DAULAH

The Villain, The Knight

"A true believer does not taunt or curse others or indulge in foul talk." – Prophet Muhammad "A good word is like a good tree, its root is firmly fixed, and its branches reach the sky." – Prophet Muhammad (SAW)

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DAULAH

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I am dreaming.

This cannot happen to me.

This is a dream.

But the intense pain on my finger, now sagged and bent unnaturally, connects me to reality, affirming that I am not dreaming, my finger has been broken, and I just stand there, staring at it in terror, wailing.

It is another day to realize what truly a shell this house is because my screams went to empty ears, where is anyone? Where is another single human being in this stupid big lonely house that would come to my aid? Who is coming to kill this man for me?

I see him nonchalantly turn around to leave me on the ground where he carelessly throws me after he committed the merciless act, unbothered by my shrill cries that come with the cuss words I accompanied him with until he is outside the house.

Someone is finally rushing to me and I turn around to discover it is one of the gate guards, likely the one on duty who was wandering on the other part of the house instead of being at his post to stop freaking finger breakers from leaving the house and fucking killing them.

"Hajiya are you okay?" He says frantically, towering over me while I am still sprawled on the floor, clutching my hurting hand with the other one and hollering.

"Do I fucking look okay to you?" I shout, unleashing my intense pain on him. "Where the the fuck were you?"

He shudders at my outrage and talks in stammer, "I...I am sorry ranki shi dade, I was cleaning the backyard and I heard you screaming. What happened to you?" His concern seems to stem more from fear for his job. Hajiya please what happened to you?" He asks.

"My finger got broken; that is what happened," I shout again, drawing his attention to my hand, which is now intensively throbbing and cradled against my chest.

"Subhanallah!" He exclaims, "Hajiya, how? Is Alhaji aware? Let me call him right away," He fishes his phone out of his pocket and I know he intends to call Abba. But I know for certain that Abba is out of coverage; his flight to Saudi took off a few hours ago.

"Will you just get the car keys from my room and drive me to a freaking hospital?" I say with gritted teeth because I have exhausted my vocal cords with all the loud noises I have been making. But my whole body is beginning to shiver now. The pain is taking a toll on it.

"Hajiya, I can't drive," he says despondently, and I close my eyes in frustration and agony. "But let me arrange a cab for you." He adds, rushing out.

Shortly after what seems like forever, he returns and I get seated in a tricycle urging the driver to drive as fast as possible. The idea of heading to the police station to file a report crosses my mind. But the stabbing pain in my finger, intensifying with every heartbeat and radiating throughout my body, indicates the need for immediate medical attention. Thus, I instruct the driver to take me to the nearest hospital.

The private clinic he makes a stop at is forced to treat my situation as a case of emergency because of the way I call their attention with my calling out for it. I am immediately ushered to the orthopedic department and a Doctor attends me with a proper diagnosis and the finger is immediately immobilized with a splint.