Beau Monde ✅

Chapter 8

Ayaan Fadel.

Maroudi, Nigeria.

Getting Basma Wambai on board was simply the beginning of my plan. There's a lot more to come. I wasn't surprised it went according to plan, and at the same time, I wasn't exactly relieved.

I've been in this position long enough to know the beginning is always the easy part. For now, everything I'll do for a little while longer will all be termed as the 'easy' part of the whole ordeal.

Even as I strolled down the stone path leading to the backyard, with Basma strolling quietly beside me, I didn't have any worries regarding it. From the corner of my eyes, I could see her straightening her spine, and squaring her shoulders. She tries to hide it, but I could tell she was nervous.

I can't say I understand the feeling exactly. But at the same time, I can't blame her.

The sun was up, though the weather is still pretty chill. This has to be one of my favorite things about Maroudi—the weather is unlike any other. Given, there are days when the temperature is excessively high, such that the sun becomes relentless when giving heat. As well, there are days as well when the temperature drops, and the arctic coldness engulfs the entire place.

Yet, there are days where it lies in the middle. The sun would be up, accompanied by the clouds giving warmth and at the same time, it won't be blazing. The air would be chilly, leaving one yearning for it to remain constant.

This weather brings back memories to me. It brings back days I wished I could turn back time to live in.

The sight of the couple up ahead pierced into those memories I keep locked and hidden deep down, and without a warning whatsoever, roughly tugs at it till it shattered into pieces with no hopes of repair.

I blew out a small, barely visible breath as we reached where they stood, donning warm smiles as they moved their gaze from me, to the woman beside me. My lips stretched into a small, ghost smile as their eyes met mine again. "As promised, meet Basma Wambai." I gestured with my hand to her.

Immediately, she crouched low—taking me by surprise. "Barka da safe." She greeted in Hausa, the words flowing past her lips smoothly in a normal Hausa accent. "I hope you're both well, Mr. and Mrs. Fadel."

They both shifted their gaze from her, and then gave me a curious look—obviously taken aback by her showcase of culture.

I would be lying is I say I wasn't impressed, and I didn't hide it. When our eyes met, I simply gave them a curt, barley noticeable, go-ahead nod though they got it. In spite of their initial shock, I knew they were as impressed as I was.

Don't get me wrong, from what I know about Basma, she seems like the type that was overly invested in the western culture. She didn't seem like the type that would still honor her culture as a Hausa woman from Arewa—considering Maroudi is one of the States in Northern Nigeria.

So, you can imagine my surprise. Especially since it doesn't seem like she's faking it.

Trust me, I can tell when someone is faking something. I'm an expert in that field.

I could tell she isn't.

See this is other side of Basma that people are yet to see, or may never even see. It is as well a reason why you shouldn't believe everything you see about people on the Internet or the news.

"Alhamdullilah. Tashi kinji." The older woman's warm tone reached my ears, snapping me out of the little stray of thought. I blinked, and shifted my gaze back to the trio just in time Basma got on her feet, offering them both a small smile. "How are you my dear?"