SAMEERAH'S P.O.V
Miserable. Miserable is what I am. One whole week and baba won't even let me see him. We talk on the phone all the time but you know it's not the same. I miss eating with him, bantering with him, I miss him.
I've cried a lot. I cry when I remember Hammad. I cry when I remember Aisha and I cry when I remember my baby. My hands instinctively moved to my stomach. Why are all these things happening? We were good. We were doing just fine. This is all my fault. If I had let him fire Aisha, it would have been different. But ofcourse, I had to "give her a chance" and now we are all paying a price. A heavy price.
How could she do that to me? What kind of person will do that to another? She has successfully sent me to the hospital twice. Allah ka isan mun.
My phone rings. No caller id so I ignore it. I'm in no mood to speak to anyone at the moment. They called again, and again, and again. The persistence was annoying so I wiped my tears away and picked up the call.
" good afternoon ma'am. This is Michealson Frank from the Nigerian road safety Corp. You husband has been involved in car crash. I'm sorry but he died on the spot. I got this phone off him I called you" And just like that, my whole world came crashing down. It was as if my heart was viciously ripped out of my chest. I was numb.
Instinctively, i dressed and rushed out the back door. Ignoring the driver's protest, I took baba's car and sped of. For some reason, the tears won't fall. My heart was heavy but my tears won't pour. It's like I was waiting for confirmation. It can be true right?
I'm dreaming. Or hallucinating. Please God let me be hallucinating.
All the while, my heart was beating a tattoo against my ribcage. I tear slipped down my face.
I arrived at the hospital in fifteen minutes and quickly located my caller. I hurriedly walked behind the doctor and the corp marshal as they took me to the morgue to see my husband's corpse. Inalillahi wa inna ilaihirrajiun. Please Hammad no. You can't do this to me. Tears began streaming down my face as my heart squeezed painfully.
He was lying tall on a stretcher with a white cloth covering him up entirely. I shattered. I screamed, hoping to get oxygen back into my lungs because breathing became like sucking concrete through a straw.
Inalillahi wa inna ilaihirrajiun. I wheezed as I walked up to the stretcher and lifted the cloth.
His face was battered but not unrecognisable since most of the blood had been cleaned. He was still and emotionless. He looked like he was in a deep sleep and a light tap could wake him up.
But the man is dark instead of caramel. He has a clean shave instead of a beard. He is bald in contrast to Hammad's dense curls. This man is most definitely not Hammad. The relief that teared through me is not quantifiable.
"Excuse me, there's some kind of mix up. This isn't m-my husband " I stammered the last part. Both men stared at me like I was growing an extra head.
"But the phone-" the marshal started
"Must have belonged to the second man. The one in the I.C.U"
"I.C.U?" I ask.
"Yes. The second victim is in the I.C.U" you can't imagine the speed I took off with but stopped and turned.
"What room number?"
"225" mine was 230. I opened the door and he was lying lifeless if not for the rise and fall of his chest. His right leg was up in a sling, he had a neck brace, a large bandage around his bare chest, a cast on his left arm and tubes in his mouth and nose. A gasp punctuated my breath at the sight of him. My heart squeezed more at the thought of what his going through.
