From Strangers to Soulmates

Chapter 4

The afternoon sun poured lazily through Amna’s window, streaking the white curtains with soft golden light. The faint hum of the standing fan mixed with the distant chirping of birds perched on the mango tree outside. It was quiet, almost too quiet, until the sudden rumble of an engine broke the calm.

Curious, Amna rose from where she’d been sitting cross-legged on her bed, her fingers wrapped around a book she hadn’t really been reading. She moved closer to the window and peeked out through the lace curtains.

A sleek black Toyota Highlander rolled through the compound gate and came to a smooth stop near the veranda. The car gleamed under the sunlight —polished, dignified, and unfamiliar.

Her brows furrowed slightly. Who could that be?

Her curiosity deepened when she remembered how unusually cheerful Hajiya Fadimatu had been since yesterday. There had been laughter, actual laughter, in the house the night before. She had even complimented the maids and hummed softly while on the phone.

That alone was enough to make Amna uneasy.

Hajiya Fadimatu was not the type to smile unless she had a reason. And for her to be this radiant, something or someone special was definitely coming.

Maybe one of her relatives, Amna thought. Or one of those businesswomen she’s always gossiping with on the phone.

Before she could see who the visitors were, a familiar sharp voice cut through her thoughts.

“Amna! Amna!”

Her name echoed down the hallway.

Amna sighed softly. “Coming, Hajiya,” she called back, quickly adjusting her scarf and heading out of the room.

When she entered the kitchen, she found her stepmother standing near the counter, surveying the dishes laid out in front of her with a critical eye. Pots of jollof rice, fried fish, and pepper soup sat steaming, while bottles of juice and soft drinks lined the side table.

The rich aroma filled the air — spicy, mouthwatering, and perfect for impressing guests.

Hajiya didn’t look up immediately. “You did a good job, Amna,” she said, her tone carrying an unfamiliar note of approval. “I’m pleased with what I see. Keep it up. At least I now know I didn’t raise an empty head.”

Amna blinked, slightly taken aback. It was rare, very rare, for Hajiya to praise her. Usually, the woman only saw faults, never efforts.

“Thank you, Hajiya,” Amna murmured, lowering her gaze respectfully.

“Hmm.” Hajiya clasped her hands behind her back, pacing slowly. “Now, the reason I called you is to tell you to behave yourself in front of my guests. Hajiya Binta and her husband are coming. They're very close friends of mine, and her husband happens to be your father’s childhood friend. They haven’t been in touch for years, so I doubt you know them.”

Amna nodded quietly.

“They have two children, Mubarak and Aisha. I repeat,” Hajiya’s tone hardened slightly, “behave yourself. No unnecessary talking, no clumsy movements, no staring at people. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Hajiya.”

“Good. Now take these dishes to the dining room. Arrange everything neatly. I want it to be perfect before they arrive. After that, come to the sitting room to greet them.”

With that, Hajiya turned on her heel and glided out of the kitchen, the soft swish of her abaya echoing behind her.

Amna took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. She was used to Hajiya’s tone; strict, commanding, yet disciplined in her own way. Despite the woman’s cruelty at times, she never insulted Amna’s late mother, and for that, Amna held on to a quiet respect for her.

She began moving the food carefully, one dish at a time. Each step she took was measured, precise, she knew how Hajiya could explode over the smallest mistake.

After setting the final bowl of soup in place, she wiped her hands on a napkin and looked around the dining room. Everything gleamed, from the glass cups to the polished wooden chairs. She smiled faintly to herself. Perfect.

But her moment of calm didn’t last long.

From the living room came the sound of laughter, unfamiliar voices mixed with Hajiya’s own. They’re here already.

She smoothed her veil, took a deep breath, and walked toward the sound.

When she stepped into the sitting room, the first thing that hit her was the warmth, laughter, conversation, and the faint smell of expensive perfume that hung in the air.

Then she saw him.

Her breath caught.

Sitting across from her father’s friend was a young man, tall, well-built, dressed in a simple white kaftan that somehow looked elegant on him. His jawline was sharp, his eyes dark and intense. But what made Amna freeze wasn’t his looks.

It was the fact that she knew that face.

Her heart gave a small jolt.

It was him.

The same man she’d bumped into weeks ago at the airport, the one who had called her a “stupid fool.”

For a moment, the room faded into the background. She could only see him. The shock was so strong she forgot to greet.

She quickly lowered her gaze before anyone noticed her hesitation.

“Good afternoon, aunty. Good afternoon, uncle,” she said softly, addressing the elders first. Her voice was calm, respectful, and steady, though her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” Hajiya Binta said warmly. Her husband chuckled, nodding.

“Good afternoon, my child,” he echoed, making everyone laugh lightly. Their gentle humor made Amna relax just a bit.

Then Mubarak looked up.

The sound of her voice, that soft, steady tone, made his head turn instinctively. His eyes landed on her, and recognition hit him instantly.

Her.

The clumsy girl from the airport.

His lips curled slightly, not in a smile, but something close to disbelief. You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought. Of all the houses in Abuja…

She was standing there, trying to look composed, pretending not to notice him. The nerve.

Amna turned slightly toward him and gave a polite smile. “Good afternoon, ya (brother),” she said gently.

He didn’t reply. He only nodded, his expression unreadable, and shifted his gaze to his sister beside him.

Inside, however, he was seething. How could someone so clumsy and careless be this calm now? He didn’t know what it was, irritation, pride, or something else, but everything about her seemed to get under his skin.

Aisha, his younger sister, glanced up from her phone when Amna greeted her. The girl smiled faintly but didn’t return the greeting. “No need for formalities,” she said lightly. “We’re almost the same age, aren’t we?”

Amna only smiled politely, refusing to take offense. “Yes, maybe,” she replied softly.

The conversation in the room continued as Hajiya Binta and Hajiya Fadimatu chatted animatedly, reminiscing about old memories. The two men, Amna’s father and Alhaji Faruq, joined in, their laughter occasionally filling the space.

Mubarak sat quietly, responding when spoken to but keeping his eyes away from Amna. She sat at the far corner, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Occasionally, their eyes met, only for a second, but each time it happened, both looked away quickly, pretending it didn’t.

After some time, Amna stood and excused herself quietly. “Please, if you’ll excuse me,” she said softly.

Her father nodded approvingly, and she left the room, her heart pounding.

Once inside her room, she shut the door gently and leaned against it, exhaling deeply. Her chest felt tight.

What is wrong with me? she wondered. Why does he affect me like this?

She sat down on her bed, pressing a hand to her heart as if she could calm its wild rhythm. That was only the second time she had seen him and both times had left her shaken.

He wasn’t just handsome; there was something else about him, something she couldn’t explain. A quiet intensity, a presence that lingered.

But she reminded herself of one truth she knew well, men like him never looked at girls like her twice.

So she pushed the thought away and busied herself with arranging her books, pretending to read while her mind wandered back to his face.

Downstairs, Mubarak pretended to listen to the conversation, but his thoughts kept drifting. Every time he tried to focus, her face flashed in his mind, the same innocent eyes that had looked up at him at the airport.

He clenched his jaw. Of all places, why here?

His mother noticed his distracted look and nudged him lightly. “What’s wrong, my son? You’ve been quiet.”

“Nothing, Mama,” he said, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

But the truth was far from that.

For reasons he didn’t understand — or want to understand — that girl had gotten into his head. And he hated it.

Hours later, as the sun began to set, Mubarak and his family prepared to leave. The visit had gone well; laughter echoed through the house, and promises of future visits were exchanged.

To everyone else, it had been a lovely reunion.

To Mubarak, it had been a test of patience.

As they stepped into the car, he looked back once, just briefly, toward the house. He didn’t know why, but something in his chest stirred annoyance, confusion, curiosity, maybe all three.

He turned away sharply, shaking off the thought.

In the days to come, he would tell himself he didn’t care about that girl, that she was just another forgettable face.

But deep down, even he knew that was a lie.