WHATEVER, POLICE OFFICER

Fifteen.

ADAMAWA STATE, NIGERIA.

Fortunately, she drove back home drunk and without causing an accident. What an ill fate she's got. When she was sober and perfectly in a good big mood, she had to cause an accident but when she got all batshit drunk beyond recognition, she drove herself home safely. Or is it because she has a lot to say to her father?

Her drunken walks came to a halt in front of her father's room, she stared blankly at the frost soundproof elegant door in front of her. She didn't know what to do for a second there, just stood and watched as the remains of her perfected cerebrum worked on it's own, without the help of her inebriated and intoxicated head. She was grateful for the best side of her that knocked hard on the door.

Normally, she is never one to go to her father's room for any reason. Whenever they are supposed to meet, they'd meet outside the wing or whenever they bumped into one another. He is hardly home, stay off in abroad and sometimes with his wife and her half siblings. She'd say it hurts, but then she doesn't have any right to feel so. Then again, why does it hurt so fucking much that she wants to cry her eyes out?

What the heck! Just with that thought, her head began turning in wicked circle, monochrome. Emotions whirled around her like a tsunami, she didn't know which of them to carry out. They are too much, mending in the same colour like those in magnetic field. It makes her head ache and brain to pound if that were possible. She hates how she feels, it is frustrating her.

Just when she was about to change her mind, the door got yanked open by her father and nostalgia hit her all over.

Her eyes watered, a slight smile curved her lips in wonder, she cocked her head to the side for more focus. Her eyes even brightened for a nanosecond when she remembered one of the memories she's held dear to her, to impress her that her father was not a monster then and that he'd loved her. She has a photo from that memory or she wouldn't have believed it herself.

This excited weird flutter rumbled in her belly. The desire to desperately clutch onto that father he was and revisit those memories time and time again swept her off her feet. It keeps proliferating and augmenting, sucking her into it's abysmal debt. That was not what she is there for, she is there for business and business she shall talk.

"Hi there, father..." She waved her fingers in front of him, casually slinging off the cap of her liquor to the end of the corridor where she's sure maids are waiting to sweep off.

Her father, Alhaji Musa Babagana is standing in all his glory of five feet six, not very tall but not short either. His aristocratic nose is straight and not in anyway crooked from any side, giving him half mark on his face. His lips are full like hers, skin dark just like hers and his eyes, they are almond but same colour as her own! It's practical that this man is her father even if she doesn't want to believe it a-times.

He came out wearing one of his many thobes knowing no one other than his children will visit his wing and have the audacity to knock him off his comfort zone. Fatima never tried that so the look of surprise on his face didn't shock her, why would it? Nothing he's done had ever shocked her, it galvanises her in ways she can't verbalize.

His head is bald, concealing the white hair growing but his face showed the signs of aging. Whatever age it is, he is still a man who many women on social media crush on. They like her father, it makes her nauseous to even think about what they see in him. Or is it because he is her father? Or because he is not kind to her?

"...No, don't even say anything." She stopped him from talking, his mouth has opened to say something before it pursed to the side. "What is it that your children call you?" She used her forefinger to hit her cheek in wondering gesture.