Our Stormy Ride

*16 °Calming Tempers

Jamal

Things haven't been pitch perfect for the past few days, as tension still sizzles and sparks in the air. Words left unsaid, compromises refusing to be made, and tempers; boiling and raging like the quiet sea.
Aunty Asma'u has been trying to get us to talk, but no one is willing. Mom's threatening words ring in my ears still, and though it's been two days, the effect hasn't worn off. I still get a chilling cold whenever I think about her words.
You'll do so without my presence and blessings.
It's like a silent curse, a dare that cannot be challenged. How could she say that? What's a wedding without the parents' approval?

I drop my head in my hands, groaning in frustration. How fast things change, how quick they go down the drain.
I'm yet to even tell Badra about it all and I have no idea how she'll take it.
Not well at all, my brain prods.

I may not be the best of all Muslims, obviously my faith isn't that strong. Something mom and dad think a wife will make better.

I snort, what are they going to do now?, put up an advert that says 'Pious Single Woman needed! Please drop number here!', or perhaps they'll go from house to house, spreading the news about searching for a wife for their dear son.

Okay Jamal, now you're just being silly. Though that's something my dad's sisters could do, the sort of crazy aunts I've got.
Yesterday, mom had come back home smiling. She'd managed to tell dad about reconnecting with a long lost friend, and how much her daughters have grown.
I kept on thinking she might have said something to them, maybe laid out a proposal already, considering how happy she was. Like a hunter who'd finally found a great catch.

I flip over the pages of the book I'm reading, the same one I'd gotten from Badra. I've found it immensely educative, religion-wise and I keep going back to the Qur'an for references.
Stephen had gone on the first official trip to S.A for the contract yesterday. I'd begged him to go first, maybe bribed a little because I couldn't go, not with the current situation at home.
It's a good thing South Africa is his motherland, his father a Swahili and his mom a Nigerian. He'd lived there as a child and preteen, and moved here when his mom starting receiving threats as Xenophobia was in reign. Now he's married to an Igbo woman and has 3 kids.
His mom had gone back to S.A eventually, accepting it as her home and Stephen makes it a point to visit with his wife and kids during the holidays.

Mom's laughter brings me back to the present, as her voice reverberates across the house. I wonder who she's talking to. She's been on the phone for minutes now in her room, discussing with someone animatedly. I close the book and drop it on the bedside drawer, deciding to mess around with my iPad.

Something to do to get my mind off things. Mom hasn't said a single word to me since that night, and no matter how hard I try to make her crack a smile, she just frowns and leaves the room. Typical Nigerian mothers, they want you to grovel at their feet before forgiving you.
But not for long though, she'll give up soon. Dad's mellow about it, handling it like a father does.

Mom knows I hate the silent treatment she's giving me and I don't like her being mad at me either, but this time, my precious mother is just being stubborn. They know I'd go to the end of the world if they asked me to, because when it comes to my parents, I'm as helpless as a baby fawn. Which is why I'm here in the first place. I'd tried getting her to talk to me yesterday, but she chose to act like I didn't exist, not even bothering to reply my greetings.