Aonat’s dilemma

🌙 Aonat’s Dilemma – Chapter One (Part One) (Narrated by Aonat) Fajr always comes too early, but Mama’s soft knock on my door makes waking up feel lighter. “Aonat, ki tashi. It’s time for sallah,” she whispers. Her voice is never harsh, even when she’s tired. I sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The room is still dark, a pale blue of dawn pressing against the curtains. From the sitting room, I hear Baba’s calm voice reciting Qur’an. That sound fills our home every morning — steady, deep, comforting. I wash my face, perform ablution, and spread my prayer mat. The floor is cool under my feet. As I raise my hands for takbir, the world becomes still — the faint crow of roosters, the soft drip of water outside, and the quiet rhythm of our home blending into the morning. After prayer, I linger a moment longer, whispering a small dua before folding my mat. The smell of fried kosai and spicy pap drifts from the kitchen. Mama is already there, her floral wrapper tied neatly, frying golden beans cakes with practiced grace. “Good morning, Mama,” I greet softly. “Good morning, my dear. How was your night?” “Alhamdulillah.” I help her arrange the hot kosai on a plate. She smiles at me proudly. “You’re a good girl, Aonat. Always helping me. Unlike your brother, who only wakes up when he smells food.” We laugh quietly, careful not to disturb Baba. He doesn’t like noise in the morning. Our house sits quietly in Zaria, near the university. Baba built it before any of us were tall enough to reach the windows. Each room carries his careful choices — cream walls adorned with Qur’anic calligraphy, a sitting room neatly arranged, and a big flat-screen TV we rarely use except for news or lectures. When Baba finally joins us at the table, the atmosphere shifts. Everyone straightens. Yahaya, my older brother, tries to shake off sleep, and my sister Zulaiha — now married with a baby — visits often enough to leave her laughter lingering in the corners. Baba, in a spotless white kaftan, clears his throat. “Aonat, how is school?” “Fine, Baba. We just started a new semester.” “Good. Stay focused. A girl’s honor is her pride. No distractions.” “Yes, Baba,” I reply softly, eyes lowered. Mama casts me a brief, warning look — don’t argue, just listen. After breakfast, Yahaya drives Baba to work, leaving the house quiet. Mama sits in the parlor, whispering dhikr, her prayer beads slipping through her fingers. I wash the dishes, then return to my sanctuary — my room. Pink curtains frame the sunlight, my bookshelf holds novels I shouldn’t be reading, mostly romances I hide behind textbooks. My small diary rests beside them, holding words I cannot say aloud. As I iron my abaya, my phone vibrates. A message from Maheen: “Assalamu alaikum, lazy girl. Are you coming to class or should I reserve your seat?” I smile. Maheen always knows how to brighten my mornings. “Wa alaikum salam, I’m coming. Don’t take the front seat again!” I reply. She sends a laughing sticker in return. Maheen has been my closest friend since first year at ABU — the kind who reminds you to pray, scolds you when you slip, and fixes your hijab without asking. With her, life feels lighter. I pack my bag and call out to Mama. “Mama, I’m going!” “Allah ya taimake ki,” she answers softly. “And remember, don’t stay out too late.” “I won’t,” I promise. The morning sun is soft and golden as I step through the gate. The air is warm, dusty, scented faintly with suya from the stand nearby. I breathe it in deeply, letting the freshness of the morning fill me. Today feels… different. Something is waiting for me. Something that might change everything. The streets of Zaria are waking slowly. Women balance baskets of fresh tomatoes and peppers on their heads, children run past chasing balls, and the faint hum of motorcycles drifts through the warm morning air. Everything looks ordinary, yet my chest feels light and strange, fluttering in a way that I can’t explain. “