered his rifle and squinted down the iron sights. "You just keep talking, old man. Let me remind you who taught you how to shoot."

"Ah, yes, Master Marksman Muhammad," Ibrahim said, crossing his arms dramatically. "A legend in his own mind. I hope this isn't another one of your near-miss performances."

Ignoring him, Muhammad took a steadying breath and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked, and the bullet hit the drum, just a dot away from the center, but a solid hit.

Ibrahim clapped slowly, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment. "Wow. Impressive. If we were aiming for 'almost,' you'd be a national hero."

"At least I hit the target," Muhammad shot back, standing up and brushing the dust off his pants. "Let's see you do better, Mr. Perfect."

"Gladly," Ibrahim said, stepping forward with a smirk. "Let me show you how it's done again."

He raised his rifle with practiced ease, barely taking time to aim before firing. The bullet struck dead center, a sharp clang echoing across the terrain.

Muhammad groaned, throwing up his hands. "Showoff. You probably practice this when no one's watching just to make me look bad."

"Practice?" Ibrahim replied with mock surprise. "No, I just have something you seem to have misplaced after getting married—skill."

Muhammad shook his head, laughing as he followed Ibrahim back toward their makeshift camp. "One of these days, you'll slip up, and I'll be there to remind you that even legends fall."

"By the time that happens, you might actually hit the center of a target," Ibrahim quipped, tossing Muhammad a water flask.

"Keep talking," Muhammad muttered, though he couldn't hide his grin. "One day, I'm getting my revenge."

"Sure, sure," Ibrahim replied, smirking as he settled onto a rock. "Until then, just try not to scare the wildlife."

****

Ibrahim stood at the edge of a makeshift shooting range, his stance calm but commanding. Known as the best in the Nigerian special armed forces, his reputation preceded him. His name was whispered with admiration among his peers and with dread by the enemies of the nation. He had earned his place as the most skilled shooter in the country, a living legend in the fight against Boko Haram, kidnappers, and even in war.

Around them, the three soldiers stood at attention, rifles in hand, eager but nervous under Ibrahim's watchful gaze.

"All right," Ibrahim began, his voice steady and low, carrying the weight of authority. "You've all been through the basics. Today, you'll learn what separates an average soldier from one who walks out of every firefight alive: precision, control, focus."

Muhammad smirked, nudging Ibrahim with his elbow. "Don't scare them too much."

The juniors chuckled nervously, but Ibrahim's sharp gaze silenced them. "Laugh now," he said, his tone cool, "because once we start, I expect nothing less than perfection."

He motioned toward the targets: rows of rusted metal drums and wooden planks set at varying distances, some up to 800 meters away. "We'll begin with a simple drill," Ibrahim continued, setting up his rifle. "But first, let me remind you why precision matters."

He turned to Muhammad, gesturing to the farthest target. "Muhammad, care to take the first shot?"

Muhammad grinned, stepping forward. "Watch and learn, boys." He raised his rifle, squinting down. His shot rang out, hitting the target but landing in the center.

"Perfect," Ibrahim said, his lips curling into a faint smile. "But if you were aiming for the enemy's heart, this is how you do it. Watch closely."

With a smooth, practiced motion, Ibrahim raised his rifle. He adjusted his stance, his finger brushing the trigger. A single shot rang out, the sound sharp and precise. The bullet struck the center of the target, dead-on.

The soldiers stared, wide-eyed. Auwal muttered, "Is it even possible to miss when it's him?"

Muhammad laughed, clapping Ibrahim on the back. "The man's more machine than human."

Ibrahim shook his head, his stern expression softening for a brief moment as he guided the trainees, occasionally nodding to Muhammad for assistance. His voice carried over the sounds of practice, firm yet patient, as they worked together to ensure the soldiers perfected their drills.

When the session wound down, the two men found a large rock nearby and settled onto it. Imran pulled a water bottle from his bag, taking a long gulp, the faint rustling of the wind filling the space between them. For a while, they sat in comfortable silence until Imran broke it.

"When is Khalifa coming back?" he asked, glancing sideways at Ibrahim.

"By the end of the week," Ibrahim replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "His mother is leaving the country this weekend."

Imran nodded thoughtfully before asking, "How is she? And her kids?"

"She seems to be doing great, Alhamdulillah. Her husband takes really good care of her," Ibrahim answered with a sincere smile.

"Alhamdulillah," Imran sighed, the word heavy with gratitude.

A pause settled between them before Imran suggested, "Should we go and visit Mama?"

Ibrahim didn't answer immediately, his silence punctuated only by the faint sounds of soldiers practicing in the distance. He finally chuckled, breaking the tension. "I've quit smoking for now, so yes, let's go."

Imran laughed. "Dan iska," he teased, but then noticed the way Ibrahim seemed to study him quietly, his gaze unwavering.

Imran shifted uncomfortably, aware that the mention of visiting Mama had triggered something. The last time they'd visited her was the previous Friday, yet here they were, circling back to her.

"Muhammad," Ibrahim called softly.

"Na'am?" Imran replied, his eyes fixed on the soldiers training ahead.

"How's her health?" Ibrahim asked, referring to Jadwa.

"Alhamdulillah," Imran said simply, offering no further details. The conversation lapsed into silence once more.

"Komai lafiya da matar ka? (Is everything fine with your wife?)" Ibrahim asked, his tone casual but probing.

"Aaaa kilewa diya," Imran replied in Kanuri, a small smile on his lips. (All is fine.)

"Barka," Ibrahim answered with a nod, and they both fell back into contemplation.

After a long pause, Ibrahim spoke again, his voice tinged with wisdom. "Always remember, this girl is young. Be patient with her."

Imran turned to meet his gaze, raising a brow. "Are your jinns telling you something?" he teased with a grin. "If you retire, consider marital counseling before jumping into business."

Ibrahim shot him a playful glare. "Actually, they might be making more money than me, ko?"

The seriousness in Ibrahim's tone made Imran burst out laughing. The funniest part was, Ibrahim wasn't joking.

"Say wallahi," Ibrahim said, as Imran's laughter grew louder.

"No, you're a living legend," Imran said, finally catching his breath. "There are only a handful of soldiers earning as much as you do."

Ibrahim hissed in disbelief. "I'll soon retire. The pay is not worth it."

"You've been saying that for almost four years," Imran countered, shaking his head.

"At the end of the day, we all have to focus on the family business," Ibrahim said with a sigh.

"Absolutely," Imran agreed, his voice firm. "We have to drop everything else. I'm glad you're finally realizing it's time to stop being just a partner in the company. We need you, man."

Ibrahim stayed quiet, his silence speaking volumes. Imran smiled, sensing the weight of his thoughts. "You can take up to two years if you wish. I don't mind dropping everything else," he offered gently.

Ibrahim ran his tongue across his teeth before exhaling deeply. "I'll leave the job," he said finally. "But you don't have to keep taking the load off my back."

"It's not for you alone," Imran replied, his tone serious. "Apart from the family,  yanzu nima inada iyali na. Our dreams come second."

"Gaskiya," Ibrahim murmured, nodding in agreement.

"You too, it's high time, man. You deserve a home, Yaya," Imran added, tapping Ibrahim on the shoulder.

"As you said, our dreams come second," Ibrahim said, reaching for Imran's water bottle and taking a sip.

Imran fell silent, his gaze fixed on his older relative. There were no words heavy enough for this moment, no topic more significant than Ibrahim's journey.

Breaking the tension, Ibrahim stood up abruptly. "Gaskiya, I'm hungry. Let me call Mama to cook something before we leave."

By the time they rose, the sun was dipping below the hills, casting golden hues over the horizon. Ibrahim had returned to barking orders at the trainees, while Imran assisted here and there. They stayed until Maghrib, praying on the hills before finally heading to their cars.

The drive to Mama's house wasn't long; she lived just a short distance from their training grounds. Ibrahim parked his car in the driveway, and Imran followed suit.

"Assalamu Alaikum!" they called out as they entered the house.

"Wa Alaikumus Salam, my sons!" Mama's voice rang out as she rushed to greet them. She was a striking chubby woman in her fifties, her dark skin glowing with warmth and love as she embraced them.

"Mama, aren't you eating well?" Ibrahim teased, eyeing her critically. Imran nodded in agreement "why are you not eating well?" Imran questioned.

"See, I can carry you," Ibrahim said, lifting her effortlessly by her arms.

"Ahhh!" she shrieked, laughing and swatting at him. "See this boy—am I your mate?"

He let her down, laughing loudly, and she eyed him with mock annoyance before turning her attention to Imran. She reached out, and he bent down so she could cup his face.

"My baby boy, I missed you," she said, kissing his cheeks.

"I missed you too, sweetie," Imran replied with a grin. "How was your very long vacation?"

"It was so fun!" she exclaimed, grabbing their hands and leading them upstairs.

The warmth of home surrounded them as they followed her, their laughter filling the house as if no time had passed since their last visit.

On the stairs hung rows of pictures, their frames gilded in the soft light of the house. Each captured fleeting moments of her sons—Nabil, whose life was tragically cut short at the hands of Imran, and the other, whose end came through Ibrahim's as part of his many victims. The house was familiar to Ibrahim, more so than the back of his own hand, but he averted his gaze from the frames as they ascended. He hadn't dared to look at them in years, not even a glance, until they reached her room.

Over time, in a way no one could have predicted, the fractured bond between a victim's family and the perpetrators of unimaginable loss had evolved into something else entirely. What began with hatred had transformed into healing, forgiveness, and a relationship so unexpectedly profound that they now called her Mama.

"Did you make my masa?" Ibrahim asked with mock seriousness, plopping down on the carpet where Mama sat.

She didn't so much as glance at him, her attention firmly on Imran. "How is the family? And how is my Khalifa?" she asked, completely ignoring Ibrahim's presence.

"They're fine," Imran chuckled. "Khalifa is with his mom, so I haven't heard from him for two days now."

"Good," she replied with a satisfied smile as a maid entered, carrying refreshments and two large flasks of food.

Ibrahim, undeterred by being ignored, eagerly opened one of the flasks and attempted to serve himself. The steam from the tuwo stung his fingers, forcing him to pull back with a hiss.

Mama smacked his hand. "This is why I keep telling you to get married. Look at you, attacking food like a lion that hasn't eaten in weeks," she scolded, shaking her head as she began serving him herself.

The moment he took the first bite, Ibrahim's face grew serious. "Gaskiya, Mama, I need to consider marriage," he declared, the gravity of his tone startling both Mama and Imran into silence.

Mama's shock turned into a loud hiss as she laughed. "Zaki aureni? (Will you marry me?)" he asked playfully.

"Ko dan miyan taushen nan, Mama,(even because of this miyan taushe)" Ibrahim added, feigning desperation.

They all burst into laughter, the tension from his heavy words about marriage melting away as they relished the lighthearted moment. Mama moved on to serve Imran while Ibrahim turned his attention to his plate, devouring it with unmatched focus. By the time Imran was halfway through his meal, Ibrahim had already emptied his plate and helped himself to another serving, finishing it just as quickly.

Wiping his hands, Ibrahim returned to the room and immediately frowned at the sight before him. "Why are you feeding this grown man?" he exclaimed, his voice filled with outrage as he watched Mama feed Imran with her hands.

"Because he's sensible and listens to me," she shot back without missing a beat.

Unfazed, Ibrahim lay down on the carpet, this time resting his head in Mama's lap. He closed his eyes, sinking into the familiar comfort of her presence. It was his ritual, zoning out in her embrace, finding peace in the quiet moments until it was time to leave.

Imran finished his meal, washed his hands, and brought Mama a small bowl to rinse hers so she wouldn't disturb Ibrahim.

"When are you bringing your wife?" Mama asked, looking at Imran with a smile as she caressed Ibrahim'd head.

He returned the smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Very soon," he replied. "Once she's done with her semester, we'll come and spend a week here."

Mama laughed. "A whole week? That poor girl."

Just then, a housemaid entered, struggling to carry a large plastic bucket filled with turaren wuta. Imran immediately stood to help her.

"Mama," he said seriously, setting the bucket down. His tone made her glance up, though she avoided meeting his gaze directly. "I thought we agreed you'd stop doing this business."

"It's not for sale," she replied, a sly grin spreading across her face.

"It is," he countered, folding his arms.

She chuckled. "I promise, this time it's actually for my friend."

"I want to buy it," he said flatly.

Mama rolled her eyes. "Isn't your wife supposed to be the one teaching me the best secrets for these things?"
"She probably has enough to last her ten years." She said and Imran laughed.

"She does" he ageed

"Then who are you buying it for if not your wife?" Mama asked, raising a brow as she drank water.

"Budurwata zan siya wa," Imran said casually. (I'm buying it for my girlfriend.)

Before Mama could process his words, a hat flew across the room, hitting Imran square in the face.

"Dan iska!" Ibrahim growled, sitting up with a glare. "If you're playing, I'll deal with you right here in front of Mama, wallahi."

Mama burst out laughing, her head thrown back in delight. Imran couldn't help but laugh too as he threw the hat back.

"And I'll lock you up. Play with me and see what happens." Ibrahim added.

"No fighting please, he's just joking Ibrahim right Muhammad?" She laughed and Imran laughed.

"Aren't you my girlfriend?" Imran teased, winking at her and Ibrahim groaned.

Mama smirked. "He's just jealous. Don't mind him,
Mai gida na," she said to Imran, and Ibrahim cringed visibly at the exchange.

"Mama, I want some," Ibrahim said, pointing at the bucket. "And I'm not buying it."

Mama narrowed her eyes at him. "Anya ka dena shaye-shaye kuwa?" she asked pointedly. (Are you sure you've stopped doing drugs?)

Ibrahim laughed, shaking his head. "Mama, I was never on drugs—just cigarettes. And even that,  I've almost stopped." He paused dramatically before adding, "You should question your favorite son instead. He's the one clearly on drugs"

They continued their playful banter late into the night, their laughter echoing through the house. By the time the clock struck past ten, Mama shooed Imran out of the house, insisting that a married man shouldn't be staying out so late. He left reluctantly, leaving her and Ibrahim hunched over a chessboard, their playful rivalry stretching long into the quiet hours of the night.