Chapter 3 Reflections Before Eid

Absolutely! Here's your expanded version of Suraiyah's reflective

Suraiyah

At thirty-seven, Suraiyah Sulaiman had learned how to carry many versions of herself.

There was the poised professional in crisp, imported Ankara and sharp heels, who could hold her own in boardrooms filled with men twice her age, mapping out billion-naira tech infrastructure strategies without flinching. There was the dutiful daughter who still lowered her eyes and softened her tone the moment her father's voice filled a room. The eldest sister who acted as emotional anchor, financial backup, and peacemaker during family wedding seasons when tempers ran high and egos clashed like drums.

And then there was the woman she had only begun to meet in quiet moments-when the phones were off, the deals signed, the heels off, and the silence too loud to ignore. A woman still figuring out who she was without the constant weight of being everything to everyone.

That version of herself was raw. And honest. And often lonely.

She sipped her kunu-cool, thick, and slightly nutty-and leaned back into the wooden chair on her apartment balcony, letting the Abuja evening wash over her. The breeze carried the faint scent of suya from a nearby street vendor. A chorus of birds argued in the neem tree across the road, their voices competing with the soft hum of traffic and the distant, melodic call of the Maghrib adhan curling through the city air.

Ramadan was almost over. The slow, sacred days of fasting, prayer, and reflection had passed quickly this year. Or maybe she had been too busy to notice how time moved. She had juggled meetings, Zoom calls, deadlines, and breaking fast alone at her kitchen table most nights-just her, a tray of food, and the voice of an imam on YouTube guiding her through Taraweeh.

Still, something in her was beginning to soften. To exhale. The holy month always did that. Peeled her open.

And now, with Eid drawing near, so was home.

Kaduna.

It had been months since she'd visited properly. Not for a funeral, not for a client's wedding, not for a quick stopover between conferences-but to simply be home. She missed the rhythm of it. The slow mornings with her mother humming as she stirred tuwo. The laughter of her sisters arguing over outfit colors. The endless plates of rice, meat, and gossip passed around during Eid visits. The familiar chaos that made her feel, despite everything, rooted.

With a smile tugging at her lips, she tapped her phone and dialed the one number that always answered.

Her mother picked up on the second ring.

"Ah, Suraiyah! My dear, you've remembered us today o!" her mother said in Hausa-inflected English, dramatic as always.

"Mama, haba now," Suraiyah replied with a soft laugh. "I call all the time. You're the one with the busy schedule."

Her mother scoffed, indignant. "Me? Who is busy like you, Chief Madam Consultant? I heard they mentioned your name on AIT the other day. One uncle said, 'Is that Alhaji Sulaiman's daughter?' I said, 'Of course! The firstborn! The one I suffered to raise!'"

"You didn't suffer that much," Suraiyah teased. "I was a peaceful child."

"Peaceful? You that used to argue with your father before you even had breasts?" Her mother cackled, that deep belly-laugh that always managed to lift Suraiyah's spirits. "It's good. You were sharp from the beginning. And see now-you are leading projects in Abuja, flying around like one senator's daughter."

That warmth bloomed in her chest. Her mother's praise always came laced with fire, but it was real. Earned.

"But," her mother continued, tone shifting, "you are coming home for Eid, ba?"

"Yes, Mama. I arranged my schedule already. I'll drive in on Thursday-day before Sallah."

"Good. Very good. The tailor has finished sewing your atampha. I told him nothing too modern o, your aunties will all be there. And your sisters-Zainab and Maryam-they've already sent their fabrics. Their husbands will come for lunch, of course. You know we don't do small Sallah."

Small? Never.

Eid in the Sulaiman household was a full-on cultural production. Between her father's business associates, her mother's friends, extended cousins from Zaria, aunties from Kano, and the neighborhood well-wishers who appeared like clockwork after every prayer, the compound turned into a carnival of perfume, prayer, and politics.

"I hope there's still room for the unmarried first daughter," Suraiyah quipped, eyebrow raised.

Her mother clicked her tongue. "Don't start. Is it not you who keeps rejecting all the decent men from good homes?"

Here we go.

"They were decent," Suraiyah said gently. "But we didn't click."

"This 'click' you people talk about like it's Bluetooth! In our time, we didn't click anything. We looked at character, family, tradition. You respect those things. Two of your sisters are married now, have children. Maryam is even younger than you by how many years?"

Suraiyah closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. She had heard this many times before, but today it stung differently. Not because of pressure-but because of possibility.

"I know, Mama. I'm happy for them. Truly. But you raised me to think for myself too. To trust my instincts."

Her mother was quiet for a long moment.

Then, softly, almost tender: "I just want you to have someone who sees you. Who matches you."

Suraiyah blinked. That... was not the usual line.

She smiled. "That's all I want too."

"Hmmm." Her mother's voice returned to its usual briskness. "I hope you're not fasting alone again in that cold city. Go and find a mosque community. You used to be more social."

"I still am. Just... different now. I enjoy my space."

Her mother scoffed. "You that used to dance like a talking drum at weddings?"

"That was a different season," Suraiyah laughed.

"Well, come and dance for us this Eid. The DJ is booked. I'll even let you serve meat so you can intimidate all these small small girls with fake eyelashes."

They both laughed at that, and when they hung up, the silence that returned was not empty-but full.

Full of memory. Full of promise.

She leaned back again, looking out over the city. Lights shimmered across the skyline like scattered dreams. A few children's voices echoed from a distant compound, chasing the last of the evening.

And then-without warning-her thoughts drifted.

To him.

To Femi.

To the boy from Osun with rough hands and kind eyes. The farmer who had appeared out of nowhere when her car broke down, like something written long ago. Who looked at her not like she was a woman out of his league, but like she was someone worth listening to. Someone real.

Would he understand this part of her? The pageantry of Eid? The layered expectations? The mother who praised with fire and judged with love? The lace, the politics, the glances over kola nuts and grilled ram meat?

Would he still want her if he saw all of it?

And if he did-if he truly did-would she be brave enough to let herself believe it?