CHAPTER 2: HOMECOMING 1.

He hadn't planned to come back. Not really.

The return had been imminent; written in the marrow of his longing long before his mind caught up.

Not with a bag full of certainty or a heart free of resistance. It had started as a quiet ache, a thought he'd shove aside each time it rose. Then came the signs, too many to ignore: The dream. The voice. The closed door. All were pointing him home.

And now, here he was.

The bus hissed to a halt, brakes wheezing like an old man in sujood. Jamal stepped off slowly, rainwater kissing his ankles as his sandals met a shallow puddle. The scent of Nur Afiya struck him like a forgotten verse: wet dust, charcoal smoke, and the faint, bitter memory of mango bark rotting in the gutters.

"Welcome to Nur Afiya," the new stone sign read. Clean. Polished. Official. It replace the old rusted iron board that used to tilt on a single chain, swinging wildly in the harmattan.

He paused beneath it.

Nine years.

Nine years since He fled this town like a ghost, heart pounding under the weight of unspoken pain. And now he returned, more real than he wanted to be, to a place that seemed to have continued without him.

Fawas had begged him not to go then. Begged him to speak. To tell someone. To fight. But back then, He had no language for betrayal, at least not that kind.

Nur Afiya had changed. Paved walkways. Solar streetlamps. Madrasa domes now stood where thorn bushes used to stretch wild. But some things hadn't changed at all; like the neem trees slapping zinc rooftops or, the heavy, holy silence that comes after rainfall.

He moved through the town like a shadow: past elders murmuring by mosque gates, past boys hawking sim sim, past mothers sweeping puddles off their porches. No one noticed him. He liked it that way.

His feet followed the old familiar road toward the outskirts, toward Fawas' house.

Then he realized something.

This path also passed by Almeida's gate.

He hadn't meant to come that way. Not really. Hadn't realized his body was drifting there until the memory seized his chest. It was instinct, muscle memory, like grief circling home. But not again. Not today.

He turned fast, cutting toward the long route; past the vendors, through the bend that led to GRA Phase II. It would take longer. His legs would ache. But who cared?

So long as he didn't have to face the ghosts that once kissed his skin.

Sometimes Allah saves you from yourself without asking permission.

He wasn't even sure they still lived there.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know either.

Nine years hadn't dulled the memory, it had only layered it. Shame, anger, longing, guilt. All of it folded in so tightly he could no longer tell where one ended and the next began.

He remembered something Ustaz Hamid used to say when grief made him bitter:

"There's much to do with hate, Jamal. But there's so much more to do with love."

And Love? that was why he'd come back. Not for her. That story was long buried, sealed in silence. He was here for something more tangible, something simpler, yet heavier.

He couldn't tell if that night had been a misalignment of destiny or a divine redirection, but one thing was certain; his life had never been the same since.

He walked on, sandals whispering over stone. Rain still hung in the air, but Nur Afiya didn't accuse him anymore. It just watched. Like an old friend waiting to see who he'd become.

After walking an extra hour because of the longer route he'd taken, he finally reached Fawas' street: deep inside the GRA. His feet ached, his clothes clung to him with the leftover dampness of rain, and his breath came in short, quiet pulls.

How sad it is tricycles don't come this far at night. Especially not after rainfall.

he moved through the dim street, sandals whispering on wet interlocks. The air hung heavy with scent of mango bark, rusted iron.

Fawas' space. The old mango tree still leaned towards the flickering streetlamp, casting its bent shadow. But the house? Repainted off-white with black trim. New, sleeker gate. No guards. No dogs. No rumbling engines. Just stillness. Too much stillness. Unguarded. Unthinkable for a place that once swallowed visitors whole. Fawas' father protected everything.

Yet tonight, the gates stood ajar. Forgotten? Forgiven?

Compound lights still worked, some habits are just die hard. No pressure now. No fear. Jamal stepped in like he belonged, not by entitlement, but by friendship.

The front door loomed. Above, a fluorescent bulb buzzed, pulsing light onto the wet stones. A black-and-grey cat, one white paw, curled on the steps. Its eyes glowing momentarily in the flicker. It raised its head as Jamal approached.

"Still here?" Jamal murmured, crouching to rub its head. A low purr, then indifference resumed. He straightened, knuckles lifted to knock.

The door slid open before contact. Quiet. Deliberate.

A woman stepped out. Thick-hipped. Confident. A sea-blue hijab slipping, silk cascading over her shoulder. Her walk was measured, like crossing a memorized minefield. She didn't look at him. Didn't greet. Didn't flinch. Head high, faint perfume, steps precise through ruins of prayer.

Jamal watched her dissolve into the dusk. "Still no change with Fawas, huh." He murmured to the air. "Even the wind returns with more humility."

A familiar voice floated from inside, low as twilight: "Make sure you call me once you get home."

Jamal lingered. The cat rubbed his ankle with it's tail. A faint smile touched his lips. He didn't raise his voice:

"Should I take the cat... trade it for silver at Pa Jalāl's?"

A beat. Silence.

Then a voice from within, confused, then amused:

"What... Wait... Pa Jalāl?"

Recognition struck like a dropped prayer bead.

A stool scraped. Bare feet slapped across tile. The door swung open.

And there stood Fawas.

Shirt half-tucked, eyes squinting through the porch light like a man confronting a ghost he'd buried but never mourned. His jaw slackened.

"No. Way..." he muttered, breathe cease.

"Yes way," Jamal murmured shaking his head in a playful manner, voice parched, eyes glinting with old, knowing mischief.

Fawas blinked hard, rubbing both eyes as if the motion might shatter the vision.

"Wallahi... Jamal," he breathed, stepping forward slowly, as if the space between them had grown fragile. "It's really you. How long? Five years? Four?"

Jamal stood motionless. Rain-kissed. Soul-burdened. Unreadable.

"Nine," he said finally. "Ten, if you count the one that didn't just pass... but, pressed"

Fawas exhaled, a sharp, ragged sound.

"I thought you vanished... Disappeared that night like a prayer too heavy to land."

Jamal's gaze held steady. "Some prayers don't land," he said softly. "They drift sideways. Crooked. And Allah sends wind, not wings. I just... followed the wind back."

Fawas laughed, a startled, boyish burst, like an ache long caged in his ribs finally breaking free.

"Still cryptic as ever, wallahi. Like some wandering Sufi trailing riddles and dust."

"Old times never die," Jamal said, closing the distance. "They sleep under the bed. Waiting for night to grow quiet enough to return." He opened his arms reaching for an embrace "How've you been brother?"

Their embrace was rough, wordless, the kind men share when silence holds more than memory ever could. Strength lived in it. Grief. A relief too deep for language.

Fawas pulled back, studying his friend as if time had distilled him into something purer, heavier.

"i've been great actually. Doing great. You look... weighted. Not in flesh. In soul," he murmured.

Jamal's lips curved faintly. "The world isn't weightless, brother. It tilts crooked with deeds and memories."

Fawas tilted his head, a teasing grin blooming. "Prophet Idris teach you that on pilgrimage?"

"Tch. Why assume I met a prophet?" Jamal's tone softened. "I just learned to listen. Listening is the root of knowing."

"Right, right." Fawas winked. "But tell me, you started collecting your thrifts yet?"

Jamal raised a brow. "Thrift? You mean?"

"Don't play righteous." Fawas's grin widened. "Thrifts. Foreplay. Dunya's blessed little gift." He raised two fingers in mock solemnity.

Jamal huffed a dry laugh.

"Ah. You mean sex right?" He shook his head. "Some master cultivation. Others? Still learning to water the soil." A pause. "I'm still learning."

Fawas clicked his tongue. "Still intact?" He clapped Jamal's shoulder. "Brother, sand's slipping through the hourglass. We ain't seedlings anymore."

Jamal shrugged. "Mmm. True. But maybe you should tend your own field and stop chasing every breeze in skirt or jilbab." His eyes held Fawas's. "Besides... something deeper than desire brought me back. Not your virginity sermon."

Fawas chuckled, eyes glinting. "Mystic mode activated. Don't worry, I still get you."

"Do you?" Jamal's voice roughened. "The world shouts. I had to relearn silence."

A moment hung, dense, quiet, the air thick with years unspoken.

Then Fawas stepped aside, swinging the door wide.

"Come on in, aboki, Before the cat reconsiders your offer."

Jamal smiled. Crossed the threshold.

Into warmth. Into memory. Into whatever current that had drawn him home.

As the door began to close, Jamal asked softly, eyes down:

"Your father... he still lives here?"

Fawas's hand froze on the handle.

"Not really." His voice flattened. "If he did... would you be at my door?" A beat. "We'll talk after you rest. Just come in." He nudged Jamal forward. "Good to have you home."

____.

Inside, the room embraced Jamal, soft warmth, incense clinging to corners like ancient prayers. Cold tiles had replaced the rug, but the same framed ayat still watched from the wall. Beside it, a faded portrait of Fawas' parents and their younger selves defied time. More lamps now. Fewer shadows. Less fear.

Jamal scanned the retouched familiarity. His bag thudded as he sank into the blue armchair.

He glanced at the door, then fixed Fawas with a sideways look.

"Here's Peaceful now. More Welcoming."

"Yeah, Right" Fawas' smile was a blade wrapped in silk. "None of this warmth would breathe if my father still haunted these walls."

"That woman earlier, the one I met at the door," Jamal tilted his head toward the exit as he sank into a blue couch. "Wife? Or neighbor with... convenient timing?"

Fawas scratched his beard, eyes dancing.

"Her name's Aisha. Came for evening class.." A beat. "The rain detained her."

Jamal's gaze sharpened. "Class!?"

"Mm. Nothing serious." Fawas shrugged. "Yet."

"Nine years," Jamal sighed. "I hoped they'd season you. Instead, you're still running Qur'an classes for doe-eyed women 'caught in storms'."

Fawas laughed, adjusting his kaftan. "You make it sound haram! She just came to recite..."

"What'd she ree.. cite?" Jamal deadpanned. "Surah al-Missionary? Ayah 6:9? I know you so well Fawas, notwithstanding the fact that we've been apart for a while now."

Laughter erupted; rich, raw, exorcising old ghosts.

As it faded, Jamal's face hardened.

"Jokes aside Fawas. I really wished you'd changed before I return. It's not like I'm preaching against your sexual life or something, but brother, you have to Stop chaining your spirit to every woman you share space with."

Fawas' brow lifted. "What do you mean?"

"It's not just flesh," Jamal pressed, voice low as embers. "Souls exchange energy. Every sexual intercourse leaves residue. Lingers. Layers. Either Dark or white."

Fawas stroked his beard, silent.

"Too many ties?" Jamal continued, elbows on knees. "Muddy the heart. Drown the whisper of Allah, and finally lead one lost."

Silence thickened.

"You think this is foolish?" Jamal asked quietly, his eyes fixed on Fawas. "Just dusty words from a ghost who lost touch?"

Fawas ran a hand over his jaw, chuckling, but the sound didn't hold. "What do you want me to say, Jamal?"

He leaned back, then forward again, restless. "This kind of advice? It's the sort you give boys still figuring themselves out. Still green. Still... savable."

His voice faltered, just for a second.

"If you'd told me this seven or eight years ago... maybe it would've made a difference. Maybe it would've saved me from a whole lot of things I don't even have the words for anymore."

A pause.

"I don't know if that's the root of my problems," he added, quieter. "But thank you. I'll try to make some amendments. I just hope... it's not too late."

Jamal smiled, eyes deep with memory and mercy.

"And ask forgiveness of your Lord and repent to Him. Indeed, my Lord is Merciful and Loving. Remember what Allah said In suratul-hud."

His voice was calm, but carried weight.

"It's never too late if you're still breathing, akhi. We break. We mend. We return."

Fawas looked at him, something softening in his gaze. "I missed this sermon of yours," he said.

Jamal leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch; warm, like sunlight across old wounds.

"A word is enough for the wise"

Fawas stood up to check the water in the kitchen.

A muted football match buzzed somewhere in the background, but Jamal's spirit had tuned it out long ago. His mind was elsewhere, drawn again to her.

That woman.

That strange, impossible woman he had never met.

And yet, her presence had followed him. Not in the obsessive way of a fantasy, but in the relentless way of a truth trying to break through veils. A pull that didn't begin in the body, but somewhere much older.

While drifting among his ocean of infinite thoughts,

he barely heard the soft hum of his phone vibrating on the side table.

he glanced over

'Ustaz Hamid.'

A flicker of warmth touched his chest on sighting the name, but it didn't settle.

Even that name, it couldn't stop the throb of unease that rose just beneath his ribs.

They had just spoken not too long ago, barely before he alighted from the bus. Why's he calling again? Why now? at this hour.

His brows furrowed, and a knot formed in his gut.

Still, he answered.

"Peace be upon you, my son," came the familiar voice.

Warm as always, but something in the tone cracked under strain.

"And upon you be peace, Ustaz," Jamal replied softly, trying to sound settled, but his voice was tight, lips stiffened by worry.

"You're home now?"

"Yeah," Jamal exhaled, glancing around the dim-lit parlour. "Just got in a little while ago. How is everyone at your end?"

"All good, alhamdulillah."

A pause.

"So… where are you staying?"

"Fawas's place."

Another pause. Longer.

"I called you for something trivial, Jamal," the Ustaz said slowly, his voice now weighed with something deeper. "I really need you to come back to Al-Mahrak. It's urgent."

Jamal blinked. He sat upright. "Come back?" His tone edged toward disbelief. "Ustaz, I just got here. That's thirteen hours back, and I haven't even taken off my shoes."

"I know." The Ustaz's voice dropped lower, firmer. "But if it wasn't critical, I wouldn't ask."

Silence fell between them like a curtain.

Jamal stared ahead, heart pacing.

"What happened?"

A long, exhausted breath filtered through the line.

"She's back."

His eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"…Rofiya," the name came like a weight tossed into still waters.

Jamal straightened, heartbeat hitching.

"She arrived not long ago.." Ustaz continued gently. "With a child."

Jamal's throat dried. "A child?"

"She says he's yours."

Everything went silent inside Jamal's body.

His limbs didn't move. His breath caught. His mind tried to connect dots that didn't exist.

"Mine!? How!?" he echoed, like the words had no meaning. "We never… I mean, I.."

His voice trailed, his fingers trembling against his thigh.

"I know you're confused Jamal," Ustaz Hamid said, reading the storm in Jamal's silence. "Same as I here. But this isn't about past assumptions Jamal. The boy is sick and They need his father. She even swore by Allah it's you."

Jamal stood up abruptly. The room felt too small. Too old. He couldn't believe what his ears are transmitting.

"Where is he?" Jamal asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"In the hospital," the Ustaz replied. "She came here alone saying he's in Critical condition, he needs blood transfusion, and the father's blood is the only hope."

He pressed his palm against his mouth.

A child?

His child?

With her?

From a night that never existed?

The Ustaz's voice softened, but stayed steady.

"Whether the story makes sense or not Jamal, we need you here. If not for her, then for him."

Jamal turned toward the window, eyes burning, the chill of the Nur Afiya night no longer cold enough to touch him.

He didn't know whether to answer this sudden call of fate, or stay the course of his own mission. But this was between life and death… and he respected the Ustaz too much to ignore it.

"Is this divine alignment," he muttered under his breath, "or danger cloaked in a mystic mask?"

"I'll try my possible best, sir. I'll give you a call tomorrow," he said finally, voice low but firm, before ending the call.

Rofiya.

The name struck like a nail driven into an old wound.

Slow.

Sharp.

An haunting memory.

The woman who once held the corners of his heart like prayer beads slipping through trembling, uncertain fingers.

And now, apparently… a mother.

To his estranged son.

How more entangled could a man's life get?

An estranged dream-lover had drawn him back to Nur Afiya.

Now, an estranged son was driving him back to a city he thought he'd taken a break from.

He hadn't even fulfilled his purpose in Nur Afiya yet.

And already, fate was knocking again… this time, louder than before.

"Those who are called by the unseen cannot pretend deafness for long."

..whispered somewhere between his ribs, where dreams never fully die.