The Distance Between Us

Abuja Nigeria

September, 2023.

She took a breath as the landing message was announced over the speaker, her chest tightening with a mix of excitement and unease.

The hum of the airplane engines softened as the descent began, and through the oval window, Abuja stretched below—a city of structured roads, gleaming rooftops, and patches of green standing in contrast to the arid land beyond. It looked both familiar and foreign, like a childhood home after years of renovation.

'Ya subhanallah.' She gripped the armrest. Three years. Three whole years since she had last stepped foot on Nigerian soil. Would it still feel like home? Would home still recognize her?

The fasten-seatbelt sign flickered above, but her mind was elsewhere—on the faces waiting for her at arrivals, on the streets she had once walked without a second thought, and the lingering warmth of the Abuja night.

Her heart thudded with anticipation. Three years away had sharpened her longing, but it had also carved out an unfamiliar distance. Would she still be the same Fatima? Had they changed? Had she?

The plane touched down with a jolt, and the cabin erupted in a mix of cheers and relieved sighs. Fatima let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Nigeria. Home.

Thirty minutes later, she was pushing her luggage trolley, scanning the arrival hall for a familiar face.

She had shared her flight details with Mama, but her mother hadn’t mentioned who was coming to pick her up. Her eyes darted through the crowd until she spotted Nasir, standing a few feet away, waving at her with a long face.

"Heyy!" She let out a chuckle, pulling him into a quick side hug.

"Wow, you have been Westernized. What's with the hug?" Nasir teased, his expression exaggerated. Fatima was never one for hugs or open displays of emotion. She wasn’t even confident most of the time.

"Don't be annoying!" She rolled her eyes, laughing as Nasir welcomed her properly.

"Look at you, Ima!" he said, amazed at her transformation, as he loaded her luggage into the trunk of his car.

"Yeah, I look good!" She smirked.

"You starved yourself, Ima!" He exclaimed, almost horrified. But Fatima knew her brother too well—this was his way of saying he had missed her. Worried she hadn't been eating well.

"Well, I missed you too, Nasir. It's not that hard to say."

"That's not even the issue anymore. I doubt people will recognize you."

She only smiled. Yes, she had lost a lot of weight over the years. So much so that she was sure none of the clothes she left behind would fit anymore. And now, she would have to endure the inevitable comments from relatives—‘If Ima can do it, why can’t you?’ Another topic to add to the long list of ‘what Ima did.’

---

The drive was quiet. Fatima let the silence settle, watching as Abuja unfolded before her in the gentle embrace of a September night.

It was something she used to do as a child when her father took her out at night. She would lower the car window, put her head out, and close her eyes, letting the cool breeze kiss her skin.

A lump formed in her throat. That memory always led back to him—Baba.

Her father had died when she was fourteen, and though the years had stretched since then, his absence still echoed in the quiet moments.

She gasped softly, blinking away the sting of tears. Nasir must have noticed because he reached over and patted her shoulder gently.

But it wasn’t just Baba she was thinking about now. It was the reason she left Nigeria so abruptly three years ago.

Fatima had cut herself off from so many people, refused to come home for her annual visits, let friendships slip away. Only her immediate family—Mama and her three siblings—had remained constant.

Now, she was back, and she wasn’t sure if she still had a place in the hearts she left behind. Three years was enough time for everyone to move on.

Like Yusrah.

Fatima’s stomach clenched at the thought. She had heard that Yusrah got married not long after she left—after sending her away.

"Ya Allah," she mumbled, a sharp breath escaping her lips as the car turned into a familiar route—Maitama.

Despite the weight in her chest, a surge of joy broke through. She hadn’t seen Mama in three years.

Gosh, that was crazy.

When they arrived home, Musaddiq was already waiting outside.

"My baby sister, look at you!"

"Yaya Musaddiq!" she rejoiced, her eyes filling with tears. By Allah, she hadn’t realized how much she had missed him. "Ina wuni!" she added, blinking back her tears.

"Lafiya ƙalau, Ima. How was your flight?"

"It was good, Alhamdulillah!" She smiled heartily. Her family had always loved her, but for some reason, she had feared she would come back to find that love had lessened. What had she been thinking?

"Look, Ima," Musaddiq said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as they walked inside. "Even if you turn into a fly, I won’t let you leave the country again. Who goes to another person’s country and stays like this?"

"I wonder o!" Nasir added with a smirk, carrying her luggage inside.

Fatima only laughed.

Then—Mama.

She was coming from the kitchen, a food warmer in her hands. The moment she saw Fatima’s teary eyes, she sighed, shaking her head.

"Fatima Muktar, don’t jump on me!" Mama exclaimed, her tone filled with mock annoyance.

Ya Allah, Fatima thought, a soft smile playing on her lips. She hadn’t changed one bit. She was still the same, calling people by their last names even in the most casual moments.

Fatima shook her head, her chest tightening with affection. "Mama!"

Mama huffed, handing off the food warmer to the woman behind her. "Ya Allah, this girl is back again."

Fatima chuckled, the sound light and easy, as she rushed forward to hug her mother despite the protest.

"Mama!"

Finally—a real, warm hug. Tears came freely now, in full abandon. The embrace was warm, grounding Fatima in a way that reminded her—home hadn’t changed. Not really.

"What is this, Ima? You missed me after I had to pray so much and beg you to come home?"

"Oh, Mama, of course I missed you!"

Her mother pulled away, holding Fatima at arm’s length to study her properly.

"Musaddiq, did this girl starve herself over there?"

"Mama, she’s looking good, Masha Allah. She’s healthy," he reassured her.

But something in his stomach twisted as he said it—a distant memory flickering at the edge of his mind.

An hour later, after Fatima had freshened up and repaid her missing salah, she sat in their mother’s living room.

The living room exuded warmth—the kind that felt lived-in, familiar, and undeniably home. The soft glow of a chandelier cast golden light across the space, illuminating the intricate carvings on the wooden furniture. The walls were painted in a warm beige, adorned with a large framed family portrait that told stories of years past. A large rug, deep burgundy with intricate patterns, stretched across the floor, muffling the sounds of clinking plates and quiet laughter.

And the rich scent of tureran wuta blended perfectly with the inviting aroma of a home-cooked meal.

At the center of the room, food warmers sat open, their enticing fragrances mingling in the air—tuwo shinkafa with miyan taushe, suya-spiced chicken, pepper soup, and, of course, millet masa, freshly prepared by Najma.

They were joined by her eldest brother, Kamal, his heavily pregnant wife, Najma, and their four-year-old daughter, Sulym.

Despite the weight of pregnancy slowing her down, Najma had still made the effort to prepare Fatima’s favorite—millet masa. And to think Fatima had only spoken to her a few times since she left… Yet, here she was, showing up with a smile.

Fatima filled them in on how she had first struggled to adapt to the taste of food in Canada. Everything there had felt too bland, too different. But tonight, every dish spread before her was a favorite—thanks to Mama.

The scent was intoxicating, stirring memories of childhood and celebrations past. As they ate, warmth settled in Fatima’s heart. She was twenty-five now; her brothers—Kamal, Musaddiq, and Nasir—were thirty-four, thirty, and twenty-two, respectively. And their mother, Hajiya Halima, in her mid-fifties, was nothing short of the epitome of grace—strong, generous, kind, and a beautiful woman inside and out.

She had raised them single-handedly after their father’s passing, carrying their burdens with dignity. And now, sitting in the heart of her home, engulfed by their love, Fatima finally let herself believe—nothing had changed.

"Ima, ki bi a hankali, kada ki shaƙe!" Nasir remarked. She smiled, shaking her head as she tore off a piece of masa and dipped it into the suya-spiced kuli kuli. The warmth of the food filled her belly, but it was the warmth of home that truly settled within her.

Musaddiq, always the observant one, watched her carefully. "You haven’t been eating well, have you? I just reassured Mama that you’re healthy."

Fatima rolled her eyes. "I was eating fine, Yaya. Just not like this." She gestured toward the spread of food before them—home-cooked, rich, full of love.

Mama scoffed playfully. "Of course not. You went to oyibo land and left all the good food behind."

Laughter rippled through the room. For a moment, it felt like she had never left.

But just as she was sinking into the comfort of it, Mama spoke again.

"I have arranged everything for the hospital, Nasir. But if there is anything, you must always call us."

The air shifted. The clinking of spoons stilled. The room, once full of warmth and laughter, suddenly felt heavier.

Then—one question shattered it all.

Fatima frowned, looking around. Why had everyone stopped eating?

"Who is sick?" she asked, her gaze bouncing between her brothers and their mother.

No one answered immediately. Then, Musaddiq sighed, the worry on his face deepening.

"Mustapha."

Fatima blinked. That name. That name still had the power to shake her.

"Which Mustapha?" she asked, though a part of her already knew.

"Our Mustapha," Mama replied, her voice soft yet heavy. "I told you he was sick, didn't I?"

Fatima’s stomach clenched. Yes. Mama had mentioned it before—five months ago.

"Yeah, but that was like five months ago," she muttered, her chest tightening. She remembered now. She had changed the topic back then, pretending not to hear. And Mama had never brought it up again.

"It’s cancer," Kamal added solemnly. "He’s still battling it." The words crashed into her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

"Wait, what? Who has cancer?" Tears blurred her vision before the question even left her lips.

"I was trying to tell you," Mama said, her voice a mixture of sadness and understanding, "but you were not interested in anything Nigeria."

Fatima’s ears rang, a sharp, relentless buzz drowning out every other sound. The room around her blurred at the edges, shifting like a mirage, unreal and distant. She was shaking—wasn’t she? Or was it the world itself tilting beneath her?

Her hands trembled against her lap, fingers curling into the fabric of her clothes as if grasping for something solid. Cold seeped into her bones, a deep, marrow-chilling cold that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

But none of that mattered. Not the stunned silence pressing down on her chest, not the weight of her family’s gazes, not even the pounding of her own heart.

Only one thought consumed her.

Mustapha has cancer.

The words echoed in her mind, unraveling something inside her, something she wasn’t sure she could put back together.

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