Invisible Ink

I’ve spent my entire life building things that were supposed to last. My career. My reputation. The carefully constructed distance between myself and anything that could hurt me. But at 11:45 PM, standing in a room so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat, I finally understood: I’d built everything on a lie.

The house was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the AC battling the Sokoto heat. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at a patch of moonlight on the floor tiles, waiting for a sleep that I knew wouldn't come. It had been like this for years. My mother, Hajiya, always told me I worked too hard, that I needed to rest.

"Bacci ba na masu nema ba ne” (Sleep is not for those hustling), I’d tell her, forcing a smile she never quite believed.

I got up and walked to the window. Outside, the street was dark. The neighbour’s generator had finally cut off, leaving the neighbourhood in that heavy, dusty silence that blankets the North just before the world wakes up for Fajr.

Thirteen years.

That was how long it had been since I last felt like a complete person, thirteen years since the accident, since the hospital, since the day I woke up and found out my life had been stolen from me by a man who thought my poverty made me unworthy of his niece.

I turned away from the window to grab a glass of water.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

My phone vibrated against the nightstand.

I froze.

I didn't get calls at this time. My colleagues knew better and Hajiya was asleep.

I picked it up. The screen light was harsh in the dark room.

Unknown Number.

My thumb hovered over the red button. Usually, I’d ignore it. Probably a wrong number or one of those relentless scammers. But tonight... something felt different. The buzzing didn't stop. It felt urgent. Deliberate.

I slid my thumb across the screen.

"Salaam Alaikum?"

Silence.

But not the empty silence of a dead line. It was the living, breathing silence of a connection. I could hear the faint static, the shallow, shaky breath on the other end.

"Who is this?" I asked, my voice rough from disuse.

Nothing. Just that breathing. It sounded... terrified.

"Idan baza ayi magana ba zan kashe wayana fa” (If you’re not going to speak, I’m hanging up).

"Hammad."

The glass of water slipped from my hand.

It hit the rug with a dull thud, water soaking into the fibres, but I didn't look down. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My heart slammed against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage.

I knew that voice.

It was the voice of a girl who was supposed to be dead.

"Nana?" I whispered.

The name scraped out of my throat, foreign and familiar all at once.

On the other end, the breathing hitched. A sound that might have been a sob.

"Nana... ke ce? (is that you?) Talk to me. Please."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

It was barely a sound. Just air and regret.

"Where are you?" I shouted, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. "Where have you been? Nana…."

Click.

The line went dead.

I stood there, shaking, the silence rushing back into the room like a flood. But now, the silence was screaming.

I stared at the phone screen. It was dark again.

"No," I said, my voice cracking. "No, no, no. You can't do this to me."

My fingers fumbled as I hit the call button.

“The number you are trying to call does not exist. Please check the number and try again.”

The robotic voice was calm. Cold. Indifferent to the fact that my world was collapsing.

I ended the call and dialled again.

“The number you are trying to call does not exist...”

"Pick up!" I yelled at the empty room. "for God’s sake!"

I dialled again. And again.

I sank to the floor, right there in the puddle of spilled water. My favourite jalabiya getting wet, but I didn't care. I just kept hitting redial.

Maybe I was mad. Maybe the stress finally broke my brain. Maybe I fell asleep and this was just another one of the nightmares that haunted me, the ones where we were still young, sitting under the trees at the university, sharing a bottle of Coke and talking about a future that would never happen.

But I had heard her.

She said my name. She said she was sorry.

Ghosts don't make phone calls. Ghosts don't apologize. It doesn’t make sense.

I checked the time. 12:30 AM.

I couldn't stay in this room. The walls felt like they were closing in on me. I grabbed my keys and ran out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door.

The night air was cool, but I was sweating. I paced around my compound, the gravel crunching under my feet.

If she was alive... then everything I knew was a lie. The uncle who said she was gone. Dead. The days I spent begging Allah to take the pain away or take me with it. The years I spent building this career, this big house, this "successful" life, it was all built on a lie.

I looked at my phone again. 3:00 AM.

I had called the number more than fifty times already and same result. Does not exist.

I needed help. I couldn't do this alone. I needed someone who could confirm what just happened wasn’t another nightmare.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the name.

Musa (DSS).

Musa was my brother in everything but blood. We grew up on the same dusty streets. He knew the story. He was the one who sat with me together with Khalil when I came out of the coma thirteen years ago. He was the one who held me when I realized she was gone.

I pressed call.

It rang for a long time. Finally, a groggy voice answered.

"Hammad? Ka san qarfe nawa kuwa? (Do you know what time it is?) Did someone die?"

"Musa," I said. My voice was shaking so bad I could barely form the words. "I need you to track a number."

"What? Hammad, it is 5 AM. Go to sleep. Whatever it is can wait until….."

"She called me."

Silence on the other end. Musa shifted; I could hear his bed creaking. His voice changed. He was awake now. Alert.

"Who called you?"

"Nana."

"Hammad," Musa said gently. It was the tone you use for a crazy person. Or a broken one. "We talked about this. It’s the anniversary coming up, I know it gets hard, but you need to stop, zaka haukata kan ka wallahi (you’ll end up going crazy)”

"I am not crazy!" I shouted into the dark. "I heard her voice, as She called me! She said my name and then she hung up. I need you to track the number. Now."

"If this is a joke..."

"Does it sound like I am joking? Does it sound like I am playing games?"

I could hear Musa sigh. He knew me. He knew I didn't joke about her.

"Send me the number," he said tiredly. "I will check it when I get to the office."

"Check it now, Musa. Please. I am begging you. Dan Allah."

There was a long pause.

"Okay," he said finally. "Okay. Send it. Give me twenty minutes."

I sent the number.

Then I sat on the hood of my car and waited for the sun to rise over Sokoto, praying that for the first time in thirteen years, hope wasn't going to kill me.