Aonat’s dilemma

The first stir

🌙 Aonat’s Dilemma – Chapter Two (Part One)

(Narrated by Aonat)

Mondays on campus are always noisy. The sun barely rises before ABU wakes up — voices, footsteps, and the smell of roasted corn mix in the air. By the time I reach the lecture hall, Maheen is already there, sitting in her usual front-row seat, focused and serious as always.

“Assalamu alaikum,” I greet, sliding in beside her.

“Wa alaikum salam,” she replies, raising an eyebrow. “You’re late again, Aonat.”

“I’m not,” I laugh. “Lecture hasn’t even started.”

She sighs dramatically. “Excuses, excuses. You spend too long choosing which hijab matches your abaya.”

“Style is part of confidence,” I tease. “Even the Prophet (SAW) liked neatness.”

Maheen smiles reluctantly. She’s my balance — disciplined where I’m dreamy and distracted.

The hall fills quickly. Some students chat, others scroll through phones, revise notes, or whisper. The ceiling fans hum lazily, doing little against Zaria’s heat.

Then a familiar voice cuts through the chatter — light, confident, and impossible to ignore.

Abdul Wadhud.

He walks in with two friends, wearing a crisp white shirt and that easy smile that seems to brighten the room. People greet him like a celebrity. Someone calls, “Wadhud, ka zo late o!” and he laughs, raising his hands.

“Wallahi, traffic from Kongo campus,” he says playfully.

Maheen rolls her eyes. “Hmm. There goes your Mr. Popular.”

I pretend not to notice, flipping through notes, but my fingers feel clumsy.

“Why do you sound like that?” I whisper.

“Because he acts like the world revolves around him,” she mutters. “Always surrounded by girls. I wonder when he studies.”

“Maybe he’s just friendly,” I reply.

“Friendly is one thing. Flirting with everyone is another.”

Before I can answer, the lecturer walks in. Silence falls.

I try to focus, but my eyes keep stealing quick glances at him, noticing the way he whispers to his friends, making them laugh quietly.

Class ends. Students rush out, talking about assignments. Maheen and I linger, waiting for the crowd to thin.

“Aonat!”

I turn. It’s him — Wadhud.

Maheen sighs beside me.

“Hey,” he says, catching up. “You dropped this.” He holds a pen. Not mine, but I nod anyway.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

“No problem,” he replies, smiling. Then he glances at Maheen. “Assalamu alaikum.”

“Wa alaikum salam,” she says coolly.

He laughs lightly. “Still not smiling at me? I’ll win you over one day.”

“In your dreams,” she mutters.

He turns to me. “So, are you both going to Professor Abubakar’s class later?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Good,” he says. “Maybe we can all walk together.”

Maheen opens her mouth to protest, but I speak first. “Sure.”

As we leave the hall, I notice something new — the way he moves, calm yet confident, not loud but impossible to ignore. Maheen grumbles beside me.

“He’s trouble,” she mutters.

“Harmless,” I say softly. “Just confident.”

We reach the canteen. The air smells of jollof rice and fried plantain. Students crowd the tables, laughing and scrolling through phones. Maheen orders rice; I get kunun gyada with akara.

“So, how’s your brother’s wedding prep?” she asks.

I smile. “Mama acts like it’s tomorrow. Baba wants it ‘simple but respectable,’ which means expensive.”

“Who’s he marrying?”

“Maryam — Baba’s friend’s daughter. They’ve known each other for a while.”

“Arranged marriage,” she says with a grin. “Your father will never change.”

“Never. Yahaya says love can come after.”

“Sometimes it does,” she shrugs.

After lunch, we go to the library. Soft afternoon light spills through the windows. I sit by the glass, flipping through notes.

I don’t notice Wadhud until he taps the desk beside me.

“Permission to sit, Professor Aonat?” he grins.

“You talk too much,” I reply, smiling despite myself.

“That’s what makes me interesting,” he says, sliding in.

Silence stretches, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Every now and then, our eyes meet; he looks away quickly.

When Maheen leaves, it’s just the two of us.

“So,” he says, “your brother’s getting married?”

“Yes.”

“People talk,” he shrugs. “You’re popular.”

I laugh softly. “Not like you.”

“Well, you’ll catch up,” he teases.

The call to Asr prayer echoes. I pack my books. He stands. “Let’s walk to the gate?”

I hesitate, then nod.

The path is lined with neem trees; sunlight falls golden through the leaves. We walk side by side in silence, the hum of tricycles and distant muezzins blending into a gentle chorus.

“You like walking in silence, don’t you?” he asks.

“Sometimes. Talking ruins the quiet,” I reply.

“True. Most people rush to fill every space with words.”

He kicks a small pebble ahead of him. “I thought university life would be all noise and pressure. But it’s the small moments that stay with you. Like this one.”

I glance at him. Behind the playful smile, I see thoughtfulness.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you want after school?”

“Teach. Or write. Stories,” I say, shy.

He nods. “Writing is brave. You put pieces of yourself on paper.”

I glance at him. “Do you write?”

“Not really. I talk too much.”

I laugh. “Maheen would agree.”

He grins. “She’ll come around.”

The evening air smells of grilled corn, boiled groundnuts, and roasted meat. The sun dips low.

“I should go,” I say, tugging my hijab.

“Can I walk you to the stop?”

“It’s fine,” I answer, though part of me hopes he insists.

“Then promise me you’ll write a story about today,” he says.

“I might,” I reply.

“Don’t let anyone dim how you see the world,” he says with a rare softness. “It’s rare.”

I wave slightly and head toward the tricycle stop, heart unexpectedly light.

The sky is darkening when I reach home. The compound smells of dinner — tuwo and miyan taushe. Inside, Mama is arranging newly bought wrappers on the sofa, talking to Zulaiha on the phone about Yahaya’s wedding colors. Baba’s soft recitation of the Qur’an drifts from the next room, steady and comforting.

“Assalamu alaikum,” I call softly, slipping off my sandals.

“Wa alaikum salam, my dear,” Mama replies, glancing up and smiling. “How was your day?”

“Alhamdulillah, fine,” I answer, helping her organize the wrappers for a moment. The house feels warm, filled with routine and quiet chatter.

After some time, I retreat to my room. The day replays in my mind — Maheen’s frown, the soft light in the library, Abdul’s voice under the neem trees. His words, gentle yet charged with something I can’t name, linger long after he’s gone.

I sit at my desk, open my diary, and pause. The pen feels heavier than usual in my hand, as if it knows the weight of the day. I write slowly, carefully:

“Today felt like the beginning of something I don’t yet understand.”

I close the diary, whisper my prayers, and let the quiet of the night settle around me. Outside, the sounds of Zaria — distant muezzins, the faint hum of late tricycles — mingle with my thoughts. Somewhere deep inside, a feeling stirs, subtle but persistent, like the first light of dawn that refuses to be ignored.

With a soft sigh, I lie down, letting sleep carry me while my mind drifts back to the golden afternoon, the neem trees, and the boy whose presence seems to linger in the spaces between my thoughts.