Chapter 8: A Forbidden Visit
1113 Words
The Sallah moon hung low and bright over Galan City, casting a silver glow that bathed the red rooftops and dusty streets. The night air was thick with celebration—the distant beat of drums and bursts of laughter floated on the breeze—but inside Amina’s heart, a different rhythm pulsed uneasy, relentless. Her breath caught in her throat as she sat in the dim light of the family compound, the festive feast untouched before her.
Her henna-stained hands trembled as she clutched her phone.
I am here. Behind the neem tree.
— Ishak
Fatima stood nervously by the back door, twisting the corner of her scarf with jittery fingers. “He’s really here, Amina. Are you sure about this? What if someone sees?”
Amina nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Her father was at the mosque for evening prayers, and her mother was distracted by a Hausa movie playing softly in the sitting room. It was now or never.
Fatima pushed the door open with a creak barely muffled. The night smelled of wet earth, mingled with the sharp scent of fried meat from the neighbors’ cooking fires. Shadows flickered as the single yellow bulb swung slowly from a crooked nail in the fence wall, casting long, wavering shapes on the sand beneath their feet.
Barefoot, Amina stepped outside, her heart thudding louder with every step toward the neem tree. The soft sand whispered beneath her feet. Then, like a phantom summoned from her dreams, Ishak emerged from the shadows.
He looked different—more regal in a flowing white boubou, a loosely tied blue turban wrapped around his neck. His eyes caught the faint light and glimmered with a mix of joy, relief, and a fragile hope she recognized all too well.
“I thought I was dreaming,” he murmured.
Amina swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “You crossed the Sahara for me?”
He nodded slowly, stepping closer. “I promised I would come when the moon is new.”
Between them stretched silence as delicate as glass. The neem leaves rustled softly in the warm breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a baby cried. For a moment, the rest of the world—Galan City, the watchful eyes of family and tradition—slipped away. It was just the two of them, caught in a fragile bubble of longing and forbidden hope.
Amina took a step forward, then another, until she stood mere inches from him. “What if someone sees you?”
“I’ll vanish into the night,” Ishak said with a small, rueful smile. “But I had to see you.”
Her heart twisted. “I’m glad you did.”
Before they could say more, the back door creaked again. Fatima peeked out, holding up a warning finger. “No one’s coming—but you don’t have much time.”
Amina nodded, glancing back at Ishak. “How did you find your way here to Galan City?”
He shrugged, eyes scanning the quiet street beyond. “Trade routes, old friends. I brought leather goods for the market—it’s common for a Tarik man to travel this path. But no one knows my real reason.”
She smiled despite herself. “And that is?”
He lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest. “You.”
They moved to sit behind the water tank, concealed by stacked firewood and banana leaves—a tiny island of safety in the night. Ishak carefully pulled a small cloth bundle from beneath his robe.
“I brought you something,” he said.
Amina raised a brow in surprise. “In the middle of the night?”
He grinned. “Yes. Open it.”
She untied the cloth and gasped. Inside laid a hand-bound journal, its pages yellowed and rough, decorated with Tarik symbols and careful English verses.
“I wrote these,” he explained softly. “Some are my own. Some from poets you mentioned. I tried to translate the ones I didn’t fully understand.”
Amina’s fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages. “Ishak… this is beautiful.”
He smiled shyly. “I thought maybe—even if I can’t stay—you’d read them and remember.”
Her throat tightened. “I don’t need a book to remember you.”
Their eyes locked once more. Ishak leaned forward hesitantly, his hand brushing gently over her cheek. The air thickened, charged with the promise of a kiss—soft, electric, inevitable.
Amina tilted her face up to meet him.
But then—
A shadow flickered along the compound wall.
A low, sharp voice sliced through the night like a blade.
“Amina!”
She froze. Ishak pulled back instantly, the moment shattered.
Mallam Musa stood just beyond the fence, his eyes wide with disbelief, mouth slightly open. The flickering yellow bulb above cast erratic light across his stern face.
He stepped closer. “Get inside.”
Amina turned slowly, heart pounding so fiercely she feared it might burst. Ishak remained rooted behind her, the journal still clutched tightly in her hands. She dared not meet her father’s eyes—too many emotions tangled there. Rage? Hurt? Betrayal?
Inside the compound, the festive sounds from earlier felt distant, almost mocking.
Mallam Musa’s voice was cold, low. “Explain.”
Amina swallowed hard, the weight of years of expectation and silence pressing down. “Baba… Ishak—he’s real. He came for me.”
Her father’s jaw clenched. “A Tarik man? Here? This is not just about you, Amina. It’s about honor, family, our traditions.”
Her mother appeared at the doorway, eyes wide with shock and fear. “Please, Musa… don’t be too harsh. She is young.”
But Mallam Musa was unmoved. “Young, yes. But she must learn what is expected.”
Fatima stood by Amina’s side, silent but defiant.
The tension filled the room like a storm about to break.
Amina’s voice cracked but held steady. “Maybe what’s expected isn’t what I need. Maybe love isn’t a thing to be arranged or controlled.”
Mallam Musa shook his head, pain flashing in his eyes. “This is not a game. There are consequences.”
The night dragged on, words sharp and heavy, but Amina’s heart had shifted. The forbidden visitor had changed everything.
Later, alone in her room, Amina opened Ishak’s journal once more. The poems whispered to her in the dim lamplight, each word a lifeline across the desert sands.
Outside, the Sallah moon still watched silently, bearing witness to a love that dared to cross the boundaries of tribe and tradition.
- Writer
