2 Where we start something New

Hilal I was woken up by someone shaking me, at first I thought I was dreaming, but with the persistent shaking, it became obvious that it wasn’t a dream. “Miss, wake up,” I heard a familiar voice saying over and over again. “What....” I asked groggily, still slumbering. “Wake up else you’re going to miss your flight,” said the familiar voice. Flight? That woke me up. I quickly sat up pushing the blankets away from my body.       “What flight?” I asked, looking weary but wide eyed.                                          It was Jason, the driver. He stood straighter and put his hands behind him, bodyguard style. “You’re leaving to Nigeria by 4:00am, if you don’t hurry; you’re going to be late miss.” I had known Jason for five years, and he had always been formal, but never had I seen him look so serious, or worried. I was confused; I laughed “Jason, you’re joking, right?” I looked at him desperate for an answer; I knew he wasn’t joking, since he wasn’t the type to even laugh at a joke. He looked uncomfortable, he kept fidgeting. He coughed and replied “No miss, I am not.” “Where is dad?” I asked as I put my feet on the floor, searching for my flip flops with my legs. “He left already, uhm.....he didn’t want to wake you up, but he left this for you,” he gave me a long brown envelope. It had my father’s stamps all over it, as if he wanted me to know it was truly from him. “There’s no time. We have to go now.” I was pensive, shocked and still a little bit sleepy but I decided to obey, I didn’t have a list of choices. I picked up my bag which was still lying on the floor where I had thrown it before falling asleep, and followed Jason to the car. Some of my belongings from home had already been put it the trunk. I was sure I slept for only three hours, and that my father had spent those three hours developing a plan, if I could call it that. As we drove to the airport, I picked up the envelope and slipped out a white paper which had my father’s cursive and slightly slanted handwriting on it and it read; Dear Hilal, I’m sorry. I don’t know if you know how sorry I am, and I don’t think I could ever tell you how much, even if I lived a hundred years more. What I can do, is to protect you with everything I have. Maybe I’m just being paranoid but I feel that what happened last night was just a tip off the ice berg, and I know these people would go to any length. For your safety, I know I should leave the case, but then again I know you’d want me to do the right thing, and the right thing to do in this case would be to stay and fight for what’s right. Hilal, you are my only weakness, you’re everything I’ve got, and knowing this, they’ll do everything to get to you because they know that’s the only way to get to me. I found out that there had been someone stalking you for the past month, and I know that if you stay, it would only get worse. I want you to leave to Nigeria, for a couple of months, just until things sizzle down. There is no assurance that sending you to Nigeria would mean your safety, which is why you’re going to have to lay really low. All my accounts have been frozen, I don’t have much, so I can’t promise a very comfortable life in Nigeria, you are going to have to blend a whole lot, but it will only be until I can unfreeze my accounts. Imran would be there to help you with whatever you need. Everything you need to travel, your passport, your driver’s license, Nigerian national identity card, cash, etc. They are all in the envelope. Finally, I need a bigger favour from you; I need you to take care of yourself and try to stay safe. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine as long as you are. I love you. Love, Dad. I read the letter again for the third time, struggling to stifle the tears that threatened to break through. But I couldn’t, my eyes were way too lubricated by the emotions triggered by the letter’s content. I shouldn’t have been crying, I should have been stronger, like my father always said I was. Right? But I felt weak and couldn’t do anything but surrender to that moment of vincibility. Jason watched me through the rear-view mirror as I cried, and I knew he felt pity for me. Although he didn’t say anything, the expression on his face betrayed his feelings. I managed to pull myself together as we closed in on the airport. As we approached it, I searched through the contents of the envelope, picked what was supposed to be my passport and opened it. There was an old picture of me on it, one which I hated but my father especially liked. He said it reminded him of my mother when he first met her. It barely looked like me. I smiled at the memory, but my smile almost immediately vanished when I saw the name on the passport, it wasn’t Hilal Sadiq, but Hadizat Farouq. I searched though the other documents and it was all the same, Hadizat Farouq plastered on all of them. A little “p.s, you also get a change of identity” would have been great. It was the smart thing to do though, if those people were as bad as my father said they were, then it would be very easy for them to find me If I used my name. I repeated the name ‘Hadizat’ several times, until it flowed freely and normally from my lips. As soon as I stood in front of the airport, I made a promise to myself, to pretend that nothing that happened really happened and that I wasn’t really who I was. I was Hadizat Farouq, a normal Fully Nigerian graduate. Brave, ambitious, and free spirited.