The Trapped Soul in the Mortuary

I frantically tried to push open the heavy lid of the wooden coffin from the inside, but to my utter astonishment, another corpse stood upright on its feet right above me, physically pressing down on the lid to keep me trapped.
The entity spoke in a raspy, haunting voice that sounded utterly desperate to re-enter the realm of the living: "Please, stay in my place! For the love of God, I can see that the chaotic affairs of this world have not overwhelmed your soul. I am simply not ready to journey to that terrifying realm of phantoms and restless spirits!"
I widened my eyes, staring intently through the shadows at the woman. She was an elder, easily over fifty years old, with a very fair complexion (fara ce tasss). What stood out most were the distinct, traditional ethnic scarification marks (tsagen fuska na kurmawanci) carved deeply and sharply across her face.
Suddenly, the prominent scar on my forehead began to throb and twitch violently. In a surreal, magical instant—like something out of a myth—I found myself completely outside the coffin, standing firmly on my own two feet.
The corpse broke down, weeping bitterly in frustration. I raised my voice, commanding her with a fierce shout: "Go back to your final resting place! When the scholars were lecturing you, warning you not to chase the illusions of this world or roam the streets at night, you turned a deaf ear to them, sneaking out under the cover of darkness to hunt the innocent servants of God. Now that the wasps have swarmed from their nest and your dark deeds have completely caught up with you, you think you can just escape back into our world?"
Tears streamed down her pale face as she slowly stepped back inside the coffin and lay down. Instantly, a brilliant, blinding light erupted from my forehead, striking her squarely. The entire room went dead silent (tsit kake ji) as her phantom spirit completely stopped moving, neutralized by the energy.
I turned my sharp focus toward the second coffin, where another girl was sobbing quietly. Fixing her with my intense, razor-sharp spiritual gaze (Mayun idona masu masifar kaifi), I demanded, "And what about you? Let's hear your story."

The Blood-Drinking Sorcerers

Through her tears, the trapped girl began to explain her harrowing situation: "The woman you just dealt with is my biological mother. She dragged me out to a distant village under the guise of attending a celebration with her close friends. Once we arrived, they demanded that she hand me over so they could harvest and drink my blood. When she refused, they caused our vehicle to crash on our way back."
She continued, shaking with fear: "As you can see, I didn't actually die in the crash! They bound my life force with a powerful, invisible spiritual tether (azargagi). Their dark plot is to let my family bury me in the cemetery, only for them to sneak back at night, dig up my living body, and drain every single drop of my blood."
From her brief, terrifying explanation, the grim reality became crystal clear. Her mother belonged to a secretive coven of blood-drinking sorcerers (Mayu). Every single year, they held a massive festival to strengthen their dark bonds, where every member was strictly mandated to sacrifice the life blood of a close relative—be it a child, a grandchild, or a younger sibling.
I inspected her closely. It was only then I noticed that her forehead and the corner of her mouth were severely bruised and fractured from the impact of the staged accident. My mind raced, trying to figure out a tactical way to rescue her, but I hit a wall—I didn't know the faces or identities of the people who were currently preparing to lower her into the earth.
"Please, help me! Don't let them take me to the cemetery while I am still breathing! I am completely alive; they have simply cast a massive illusion over the minds of the townspeople so everyone perceives me as a lifeless corpse," her trembling voice shattered my thoughts.
I took a long, deep breath before locking eyes with her. "Listen to me carefully. Right now, I don't have an immediate way to stop the funeral procession without exposing everything. But I give you my sacred solemn promise: I will rescue you. Even after they dig your grave and cover you with the earth, I will come for you."
She stared back at me with wide, pure white eyes that lacked even a single speck of malice or darkness. I gave her a firm, reassuring nod to seal my oath. I couldn't tell if she trusted me completely, but I could visually see her spirit—which had been tightly bound by oppressive spiritual chains (Kambu)—gradually settle into a state of peace.
I gently touched her face before stepping out of the mortuary room, heading straight back to our staff quarters. I found Fatima sitting up on her bed.

A Shift in the Staff Quarters

"Are you awake? How is your body feeling?" I asked, checking on her.
"Much better, thank Alhamdullah! Thank you so much, Ayodele. Truly, you are a deeply gifted soul. If only you were a Muslim, the incredible spiritual contribution you would bring to the faith would be massive," Fatima said warmly.
I offered her a gentle smile. "We all worship the exact same Almighty Sovereign God! The differences between our paths are minor. Ultimately, He is the Master Architect of everything, and our only duty is to utilize the unique gifts He has bestowed upon us. Everything originates from the Creator."
"Spoken with pure wisdom!" Fatima mused, looking at me thoughtfully. "I sometimes wonder if your soul belongs to Islam, and it's only your physical body that carries the lineage of the Jews."
I let out a light laugh, intentionally pivoting the conversation away from theology. "Well, the important thing is that you've stopped fearing the shadows, right?"
She clicked her tongue in annoyance. "That worthless entity? By God, I absolutely despise him, but I don't feel a single shred of fear toward him anymore. By the way, where are you coming from this early? Have they brought in new patients?"
I suppressed a heavy sigh, her question instantly bringing back the chaotic spiritual warfare I had just left behind in the dark corners of the MUTUWARE.
"You should lie back down and get some rest; you've been through a massive ordeal and look completely exhausted. I'm feeling incredibly sleepy myself, and there's a highly specific task I need to execute within the dream realm," I told her, settling onto my bed.
Fatima widened her eyes in surprise. "You know, when you fell asleep yesterday at Aisha's family house, you terrified me to my very core. I won't even hide it from you—that bizarre sleep of yours was the exact reason I quietly sneaked out and ran straight back home!"
I simply closed my eyes, refusing to grant her observations any weight. Within moments, a deep, heavy slumber claimed my consciousness. In the vivid dreamscape, the spiritual realm clearly revealed the exact cemetery where the innocent girl was going to be buried, mapping out every impending event and providing me with the precise blueprint of how I would execute her liberation.

The Arrogance of the Bride

The following morning, we officially commenced our day shift. After wrapping up our duties and signing off, Fatima immediately departed for her house. Right in front of me, Aisha eagerly dialed Mansur, practically begging him to come pick her up. I rolled my eyes and puckered my lips (na taɓe baki) in absolute disdain, noticing how excessively frantic and submissive she was acting—a behavior typical of young brides marrying into immense wealth.
Before his vehicle arrived, I locked my eyes onto Aisha, narrowing them into a sharp stare. "Tell me, ever since Mansur returned from Lagos, has he actually established a legitimate commercial enterprise?"
She went quiet for a moment before answering defensively, "Honestly, I have no idea. You know how it is when a man goes off to make a massive fortune—the moment he returns, it's all about luxury and relaxation. I don't think he's actively doing anything right now."
"And what happens when the money completely runs out? You really need to question him; perhaps he has a secret business he is intentionally keeping from you," I pressed, trying to gently plant a seed of doubt in her mind. My heart was becoming increasingly convinced that I needed to completely dismantle this impending marriage for her own safety.
"By God, I could never do that! He possesses such an intense, overwhelming aura (ƙwarjini) that I can't bring myself to cross-examine him. Do you have any idea how terrified I am of Mansur? I swear to you, when he came to pick me up today, I completely lacked the courage to look directly into his pupils!"
"Hmph! So tell me, did you actually love him back then, or is it only now that he's wrapped in luxury that you've suddenly developed such a fierce passion for him?" I asked, highly skeptical.
"I loved him deeply from the start! It was solely our past poverty that prevented our marriage from happening sooner. My father insisted that I finish my education first, mostly to avoid upsetting my mother, since Mansur is her elder sister's biological son."
I simply nodded my head, my mind mapping out the massive spiritual implications of what she had just revealed. "Alright then, I am going to head home. When he arrives, tell him I extend my greetings."
"Oh, just wait for him! He can easily drop you off at your house," she insisted.
"No, thank you. I'll pass."
Aisha physically grabbed my arm, refusing to let go. "I swear by God, you are not going anywhere alone! We are absolutely dropping you off at your doorstep."
As we were back and forth, Mansur’s luxurious car smoothly pulled up to the curb, and he stepped out. He was sharply dressed in a pitch-black designer suit, his eyes completely masked behind dark sunglasses. He strode toward us with immense, calculated arrogance.
Even behind his dark lenses, I could sense the absolute, raw shock paralyzing his features the moment his eyes landed on me. I immediately deduced that he was stunned to see me breathing and fully alive.
"Welcome, our groom!" I said with a cheerful, mocking humor.
He visibly faltered for a second, stumbling over his composure. "Oh! Forgive me... I was just completely captivated by the sight of my beautiful bride, which is why I was distracted. I hope you are doing well, Ayodele?"
"I am perfectly intact!" I shot back, staring directly into the center of his eyes, as he had just lowered his sunglasses.
He quickly averted his gaze, turning his full attention to Aisha. "My bride can do no wrong! Shall we leave?"
To my absolute amazement, Aisha submissively followed behind him like a camel being led by a nose rope (raƙumi da akala). She didn't even cast a single glance back at me, completely forgetting our conversation, her fierce insistence on dropping me off, or even the basic courtesy of saying goodbye.
I tightly squeezed my eyes shut in sheer frustration as Mansur aggressively revved his engine, kicking up a massive cloud of dust that completely covered me. Opening my eyes slowly, I watched the luxury vehicle speed away until it completely vanished from my line of sight.

An Unexpected Encounter

With a deeply heavy heart, I walked over to the main roadside to catch a ride. My spiritual energy felt so dark and drained that I wasn't even paying attention to my surroundings. Without realizing it, instead of hiling a standard commercial taxi, I stepped into the road and flagged down a pristine white private vehicle.
The car came to a stop, and the driver lowered the window. "Do you need a lift? Can I reduce the distance for you?" he offered politely.
Flaring up in a sudden wave of defensive anger, I snapped aggressively, "Who told you I don't have money for a taxi? Or do I look like one of those cheap, loose girls who hitches rides with strangers?!"
The man widened his eyes in utter astonishment. "Whoa, young lady! Did someone tell you my private car is a commercial taxi?"
Realizing my massive blunder, I quickly took a step back, burning with embarrassment. "Oh... I am so sorry. Please forgive me."
"I absolutely refuse to accept your apology unless you get in right now and let me drive you home," he countered with a confident smile.
I opened my mouth, fully prepared to unleash another sharp, biting retort, but I stopped dead in my tracks. The man possessed an incredibly commanding, dignified, and respectable aura (ƙwarjini). He looked completely honorable, likely around forty-five years old.
I swallowed my pride. "Thank you, but I'm fine."
Yet, he flatly refused to drive away, stubbornly insisting that I accept the ride. Realizing he wouldn't budge, I finally relented and climbed into the passenger seat.
As we drove into traffic, he gently adjusted the volume of his sound system. A beautifully melodious audio of Holy Qur'an recitation filled the cabin. I didn't understand the sudden shift within me, but as the sacred verses washed over my ears, an incredible, soothing coolness settled over my chaotic heart, instantly draining away my anger.
"Which neighborhood are we heading to?" he asked smoothly.
"Unguwar 'Yan Tsofi (The Quarter of the Elders)," I answered, giving the local name of our neighborhood.
He continued driving in peaceful silence. I let out a long, deep sigh, feeling a profound sense of tranquility completely saturate my mind and body for the first time in days, right up until he pulled up directly in front of my courtyard door. I offered him my sincere gratitude and stepped out of the vehicle.

AISHA: The Binding of a Mind

The way Mansur had looked at Ayodele back at the hospital had sent an icy wave of dread straight through Aisha's body. In that moment, she had felt as though her breath was being completely taken away, a terrifying sense of fear and absolute submission settling deep into her bones.
God was her witness—the sheer weight of Mansur's dark aura had caused her mind to completely blank out. She had totally forgotten that Ayodele was even standing right next to her. She had passively followed his footsteps like a mindless servant; if he had ordered her to sever her own neck in that moment, she would have done it without a single shred of hesitation.
The moment they climbed into the vehicle, Mansur firmly gripped her palm, his voice dripping with smooth, manipulative venom. "I absolutely despise that pagan girl. What is her name again?"
"Ayodele," Aisha squeezed out the name with great difficulty.
"Exactly! From this exact moment onward, I want you to completely sever all ties with her. I never want to catch you interacting or playing friends with her again. Cut the relationship cleanly, and let everyone mind their own business. Do you hear me clearly?"
Aisha nodded her head submissively. "Insha Allah, I will never speak a single word to her again."
"Excellent, my Ayush! Don't say so much as a syllable to her. Delete her phone number from your device right now, and make absolutely sure you block her across all platforms."
"Right away, Boss!" Aisha declared eagerly, pulling out her phone and instantly executing every single command he laid down.
Satisfied, he released her hand and smoothly steered the luxury SUV back toward the high-end restaurant they had visited the previous day.
As Aisha sat quietly at the VIP table, Mansur turned to his dark associate waiting in the shadows. "The spiritual seasoning didn't fully take hold of the chicken yesterday the way I wanted. You know how it is—others partook in the meal, which diluted the potency. That is exactly why I brought her back alone today, ensuring everything aligns perfectly with our grand design."
The waiter bowing before them responded smoothly, "Consider it done, Your Eminence!" He retreated into the kitchen, returning moments later with a specialized dish.
With absolute, calculated malice, Mansur personally fed Aisha the meal—food that was heavily laced with an ungodly amount of dark sorcery. Aisha consumed it greedily, completely devoid of free will. Once she finished the feast, he drove her straight home, his heart bursting with sinister triumph.
"I utterly despise you, Ayodele! As of today, I have completely tied your nose to my shoe," Mansur barked aloud in his empty car, unleashing a wicked, echoing laugh.

FATIMAH: A Quiet Escape

Driven by an overwhelming instinct to avoid crossing paths with Mansur again, Fatima had smartly wrapped up her duties and departed the hospital early. As she rode away, her mind was consumed by frantic prayers for protection, begging the Creator to never allow her paths to cross with that man again.
Even though the tainted food she had consumed the previous day had caused her severe abdominal distress and completely purged her system, it hadn't stopped her from feeling a very real, deep-seated terror toward him. He was, without a doubt, a fundamentally evil entity.
The moment she arrived home, she found that her younger brother had successfully retrieved her motorcycle from the repair shop. She felt an immense wave of relief, realizing she now had her own independent means of transport to completely avoid ever stepping foot inside the luxury car of Aisha's terrifying fiancé.

AYODELE: The Hidden Portrait and the Cemetery Rescue

The moment I stepped across the threshold into our house, I caught Momah sitting tightly over a vintage wooden chest on her woven mat. The second her eyes met mine, a look of panic crossed her face; she slammed the box shut, hurried into the bedroom, and frantically shoved it deep under the bed frame.
I didn't challenge her or say a single word. I quietly changed out of my nursing uniform and stepped back outside. A powerful spiritual intuition was screaming at me to head straight to the cemetery, prompting me to hail a taxi and give the driver precise directions. My soul recognized the path seamlessly, following the exact route that had been laid out before my eyes in the dream realm.
I stood at a calculated distance from the gravesites. A massive crowd of mourners had gathered, lowering a body into the earth. I scanned the area intensely, searching for the exact location of the innocent girl.
Suddenly, a blood-curdling spiritual shriek pierced the air toward my left. I spun around, noticing an older, isolated section of graves. My spiritual vision locked onto her living form inside the shroud, while a group of the neighborhood's wicked old sorcerers stood in a tight circle, eagerly waiting for the crowd to disperse so they could desecrate the grave and launch their assault.
Without opening my mouth to utter a physical sound, I unleashed a powerful spiritual projection, summoning their phantoms directly toward me. A look of sudden terror flashed across their faces as they looked around in confusion. Without granting them a single second to coordinate an attack, my spirit self lunged forward, engaging them in a vicious, high-stakes spiritual battle until I completely overpowered them, forcing them to scatter and flee into the shadows.
In that exact instant, my consciousness snapped back to physical reality. Nearby, some of the mortal gravediggers who were covering the shroud suddenly gasped, recoiling in absolute shock as they shouted, "By God, she is completely alive!"
Hearing their frantic shouts, I quietly turned around and slipped away into the distance, completely unnoticed.
When I finally arrived back home, Momah was occupied in the bathroom taking a bath. Seizing the golden opportunity, I slipped into her room, reached under the bed, and pulled out the mysterious wooden chest.
I flipped the lid open. My eyes instantly locked onto an old, faded photograph inside. In an instant, a blinding, violent pain shot through my skull, making my head spin wildly as the hidden truth of my identity began to unravel...
In the photograph, I could easily recognize Momah, despite her youthful features. She was holding a baby girl in her arms whose hair had been styled into a distinct traditional topknot (tozo). Standing right beside her was a massive, powerfully built older man—a warrior whose commanding aura practically radiated from the paper.
What struck me most was their extraordinary attire. It wasn't made of modern fabric; instead, they wore garments crafted from expertly treated animal hides that stopped mid-thigh, topped with intricate layers of woven fibers that resembled coconut husks (zaren kwakwa).
My head throbbed intensely as I struggled to process the imagery. Suddenly, the distinct sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor behind me. Panting with adrenaline, I quickly tossed the photograph back inside the chest and scrambled to secure the lock.
"Ayodele, what exactly are you doing in here?" Momah's sharp voice cut through the silence.
I stood up abruptly, keeping my voice as flat as possible. "Nothing, Momah."
She fixed me with a highly suspicious, interrogating stare, but I brushed past her into the courtyard, my heart hammering against my ribs. Is this warrior truly my biological father? What kind of ancient, pagan land is this where people dress like ancient tribal warriors? When will Momah finally take me to him? I want to meet my father, the chaotic thoughts echoed in my mind as I collapsed against the hard clay wall, hot, silent tears streaming down my cheeks.
"I am heading out to the market; I'll be back shortly," Momah announced. She clearly saw the tears tracking down my face, but she intentionally chose not to ask a single question as she walked out.
A few minutes later, as if struck by a sudden afterthought, she abruptly marched back through the front gates. "Get up. We are going together."
I wiped my face, tied my headscarf, and slipped on my shoes. Momah locked the bedroom and the main gates, and we made our way into the bustling market. The moment we crossed into the crowded stalls, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up as my spiritual senses flared to life.
As I stood by a stall, my eyes locked onto a young girl leading an elderly man through the crowds, operating as beggars. The girl kept chanting, "Please, give us charity for the sake of God and His Prophet!" I watched them closely as they brought their routine to a halt right in front of a woman selling dried moringa leaves (busasar zogale).
Driven by an unstoppable urge, I took two swift strides forward and violently grabbed the old man's wrist. He gasped in shock, staring at me with wide eyes. His eyes were perfectly functional—his blindness was a complete and utter lie.
"What do you think you are doing? Why are you sticking your hand inside her metal money box?" I demanded fiercely.
The man completely lost his composure, trembling in fear. "Please, have mercy on me, my daughter! It is absolute desperation and poverty that forced me into this lifestyle!"
"You mean it's fraud! Looking at you, anyone would be consumed by pity, yet you are utilizing powerful optical illusions (maganin rufa ido) to rob and exploit the innocent servants of God!"
Tears began to spill from his eyes. "I only did it to feed my family, not out of malice. I give you my solemn promise, I will never practice this deception again from this day forward!"
I released his wrist. One bizarre detail I immediately noted was that despite our loud, dramatic confrontation, not a single person standing around us in the crowded market could see or hear our interaction. I looked around and spotted Momah a short distance away, quickly rushing over to rejoin her.
As we walked down a narrow alleyway, a young boy suddenly collapsed hard onto the ground right in front of us. Filled with deep compassion, I lifted him up and asked, "Why are you crying so bitterly?"
He pointed down the lane, but his voice was completely choked by heavy, violent sobs. Holding his small hand, I followed his direction until we came to a halt in front of a vendor’s stall.
I looked at the merchant, but my eyes were instantly drawn to a small wooden wheelbarrow filled with yams. My expression hardened. Looking at the vendor, I asked coldly, "What did you do to this boy to make him cry like this?"
The man completely ignored me, treating me like a nuisance. Infuriated by his arrogance, I unleashed a powerful, echoing spiritual cry that instantly drew the undivided attention of everyone in the vicinity. Within seconds, a massive crowd gathered around us, demanding to know what was wrong.
"Tell everyone exactly what happened," I instructed the boy.
By the power of the Almighty, the boy’s voice cleared, echoing loudly so the entire crowd could hear: "My twin sister and I were walking past when this man called us over, offering to give us some chocolate. I refused to go, but my sister Amra ran over to accept it. The moment she touched it, she was instantly transformed into one of these yams!"
"Lailahailallah!" the crowd erupted in collective horror.
The vendor fiercely denied the accusation, shouting, "This child is fabricating a malicious lie against me! I have been running my legitimate yam business here for years; have I ever been accused of such a thing? Go ahead then, boy—show us exactly which yam you claim is your biological sister!"
With childhood innocence, the boy stepped forward and pointed directly at a small, isolated yam at the bottom of the pile. The vendor sneered, grabbing a large kitchen knife to slice it open.
I began to clap my hands in a slow, mocking rhythm. "I salute you, the grand master of deception! You think your advanced transmutational sorcery (masanya) can shield you? Go ahead and slice that specific yam, let's see what happens!" I commanded, staring directly at the yam, which my eyes clearly perceived as a helpless four-year-old girl.
The vendor swallowed hard, a thick wave of sweat breaking across his forehead. I barked with a thunderous authority, "Slice it, I said! Or should I personally call the police to handle you?!"
His eyes narrowed as he prepared to talk his way out, but the surrounding crowd cut him off, fiercely screaming at him to slice the yam or face immediate street justice. His hands shaking uncontrollably, he lowered the knife toward the skin of the vegetable.
"Not there!" I warned. But it was too late; his blade cut deep, and a thick stream of dark human blood instantly sprayed across the stall.
The vendor burst into hysterical tears, completely broken. Someone in the crowd frantically summoned the market police. Under the intense weight of the crowd's fury, the dark magic dissolved, and the yam shifted back into the form of the little girl, though the knife had severely sliced right across her eye.
I quickly tore a piece of fabric from my headscarf, tightly binding her wound to stem the bleeding. The police officers aggressively apprehended the sorcerer, insisting that both the boy and the injured girl accompany them to the station until their parents could be contacted.
I turned around to find Momah, but she had completely vanished into the market crowds. Left with no choice, I made my way back home alone.
I sat by the threshold of our door, waiting for her return. Driven by a sudden, irresistible urge, I walked over to the corner of the yard and dug up the muddy earth where I had buried the turtle artifact. To my surprise, it was fully alive, looking slightly exhausted but visibly larger in size. I covered it back up with the dirt, securing its prison.
As I sat back down, a taxi pulled up to the gate, and Momah stepped out. We carried the market bags inside in a suffocating, tense silence; she refused to utter a single syllable to me, clearly burning with pure rage.
"Mom..."
"Shut your mouth!" she shrieked, turning on me fiercely. "So you absolutely cannot see a single thing without interfering, can you?! The entire market is buzzing with talk about you! Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out what you did? The rumors have already reached our neighborhood! Now our names are being dragged through the dirt, exposed on a silver platter for everyone to scrutinize, despite every single warning I have drilled into your head! You have truly done a terrible thing!" She slammed her bedroom door shut.
A deep chill washed over my entire body. I whispered aloud to the empty room, "I swear by God, from this day forward, I will never involve myself in the affairs of anyone else. Even if they are being actively destroyed right in front of my face, I will remain entirely silent and let them die."
Just as Momah had predicted, the news of the market incident spread through our neighborhood like wildfire. The townspeople began to openly brand me as a dangerous witch (mayya). Their existing doubts regarding my miraculous revival of Zeinab flared back to life. Now that I had exposed a powerful transmutational sorcerer in the market, their primary question was simple: If she doesn't possess a third eye and walk in the dark world herself, how could a normal human being perceive things that remain completely hidden from mortal eyes?
This widespread revelation deeply infuriated the rest of the hidden sorcerers residing in our neighborhood. Gathering in the shadows, they took a solemn, collective oath to completely humiliate and expose me in the presence of the entire public.

The Gathering Storm

The following morning was Friday. I had spent the entire night wallowing in deep bitterness over the cold, disrespectful way Aisha had treated me the previous day. I had tried calling her phone repeatedly to give her a piece of my mind (na wanke ta tasss), but my calls couldn't go through.
The moment I arrived at the hospital gates, I spotted her standing by the entrance next to a car, a massive, glowing smile plastered across her face. She was clearly bidding a lengthy farewell to Mansur, who was relaxing in the driver's seat with one leg casually resting outside the door.
Suppressing the irritation in my chest, I walked past them and muttered, "Good morning to you both, enjoy your chat."
If a dry leaf on a tree could talk, then they responded to me—they completely ignored my existence. Thinking they simply hadn't heard me, I paused and joked, "Is the romance really this intense?" Mansur merely cast a cold glance at me without saying a word, while Aisha refused to even turn her head to acknowledge me.
Seeing the blatant, deliberate disrespect they had subjected me to, I marched straight into the hospital corridors, muttering under my breath, "Just you wait, Aisha... you will eventually have to face me in there."
"Ayodele, what on earth are you muttering about all by yourself?" Fatima asked as I walked into the nurses' lounge.
"It's Aisha! Just because she is standing in front of her wealthy fiancé, she completely ignored my greeting and treated me like trash," I grumbled.
"Really? That's strange, because Mansur and I just exchanged very pleasant greetings outside."
"Hmph!" was all I could manage as I tossed my bag onto the desk and threw on my white medical coat.
We were deep into our morning rounds by the time Aisha finally sauntered into the ward. I could hear Dr. Jaleel giving her a severe reprimand for her lateness, while she offered a string of polite apologies.
Adopting a playful, teasing tone, I stepped up beside her. "Wow, I actually thought you were going to extend that silent treatment to Dr. Jaleel as well! But of course, your wealthy protector isn't standing here right now."
She whipped her head around, glaring at me with a cold, piercing intensity before completely ignoring me and walking away.
From that day forward, a silent, psychological war commenced between Aisha and me. Before long, the entire hospital staff noticed the immense friction. Dr. Haleema eventually called us into her private office, delivering a long, motherly lecture on teamwork and peace, but it was entirely in vain; Aisha continued to treat me like a stranger.
Whenever we sat in a group, she would warmly shake hands and chat with every single colleague, but the moment she reached my seat, she would explicitly skip over me. While I initially tried to make excuses for her behavior, my patience eventually ran dry. I dusted off my own armor of hostility; after all, I was naturally a fierce, short-tempered woman of the highest order when provoked.
With only three days remaining until her grand wedding, I overheard her gushing to Fatima in the lounge: "My groom is completely desperate for the wedding day to arrive. You know how much emotional hardship he endured in the past just to win my heart? Now, the time has finally arrived for him to fulfill his ultimate desire."
Fatima smiled. "And look at you, bursting with excitement! I honestly cannot wait for us to officially hand you over to Mansur's house so our minds can finally rest."
"Oh, I am more than ready, I swear!" Aisha beamed.
"Ayodele, are you hearing how modern girls talk about marriage?" Fatima called out, trying to draw me into the conversation. The moment my name was pronounced, I distinctly heard Aisha let out a loud, aggressive click of her tongue (ta ja tsuki).
I stopped filling out my medical charts, slammed the folder onto the desk, and locked eyes with her. "Who exactly was that attitude directed at?"
Silence filled the room; Aisha refused to offer a response. I stood up, my anger flaring. Fatima quickly stepped between us, pleading, "For God's sake, Ayodele, please drop it! You can clearly see she didn't say she was directing it at you."
"Then who else is she clicking her tongue at?!"
"She didn't name you. Aisha, please just gather your things and head home, since our shift is officially over anyway," Fatima instructed. As if she had been waiting for that exact cue, Aisha grabbed her handbag and swept out of the room.
Fatima spent the next fifteen minutes calming my anger, earnestly begging me to overlook the hostility and attend the wedding to prove that I was the bigger person. After she departed, I finally finished my paperwork and walked out to the main lobby.
"Hey there, young lady?"
I turned around in surprise, my eyes widening as I recognized the driver of the white private car who had dropped me off the previous day. "You?"
"Yes, it's me! I came down to visit a close friend of mine who works here. I had no idea you were a nurse at this exact hospital."
"Yes, I am. Who did you come to see?"
"Dr. Jaleel..."