DARK LINES

Every Path Rages In Remembrance

When the heart seeks peace, it trembles in the hands of a sinner.

Sameeha ran as fast as her legs could carry her. She had endured enough; every shadow seemed like it could be her mother’s wrath, every sound smelled of fire. Yet, she kept running, desperate to reach a place where no one could control her.

The streets were quiet, the call to Maghrib echoing faintly in the distance. She followed the voice, dragging her feet until she reached the mosque. She was no longer in her familiar environment. There, she met a man who, from the darkness, looked chubby with a pot belly coming towards her.

“As-salaam-alaikum,” he said.

Sameeha was about to flee again, but her feet betrayed her this time due to exhaustion.

“What are you doing outside at this hour?” he asked.

Before she could respond, Sameeha fainted.

That same night, she was rushed to the hospital. No one knew where she had come from. People around assumed she had been used and dropped off by some yahoo.

“Allah sarki, ga in da akyi mata jiki?” one woman said as her lifeless body lay on the emergency bed. She struggled to breathe, and her heart started beating faster than usual.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ali went out to seek Dr. Basheer’s help in searching for Sameeha after the incident with Nadia, but unfortunately, they could not find her.

Nadia, on the other hand, remained unbothered. She sat comfortably with her kids, watching an Indian TV series as if nothing had happened.

Dr. Basheer had received a call from the hospital that very night, informing him that he had an emergency surgery to perform early the next morning. He was shocked the following morning to find that the patient waiting in the emergency ward was none other than Sameeha.

Seeing her critical condition, Dr. Basheer immediately called Mr. Ali. “Hurry to the hospital,” he said. “Sameeha has been found, and she’s in critical condition.”

Mr. Ali rushed to the hospital, his heart sinking. The reality hit him like a thunderbolt — all the neglect, all the harsh words, all the failures to protect his daughter had led them here. He prayed silently, hoping with all his being that she would survive.

Sameeha’s vital signs kept dropping. Dr. Basheer could hardly assess her condition; he only eye-scanned her condition quickly, his mind racing. He adjusted his belt as if he was pressed to use the bathroom but no, it wasn’t that. It was tension, despair over what had befallen Sameeha. He checked the oxygen again while the nurses were preparing the theatre room for the operation. He whispered silently, “Ya Allah, guide my hands. Protect her,” his voice low but firm. Sameeha’s life hung in a delicate balance as the monitors beeped urgently, echoing the tension in the room.

Dr. Basheer turned to Mr. Ali. “Her condition is critical, and we must operate immediately. I need your support and prayers. This surgery is delicate, but insha’Allah she will survive.”

Sameeha had internal bleeding that caused partial damage to her lungs.

Mr. Ali dropped to his knees beside the bed, holding Sameeha’s hand tightly. His heart ached as tears slipped silently down his face. “Ya Rabb, my daughter… protect her… please,” he whispered, praying with every fiber of his being.

Outside the ICU, Nadia remained at home, her mind still wrapped in indifference. To her, she hadn’t done anything wrong just discipline. Her children who needed correction were never touched by her, nor could anyone dare to. She had no idea of the chaos her actions had caused, no hint of worry for the child she had harmed.

Inside, the room was tense with agony the silent hum of machines, the hurried footsteps of nurses, and Dr. Basheer’s calm determination. Sameeha’s survival now depended on skill, prayers, and the hope that Allah’s mercy would guide them all through this night.

Basma and her mother arrived after hearing what happened from her father. They came to support Mr. Ali. While they were there, Basma’s mother called the Imam to tell him what had happened.

The theatre room was ready. Dr. Basheer scrubbed his hands, his mind sharp and focused despite the exhaustion etched on his face. Nurses moved around him silently, preparing instruments with meticulous precision. Every second mattered; every decision could mean the difference between life and death.

Sameeha was wheeled in, her small body fragile under the bright surgical lights. Dr. Basheer took a deep breath and whispered again, “Ya Allah, guide my hands. Protect her.”

He made the first incision carefully, his eyes flicking constantly to the monitors. Her lungs were partially damaged from the internal bleeding, and the risk of complications was high. Yet, he worked with steady hands, guided by years of experience and an unspoken trust in Allah’s mercy.

Mr. Ali stood just outside the theatre glass, his hands pressed together in prayer. Basma and her mother remained close, their faces pale and tense. Every beep of the monitor made their hearts leap. Every second felt like an eternity.

Hours passed in silence, broken only by the controlled commands of Dr. Basheer and the soft beeps of the machines. He carefully repaired the damage, controlled the bleeding, and stabilized her lungs. Slowly, the monitors began to show improvement.

Finally, Dr. Basheer stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked at Mr. Ali and Basma’s mother, allowing a small sigh of relief. “Alhamdulillah… she’s stable,” he said quietly. “She will need monitoring in the ICU, but insha’Allah, she will survive the night.”

Mr. Ali sank to the floor, tears rolling freely. He pressed his forehead to the glass, whispering, “Ya Rabb… thank You… thank You.” Basma held her father’s shoulders, while her mother whispered prayers softly, the tension in the room slowly giving way to relief.

Outside, the sun began to rise, casting a soft light over the city. Inside the ICU, Sameeha rested, her fragile body fighting to heal, surrounded by those who cared for her and protected by the prayers of many.