Chosen rubbed his eyes, squinting at the morning light filtering through the curtains.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," Mina said warmly, walking toward him with a towel still wrapped around her waist.
He yawned, then smiled.
"Your stubborn sister just left for school, her bus just left. Come on, let's get you ready before you take your breakfast." Mina bent over to pick up Trisha's uniform from the back of the chair. "This girl needs to stop kicking her clothes everywhere. It's starting to look like she lives in a locker room."
Chosen chuckled but had no idea who his mom was talking to as she was trying to pick up socks from the floor.
Mina gave him a playful glare. "And you had to rearrange the whole room for that?"
He scratched his head, grinning guiltily.
She walked into the bathroom to get his toothbrush, then called out, "Come on, boy, let's make your breakfast."
As Mina entered the kitchen, her phone buzzed on the countertop. It was a text from Auntie Saada:
> "Assalamu alaikum, my dear. I had a dream last night. We need to talk today. It's important."
Mina paused, her hand gripping the edge of the counter. Auntie Saada rarely reached out with such urgency unless it was something serious—or spiritual. She typed a quick reply:
> "Wa alaikum salam, auntie. I'll come whenever I'm done with the house chores."
She exhaled, trying not to let worry cloud her mood. Today was already full enough.
Just as she cracked some eggs into the frying pan, Adams returned from the driveway, having forgotten his work file.
"Mina," he called, "I left a brown envelope on the dining table. Did you move it?"
"It's in the drawer. I didn't want it to get stained with food," she replied, motioning toward the cabinet.
He smiled, retrieving the envelope. "Thank you. You're always saving my neck."
She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "That's what I'm here for."
Chosen walked into the kitchen half-dressed, still fumbling with his buttons. Adams chuckled and reached over to help him. "You're going to be a genius, champ." then, he robbed his head, went out through the door back to his car and drove off to work.
Mina placed a plate of toast and eggs in front of him. "Then let the eggs wake them up."
As they all laughed, a brief moment of peace settled in the room—a fragile kind of normal.
But Mina couldn't shake the feeling Auntie Saada's message left in her chest.
Back Trisha, she sat near the window, resting her chin in her palm as the bus rolled through familiar streets. The sun cast warm stripes of light on her face, and she watched the world pass by—trees, rooftops, yawning shopkeepers, and children dragging backpacks.
Her best friend, Amira, tapped her shoulder. "You look like you're dreaming."
Trisha blinked and smiled. "I was just thinking."
"About what?" Amira teased with a wink.
Trisha rolled her eyes, blushing slightly. "No, about my dad. He's been working a lot lately."
Amira nodded. "Yeah, my dad too. But guess what? I wore my brother's sneakers today. I look like a basketball star."
Trisha giggled. "I told my mom I wanted to dress like my dad twice a week. She said she'll tell him to buy me his kind of clothes."
Amira grinned. "If you start wearing suits, I'm calling you Boss Trish."
When they arrived at school, the girls stepped off the bus and made their way to class. Their homeroom teacher, Miss Clara, stood at the doorway with her usual kind smile.
"Good morning, young ladies."
"Good morning, ma'am," they chorused.
Inside the classroom, Miss Clara wrote "Word of the Day: Resilience" on the board.
"Can anyone tell me what resilience means?"
Trisha raised her hand slowly. "Is it like... ambitious?"
The class chuckled, and Miss Clara smiled. "Close. Ambitious is the drive to achieve something, and resilience is the ability to keep going, even when things get tough. Like a tree bending in the wind but not breaking."
Amira whispered to Trisha, "Like you when you tried to climb that monkey bar last week."
Trisha laughed. "And fell twice but kept going."
Miss Clara nodded, clearly pleased. "That's right, Trisha. And you're all going to show resilience as you grow—because life isn't always easy. But you're tougher than you think."
Later during lunch, as they sat under a tree by the playground, Trisha took out her lunchbox and found a little sticky note inside:
> "Be strong, baby girl. Daddy loves you. – D.A."
Her eyes lit up, and she showed it to Amira.
"Wow, your dad wrote that?"
Trisha nodded, her heart swelling with pride. "He doesn't always say much, but I know he means it."
A boy from their class—Joel, the class clown—ran past and tossed a piece of bread at Amira's head. She screamed, and the girls broke into fits of laughter.
As the lunch bell rang, and they dusted off their uniforms, Trisha looked back at the note once more, folded it gently, and slipped it into her diary.
Somehow, even in a world full of noise, that tiny note gave her the strength to face the day.
After cleaning Chosen up and tidying up the kitchen, Mina changed into a modest, flowing kaftan, wrapped her scarf firmly around her head, and grabbed her handbag. She took one last glance around the house, sighed, and locked the front door behind her.
The weather was warm but gentle, the kind of Lagos morning that carried both peace and tension in the air. As she drove to Auntie Saada's neighbourhood, her mind wandered. Why did she sound so urgent? Was it a warning? A prayer request? A vision?
When she arrived, Auntie Saada was already waiting by the front porch, a steaming cup of zobo in hand.
"Mina," she greeted, her voice soft but firm.
Mina stepped out of the car and embraced her. "As-salamu alaikum, Auntie."
"Wa alaikum salam, my daughter, she carried Chosen and held him as they stepped out of the car. Come inside."
The house smelled of hibiscus, cloves, and something older—memories. Mina followed her into the sitting room where a prayer mat lay folded neatly by the wall.
After they sat, Auntie Saada looked at her closely. "You look tired. Your spirit is running fast, but your heart is not catching up."
Mina gave a half-smile. "It's just life, Auntie. And children. And work. And... Adams."
"Ah. Him."
There was a pause.
"I had a dream," Auntie Saada said. "You were standing in a garden, but every flower you touched started wilting. You looked up and asked, 'Why is everything I care about fading?' Then a voice answered: 'Because you must water your roots first.'"
Mina blinked, absorbing every word.
"Does this mean something bad is coming?"
"No," Auntie Saada said gently. "It means your strength is giving out. You've been pouring into everyone—Adams, Trisha, Chosen—and forgetting to fill yourself."
Mina nodded slowly, her throat tight. "I feel like that sometimes. Like I'm losing parts of myself, little by little."
Auntie Saada took her hands. "Then you must take them back. Start small. Do something for yourself. Reconnect with your soul. Your peace. Even your joy. Before it becomes too late before silence takes over your voice."
There was silence between them, heavy but comforting. Then Auntie Saada smiled.
"Let's pray together."
And so they did—two women, two generations, whispering Arabic supplications and holding on to the faith that somewhere in their prayers, healing would begin again.