He stood leaning against the wall, occasionally running his hand through his hair. He couldn’t recall the last time something had unsettled him like this; the feeling was foreign to him. The clothes he wore caught his eye: short camouflage pants he’d never touched before and a sleeveless shirt with a collar bearing a chain-like emblem, impossible to discern clearly, along with a small, long piece of metal attached to his body, carrying his name and service number. In times when death struck, that chain was often the only proof of who was who, left clinging to the body.

Despite the camouflage color, he could still see the blood staining his clothes, blood that made something stir inside him when he looked at it. He had no words to describe what he felt, because blood didn’t usually bother him. Even before his job, he had a tough heart, unshaken by much. But today, he felt sweat on his forehead and saw blood on his shirt.

“Paapi, I want water…”

Fajr’s voice jolted his ears, reminding him he wasn’t alone. He turned to look at them—Fajr, now five years old, though his size and height made him seem older than his not-yet-completed five years, sitting with his sister, who was four months old. The way he held her made Abdulkadir glance at the girl to check if she was even breathing.

“What kind of holding is this, Ikram?”

Fajr looked at him, frowning, clearly tired of holding his sister.

“I want water, Paapi. Where’s Omma?”

Abdulkadir reached out to take Ikram from Fajr’s hands. She was asleep, her mind at ease. He paused, trying to remember if he’d heard her cry since his return—she hadn’t fussed at all. His eyes scanned for a place to get water for Fajr without leaving the spot. He didn’t want to move, in case the doctor came out with news. Deep in his heart, he felt something heavy, like a blanket growing thicker, trying to cover the dishonesty that seemed to seep through every part of his body.

“Fajr, where can I find water here?”

He spoke, adjusting Ikram to rest comfortably on his shoulder. Her head against him eased some of the weight he felt. His eyes darted around again, then landed on Mami as she pushed through the glass door, approaching. He’d regretted calling her earlier, but at the time, he was frantic, unsure of what to do. She had told him to bring Waheedah to the hospital, and when he left, he’d brought Fajr along too.

He spotted Aminu following her, then Salim and Zainab. He’d forgotten how his family operated. His job had made him forget that when someone needed to go to the hospital, a single car was never enough. Half the family would go, and if they took too long, the other half left at home would follow. He thought every hospital in Kano with their files must know the Bugaje family’s habit—they didn’t even try to stop them from crowding in. As they approached, Zainab reached out to take Ikram from him. He didn’t resist and handed her over.

“How’s her condition?”

Mami asked him. He looked down, unable to meet her eyes, his head lowered. Before he could answer, Fajr spoke up:

“Mami, Omma fell, and there was a lot of blood on her head…”

Mami reached for the boy who had stood up, grabbing her hand and wrapping his other arm around her legs. Abdulkadir’s eyes met hers, his tongue heavy, unable to respond to her question. The dishonesty was plain on his face. With a strange feeling gripping him, Fajr stared at him, the boy’s gaze intensifying as he pressed closer to Mami. Looking into Abdulkadir’s eyes, he said:

“Paapi pushed her, and she fell… Mami, it was Paapi…”

A heavy silence followed the boy’s words, a silence louder than any noise, one that could touch anyone passing by. Abdulkadir froze, searching for the word to describe what enveloped him.

“Shame.”

A voice whispered deep in his mind. But this shame was different, unlike anything he’d ever felt. It had never caught him before, not like this. He wasn’t used to it. His affairs were always straightforward, but today, shame didn’t just catch him—it covered him completely, followed by a thick blanket of dishonesty. Even his breathing felt measured, like he was counting each breath.

“Mami, see what I was telling you?”