Journey to 'I do'

29- My soulmate

I left work early on a Friday, seeking solace in the simple pleasures of an unhurried afternoon. Stepping into the backyard, Layla and Bilal, my little step-siblings, were engrossed in a game of handball. The sound of their laughter echoed, creating a backdrop for a moment of familial joy. I joined in, embracing the simplicity of the playful bonds.

A while after, Nadia approached from inside the house, and an involuntary sigh escaped my lips. How did she know I was home, and why was she at my house?

"Oh, come on, pretend to be excited to see me at least," she said.

"Why are you here?" I questioned, my tone less than enthusiastic.

"Believe it or not, I'm worried about you. I haven't seen you look so disturbed before. I notice little changes in you, you know. I'm here to make sure you're good and cheer you up after your first painful breakup," she explained, a smile playing on her lips. I couldn't help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of Nadia.

"Okay," I replied, the word hanging in the air between us.

Layla, my little sister, squealed with delight upon seeing Nadia. "Aunty Nadia!" They embraced each other in a warm hug. Even Bilal, usually reserved like me, approached to greet her. I rolled my eyes at the unfolding situation. They invited her to play with them, and soon enough, we found ourselves engaged in a game of handball in the backyard.

As the handball game wound down, Nadia seized the opportunity to extend her presence further. "Muhammad, could you drop me home? I came with an Uber, and I'd love some company on the way," she suggested, a sly smile playing on her lips.

I sighed inwardly, recognizing her calculated move to prolong our interaction. "Sure, why not," I replied, suppressing the urge to decline. It was a subtle reminder that Nadia had an uncanny ability to infiltrate my personal space, even under the guise of innocent requests.

The ride home felt like an extension of the awkward handball game, with Nadia attempting to steer our conversation back to personal matters. I kept my responses vague, a protective barrier against her intrusive curiosity. As we approached her destination, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief at the prospect of returning to the solitude of my own thoughts.

As we pulled up to Nadia's house, she turned to me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You remember the time we got lost trying to find Umar's babes place around here, right? Good times," she teased, a reference to an inside joke from our past.

I couldn't help but burst into genuine laughter, the memory of that particular escapade flooding back. "I thought we'd never find it. You have a talent for leading us astray," I replied, the shared laughter momentarily bridging the gap between our past and the present.

Nadia grinned, reveling in the success of her lighthearted attempt to ease the tension. "Well, at least it made for a memorable adventure. Maybe we should get lost again sometime," she suggested, and pecked me quickly before leaving the car.

I watched her disappear into her house, the echo of our laughter still resonating in the air. Despite the amusement, a lingering sense of discomfort remained—an indication that navigating the complexities of past relationships was far from straightforward.

Later that night as I was laying in bed, frustration coursed through me as I stared at the Instagram post my sister had sent. The video, captured without my awareness, portrayed a scene that sparked unnecessary speculation. My hands on the steering wheel and a lady's hand on her lap beside me hinted at an intimacy that didn't exist.

The gossip blog's caption, laced with assumptions and insinuations, only added fuel to the fire. "Less than 2 months after being seen outside with someone else, it seems our faves will always find their way back to each other. Are Muhammad Salman and Nadia Maina back together?"

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on me. If I didn't know better, I would have suspected Nadia of orchestrating these rumors herself. The intrusion into my personal life through such invasive scrutiny left me grappling with a mix of irritation and a growing weariness of the constant public eye.

I got used to Nadia always posting unnecessary stuff on social media, wanting everyone to see when she's around me. She doesn't usually listen to me on this. Luckily, these posts don't go too far, unlike the Aisha situation. People are tired of hearing about that.

I checked Umar's Instagram story and saw he'd posted an old photo of us. He added Lil Wayne's "I'm Single" as the background music and captioned it "me and my soulmate." It made me chuckle – he's so silly. I sent it to my sister in response to her asking about the post with Nadia. I knew the gossip blogs would pick up on this too by the end of the night. They're a bunch of jobless idiots.

I sent Nadia a simple text, "Take the video down now."

"Fine buzzkill," she replied almost instantly. I decided to put my phone away and focus on some work. Later, as I immersed myself in my tasks, trying to drown out the social media noise, I couldn't shake off the feeling that this was just the beginning of another round of unnecessary drama.

The next day, Saturday, I felt the need to escape the city buzz and visit Umma, my pillar of strength. The outskirts of Abuja held the tranquility I sought, so I picked up an English cake loaf she loved and some food items before hitting the road.

The drive offered a scenic escape, and the familiar sights along the route brought back fond memories. As I approached Umma's house, a sense of comfort enveloped me. Her warm smile and the aroma of her cooking greeted me at the door.

"Muhammad,Yaro na Yau ka tuna da maman ka Alhamdulillah," Umma exclaimed, hugging me tightly.

Presenting Umma with the English cake loaf, her eyes sparkled with delight. As she left the kitchen, we migrated to the living room after exchanging greetings with her husband.

Seated in the cozy space, Umma, perceptive as always, began probing into the recent events of my life. I unraveled the tale of Aisha, narrating the journey from the beginning to the social media debacle and our unexpected breakup . It felt like a cathartic release, and Umma, in her comforting presence, listened without interrupting.

"She sounds like a lovely girl I would've liked to meet. Where did you say her mother was from, and what's their last name?" Umma inquired after I concluded.

"From Egypt, and their last name is Yahaya." I showed her a picture of A'isha on my phone.

"This is a small world. That's my friend Janna's niece. I know her mother very well!"

"Really?"

"Gaskiya Muhammad, kayi asaran mata," Umma exclaimed, shaking her head dramatically. "Maybe you can fix things. Drop this pride of yours and go and apologize."

"No way, Umma. It's over."

She chuckled, "Muhammad kenan. It's better for you to go and kneel down and beg that girl to take you back than for you to end up with that silly Nadia girl, Mai son duniya." She hissed and eyed me.

"In shaa Allah, I won't end up with Nadia," I reassured her, although I think I was also trying to reassure myself.

"You know I don't like to interfere in your father's marriage. I don't like getting involved with Jamila, but if they try to force that girl on you, they'll hear my voice."

I smiled, grateful for Umma's unwavering support. In her presence, I felt a connection, a sense of guidance that echoed the warmth my mother had provided.

We spent the day catching up, sharing laughter, and relishing the simplicity of our time together. Umma's wisdom and unconditional love provided the solace I needed, a brief respite from the complexities of city life.

Heading home, I received a call from Farid urging me to meet him at the office for something crucial. "On my way, bro," I assured him.
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