Humaira's POV
A scream pierced the quiet morning.
I bolted upright, my heart pounding. The warmth of my blanket fell away as I scrambled to my feet, barely registering the soft carpet beneath me. The call to Fajr had barely faded from the air, yet fear gripped me before I could even offer my prayers.
It was my mother's voice.
I grabbed my hijab and rushed out of my room, my mind racing with possibilities. Was it an accident? A break-in? My feet barely touched the stairs as I flew down, the scent of jasmine trailing after me.
In the dim glow of the hallway light, I found her—kneeling on the floor, her body trembling. Her arms clutched my father's unmoving form.
"Ummah?" My voice came out as a whisper, but she didn't respond.
My father's face was pale, his eyes closed, his chest terrifyingly still.
"No, no, no," I murmured, dropping to my knees beside them. "Abba—wake up. Please."
The sight before me froze me in place.
My mother knelt beside him, her face contorted in anguish, her hands trembling as she shook him. "Baba Humaira Wake up, please," she begged, her voice breaking, her cries raw and desperate.
A chill wrapped around me. My breath hitched. This wasn't just a bad dream. It was real.
I felt a wave of panic wash over me, but I instinctively whispered "Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un" - To Allah we belong, and to Him we shall return. The familiar words of the Quran brought me a sense of solace and calm, reminding me that Allah is always with us, even in the most difficult times.
Immediately, I rushed outside and called out to Mallam Jamilu, our driver, who was already on his way to the house. "Mallam Jamilu, please! We need to get my father to the hospital!" I exclaimed.
Mallam Jamilu quickly pulled up in the car, and together we carefully placed my father in the back seat. My mother climbed in beside him, cradling his head in her lap as she stroked his face. "Ya Allah, help us," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Babban Humaira, you can't leave us now." She paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, "Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un." Mallam Jamilu drove us to the hospital, his face set with concern as he navigated the roads.
At the hospital, the doctors rushed my father into the emergency ward, disappearing behind the heavy double doors.
Trapped in the waiting room, time crawled, each second stretching unbearably. My mother paced, wringing her hands, her face etched with worry, her eyes red and puffy from tears. I sat beside her, gripping her fingers, trying to steady both her trembling and my own.
"It's going to be okay, Ummah," I whispered, though I wasn't sure if I was reassuring her or myself.
She turned to me then, her face etched with fear, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so scared, Humaira. What if... what if he doesn't make it?"
Her words sliced through me, the possibility too painful to consider. I tightened my grip on her hand, willing my own fears to stay buried. "We have to believe he will," I said, forcing strength into my voice. "We just have to."
I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the slight tremble in her shoulders. "We'll get through this together, Ummah," I murmured, my voice steady despite the fear coiling in my chest. "We'll pray and trust in Allah's plan."
She clung to me, her silent sobs muffled against my shoulder. The sterile scent of the hospital, the distant hum of machines, and the quiet footsteps of nurses only heightened the unbearable weight of waiting.
After what felt like an eternity, the doors to the emergency ward swung open. A doctor stepped out, his white coat crisp, his expression unreadable.
He approached us, offering a small, reassuring nod. "I'm Dr. Abdullahi," he said, his voice calm yet firm. "Please, come with me."
My heart pounded as I exchanged a glance with Ummah. We followed him, our footsteps heavy with uncertainty, as he led us toward a quiet corner of the hospital.
Dr. Abdullahi took a deep breath before speaking.
"Your father has suffered a severe stroke," he explained, his words measured and calm. "The high blood pressure caused significant damage, and... he's paralyzed."
It felt like all the air had been knocked out of my lungs. My mother's grip tightened around my hand, her fingers cold and trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes, and the fear etched on her face mirrored the storm raging inside me.
Dr. Abdullahi continued, his voice steady yet gentle. "We're doing everything we can to help him recover. But we need to be realistic about his chances. The next 24 hours are crucial."
The words hung heavy in the air. I nodded, trying to process them, but they felt distant, like a cruel echo I wasn't ready to accept. Beside me, Ummah swayed slightly, her knees threatening to give way. I caught her before she could fall, wrapping my arms around her as if holding her together would somehow hold our world together too.
"Insha Allah, everything will be alright," I whispered, my voice wavering but full of desperate hope.
She didn't answer, only clung to me tighter. I held her close, feeling the tremor in her shoulders, the silent plea in her grip.
Dr. Abdullahi watched us for a moment before speaking, his voice steady yet gentle. "Your family will need strength in the days ahead."
---
Days blurred into weeks as my father remained in the hospital, undergoing treatment and therapy in his slow journey toward recovery. My mother and I spent every waking moment by his side—watching, waiting, whispering prayers—clinging to hope even as exhaustion threatened to consume us.
The hospital bills piled up, but we barely gave them a second thought. There was no room for worry—only the desperate need to see him open his eyes, to hear his voice again. We lived on autopilot, grabbing food from the hospital cafeteria when hunger became impossible to ignore, but nothing truly tasted right. Our world had shrunk to the sterile walls of the hospital, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the silent prayers we sent up, hoping for a miracle.
My mother occasionally stepped away to the hospital's mosque, seeking refuge in prayer. Each time she returned, a quiet serenity softened her features, though her red-rimmed eyes betrayed the depth of her sorrow. In those moments of supplication, it seemed she had unburdened her heart to Allah, drawing strength from His presence.
Like my mother, I found solace in prayer, my fingers gliding over the worn pages of the Quran as I recited Ya Sin and whispered Ya Hayyu Ya Qayyum, pleading for mercy, for guidance, for a miracle. Beside my father's still form, I held his hand, speaking to him softly, though he could not respond. Yet in that silence, I felt something greater—an unseen presence, a reminder that Allah was near.
Despite our efforts to remain hopeful, the weight of uncertainty was beginning to wear us down. My mother, usually so composed, looked exhausted—her face lined with worry, her movements slower than usual. The stress had taken its toll on her, and though she tried to stay strong, I could see the burden she carried in the tired slump of her shoulders.
I wanted to be strong for her, to be the pillar she had always been for me. But with each passing day, the weight of uncertainty grew heavier. The hospital room felt suffocating, the steady beeping of machines, the sterile scent of disinfectant, the quiet murmurs of nurses in the hallway. Time dragged endlessly, each second stretching into an eternity of worry.
Fear clawed at my chest, whispering worst-case scenarios I refused to acknowledge. But I couldn't afford to break down. Not now. Not when she needed me to hold on. So, I swallowed my fear, pushed aside my exhaustion, and clung to hope—because that was all we had left.
We were trapped in an endless waiting game, caught between fear and faith. Each day blurred into the next, filled with whispered prayers and cautious optimism. There were no guarantees, only the quiet resolve to take things one day at a time and believe in my father's recovery.
Life has a cruel way of reminding you how fragile happiness is. One moment, everything seems perfect—the sun is shining, the world is at peace, and you feel untouchable. Then, without warning, everything shatters.
That was how it felt when Abba fell ill.
I barely remembered the last time I had a proper meal, the last time I had slept without jolting awake in fear. The sight of Abba lying on that hospital bed, his once-strong frame weakened, haunted me. I clung to every reassuring word from the doctors, but deep down, I knew they were as uncertain as we were.
---
Today, after much reluctance, Ummah and I left the hospital to rest. Uncle Mukhtar stayed behind, promising to call if there were any changes. We knew we needed the break—our bodies screamed for it—but guilt gnawed at us as we stepped away.
The drive home was silent, filled only with the low hum of the car's engine and the weight of unspoken fears. I turned to glance at Ummah, noting the deep lines of exhaustion etched into her face. She stared out the window, lost in thought, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.
I wanted to say something—to offer comfort, to reassure her—but what could I say when I was just as terrified?
As we reached home, I stepped inside, feeling an odd mix of relief and sorrow. The house smelled the same, the furniture was untouched, and the chandelier still cast its golden glow over the marble floor. Yet, without Abba's presence, it felt empty.
Aisha, one of our maids, greeted us with a warm smile and a gentle salaam. The scent of freshly polished wood and traces of Ummah's favorite oud lingered in the air. For a fleeting moment, it felt like any other day. But the ache in my chest reminded me that nothing was the same anymore.
Sinking onto the sofa, I allowed myself a deep breath, trying to push back the exhaustion. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting soft shadows across the parlor. But even in the warmth of home, my thoughts drifted elsewhere.
My younger brothers, Abdulkareem and Qasim, were on a school excursion in Dubai, blissfully unaware of what was happening here. They were probably wandering through grand mosques, learning about the city's rich Islamic heritage, marveling at sights we had all once dreamed of seeing together.
A part of me envied them. They had no idea what awaited them when they returned—the heartbreak, the uncertainty, the weight of a reality they weren't prepared for.
For now, they were safe in their ignorance. But for how long?