DAULAH

The Cost of Listening

"Don't ever be afraid of giving. Give. Give your time, your forgiveness, your understanding, your love. Give your money. Give out to the creation, and you will be given by the creator. Be generous, and the Most Generous will be generous with you"

Yasmin Mogahed

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MUKHTAR

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The cold metal of the dumbbells feels comforting against my palms as I move through the workout space I carved out in my apartment. With each lift, I channel my emotions into the rhythmic motion, the burn in my muscles a welcome distraction from the chaos of my mind. For me, working out isn't just about building physical strength, it is a moment where I can indulge in my emotions and find a semblance where I vent out the turmoil of my thoughts.

The knock on my door made me halt, and I wonder about who the unexpected visitor could be. I rarely have guests, especially in the evenings. And while Imran makes impromptu visits, I know he is currently out of town visiting home, Kaduna. With limited interactions with neighbors and a very small or no social circle here, a knock on my door should call for some curiosity.

Grabbing a sleeveless shirt from my bedroom, I shrug into it before making my way to the door. I turned the knob and I am caught by surprise by the person standing in front of it.

"Maymunah!?" I feel my brows furrow in surprise.

She adjusts her dark shades; "How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" Her tone is tern as she warns about that but her disapproval of how I choose to call her is the least I am paying mind to. How did she find my house? And what is she doing here? "So you're just going to let me stand here? Is that how you treat guests?" She takes a step in before I can respond and I had to step aside to give way for her uninvited intrusion.

I silently follow her with my gaze as she walks past me. "So this is where you live." She remarks, a statement that requires no response from me and so I refrain from giving her one. She stops in the middle of the living room, throwing her head around like she is inspecting it. There isn't much to inspect, just a sleek grey leather sofa arranged in an L shape, a flat-screen TV for my football matches, a matching dining table on the other side attached to the compact Kitchen, a book stand in one corner, and a collection of curated paintings against the wall.

I cross my arms on my chest as I blankly continue to watch her. I am a very patient man so I will give her five minutes to finish her survey and tell me what she is doing here. I have a strong resolve to keep away from this girl for the one reason that connotes a lot of it. And she just comes and barges into my space? I am baffled that she isn't even scared. I have hurt her for goodness' sake. Who comes to the person who inflicted such pain on them? What is the problem with her?

The paintings seem to catch her attention. Prompting her to approach them and remove her glasses to have a clearer look "Where do you get these from?" She asks, clearly engrossed in them, her face mirrors her fascination. She doesn't strike me as someone who appreciates that kind of art. She turns her head to me, "Didn't you hear? I asked where did you get your paintings from?"

"I made them," I offer.

"You did!" I saw the surprise and a hint of fascination flicker in her eyes and then she quickly masks her expression, concealing any sign of being impressed. I am not seeking compliments. I'd be more glad if she'd tell me why she's here, and her five minutes up.

"What are you doing here?"

She anticipates my question, a sly smile forming on her face. "You tell me," She says, slumming onto the sofa, her head raised to my profile. "What do you think brings me here, finger breaker?"