Swansea, United Kingdom.

December, 2019. 

"It's boxing day here Dada. There are very few flights leaving the united kingdom today." He sat on his bed and brushed his overgrown hair, tired to the bone. He had not slept the whole holiday and all he wanted was to sleep for hours. He had taken on shifts for two people just to get his mind off the holiday spirit floating all over england. 

"Don't give me that! I want you back before the new year. I've had Hakeem order you a chartered flight from Heathrow. Just get your bags ready and get a flight from wherever you are to Heathrow." AbdulRahman hissed lowly, suddenly tired. He had spent a whole three months at the milling company, learning how to make specialized flour. He shook his head as he ended the call and walked back to the open wardrobe to take out his freshly laundered clothes.

He set his clothes back and after layering on clothes and socks, he waded out in the knee length snow that had been dumped down overnight. It was boxing day and most shops were shut except for those who didn't celebrate the holiday. 

After trudging through his apartment complex front, he walked briskly to the barbershop two blocks away where immediately he got into the heated interior, his whole body shivered from the abrupt change in temperature. 

"Assalamualaikum!" He greeted and smiled wide, when the man in charge, the muaddin of the small masjid  came out. AbdulRahman took off his outer coat and hung it on the coat rack. He rubbed his hands together to generate more heat as he sat in the swivel chair, waiting for the barber. 

"Meeting someone?" The Muaddin asked as he turned on a side switch and AbdulRahman chuckled in embarrassment. He knew he didn't cut his hair enough and always dashed in and out of each appointment. The only reason he got to sit so quickly was because of the holidays.

"Returning home." He answered, he had to be truthful. The masjid had become a part of him these past few months when he went from not being able to pray at all to praying all his daily prayers. 

"Home? That's good. Ah… returning? Brother AbdulRahman?" The muaddin seemed to connect the dots immediately and he came to stand before AbdulRahman with a raised eyebrow. 

"Yes. Returning home. I might not be back for a long, long time." The muaddin nodded and began to drape the polyester fabric upon AbdulRahman, getting ready to cut his sorely overgrown hair. 

"You're in my thoughts and prayers. May Allah guide you." AbdulRahman said a loud Ameen and as he left, transferred a lump sum of money to the masjid's account for the women's section that was being expanded. 

He got back to his warm apartment after about an hour of walking around, taking in the scenery, trying to commit places to memory and for a moment, he briefly considered not responding to his mother and staying back in Britain. Going back to Abuja would mean the whole world would start to greet him, walk around him on eggshells and be precautionary about everything they said or did. He didn't want to be reminded of his loss. 

He set out his box, dusted it and began to fold his clothes into large Ziploc bags. He'd left Abuja with only a suitcase filled with clothes, some bare essentials and his grief piled so high it could pull down a mountain. 

He had no idea how to deal with it and somehow, as he spent a few days in his west London flat moping, he got the idea to go work at a flour mill, get experience and improve on his own flour mill situated in a small town in the federal capital territory. 

His phone rang as he zipped up his suitcase, he set aside a kaftan to wear at first but changed his mind seeing as snow continued to fall without respite. It was too cold and even the best getzner would not save him from the chill. 

"Dada. Good afternoon." He greeted her with a sigh. He had somehow been able to make his mother stop ordering a chartered flight and would now take a commercial flight home. He wanted to just be as uninhibited as possible. 

"I'll be home tomorrow. In sha Allah." He said in response to her question of if he had booked a flight. He could hear the taut string of words that calmed down, he could also hear the terror in his mother's voice though she masked it with her usual sophisticated use of fufulde. 

"Good. I miss you. I want to see you in the flesh. Allah wadde Jam. May Allah guide you home safely." AbdulRahman said an Ameen to his mother's prayers and ended the call. 

He continued to pack slowly, once he was done, he set his suitcases by the door. While he had walked around earlier, all the things he ordered for his sisters and their children had arrived so he set them in another thirty inch suitcase. Then, with a spark of inspiration, he took his cards and keys and left the flat. 

At the supermarket, with the help of a new friend he made, he made several care packages for the many unhoused people who near the masjid close to his apartment complex. He made sure to put in thick socks, food vouchers, cereal vouchers and even little vouchers for coats and hats. He felt a rock that had fitted itself in his chest set down after that gesture, so he went home, took a shower and went to bed ready for the long travel to London first, then another travel to Abuja. 

*

*

When he stepped into the palatial eight bedroom mansion in Wuse 2,  the scent of a particular detergent mix his mother had formulated by herself plus the Halut incense burning in the corner welcomed him, he inhaled the comforting scent and took another step in. The older staff who was dusting a flower pot in the hallway greeted him as he walked closer to the main living room. 

When he reached, the sound of Senegalese music, strums of the kora and a tiltilating voice filled the room. He watched his mother sway her shoulders gently to the soft music as a younger woman applied makeup to her face. 

She was dressed in a white and blue Dakarville boubou that was testament to her Senegalese and Nigerian fulani roots. She looked as regal as AbdulRahman had Always known her to look, never slouching even though she had faced many obstacles on her way to being the matriarch of their Barkindo branch. 

She raised her head and stopped the girl who was powdering her face with a small smile when she saw her son. "A yotti, a do sare? You've arrived?" She asked in Fulfulde, with her tone rising and falling just ever so lightly.

AbdulRahman could swear he had never heard his mother shout, it was in his character too he never shouted, his calm authority was quicker to command respect than a shout. 

"Yes, I'm back." He responded and squatted ever so lightly to greet his mother. She asked him go pull closer to her with a beckon of her hand and he got up, only to crouch next to her. He found that the staff in the room had suddenly left and knew his mother wanted to speak to him. 

"You worried me. I'm glad you're safe and sound." AbdulRahman nodded but his heart wondered what his mother really wanted to say.

"I missed you. I know you wanted to grieve alone but don't forget that I too lost a daughter and two grandchildren. I go to sleep each night asking Al Ghaffar to forgive me for each sin I committed to deserve such being snatched away from me. But, I realized as I nagged Allah, that I also needed to accept Qadr. All that we face is part of our life, it's predestined to happen. Which is why-" She stopped and out out her hennaed hand towards her son and when he took it, she patted it softly. 

"I can't tell you how to grieve, but thousands of people who work in your mill company need you. They need you to come steer your ship aright." He nodded and got up from his haunched position and leaned forward to kiss his mother's forehead very softly. He patted her arm without saying a word and turned to leave.  

As he walked out the door, a tear fell down the eyes of his mother and she hurriedly patted her eyes with a tissue. She wanted to be strong for him.

*******
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