After receiving his order, Musa made his way out the shopping mall by foot, a chance to burn off some calories for the day. But, along the way, a boy ran towards him begging for a handout. Hence, Musa reached for his fifty Naira bill in his right pocket, and handed it over to the child. It was just enough for the young boy but, with a sudden rush of childhood memories, Musa couldn’t help but recall the time when fifty Naira had more value. He certainly didn’t have to pay six hundred Naira for a bag of Irish potato chips.

It was 2001 when, on his way home from school, Musa stopped by a supermarket to buy himself a box of fruit juice. He handed over fifty Naira to the cashier, and received five Naira in change. Along the way, he gave away his change to a neighborhood beggar who, in return, expressed his gratitude with a smile.

In fact, giving alms to beggars had given Musa something to smile about as he often had to deal with baggages of being a highschool freshman. Ever since being transferred to an intercontinental school in the mainland, school bullying had been a constant issue for Musa as, socially, he hadn’t really quite fitted in with his classmates. If they didn’t make his backpack disappear, they were either placing pins on his seat, shooting spitballs from behind, or body shaming him. Getting into fights had not helped Musa in the slightest, as it often resulted in getting dragged into the principal’s office, or being told to stay outside the classroom. It was certainly worse than his schoolmates singing "Oyinbo pepper. Shuku shuku pepper,” being the only “white” student, at his previous school.

Perhaps making things worse for him, the pressure of finishing highschool, with passing grades, was weighing more heavily on Musa, for he would be applying to universities in just a few years. It was quite the opposite to his rather more care-free approach to schooling during his time at primary school. And, even during that time, at the age of nine, he was finally hit with the realization as to what a failing grade really meant. Although he wasn’t the brightest student in class, and often had to endure other problems in and outside of class, all he could do was to keep focusing on his studies.

Later that day, at five minutes to nine, Mr. and Mrs. Shajareh made themselves comfortable in the living room, tuning into their favorite channel for the news. This had been their nightly routine for the pair, as well as watching through each commercial, public announcement, and promotion between headlines. However, on that night, one announcement left the couple feeling rather dumbfounded.

“Five hundred Naira! I said it!” Mr. Shajareh exclaimed in shock.

“I don’t know for these people,” Mrs. Shajareh lamented, as she smacked her hands together. “They always keep introducing new bills.”

"First it was one hundred. Then, it was two hundred. I wouldn’t be surprised if they introduce one thousand Naira bills," Mr. Shajareh grumbled.

“Or, maybe, they just want to make it easier for us to carry large amounts?” Mrs. Shajareh suggested.

“Maybe. But, if inflation keeps up, protestors will be back on the streets. Each day businesses shut down, the country keeps losing profits,” Mr. Shajareh said.

The final advertisement rounded up, with the pair then fixated on the next headlines. 

In August that year, Musa was on summer vacation, taking much needed rest before attending the next school year. For that year, however, he and his classmates were assigned class projects, which were to be submitted on the first day of school. As he was working on his project for the night, Mr. Shajareh allowed himself into Musa’s room, while holding an item in his hand.

“How’s the project going, son?” Mr. Shajareh asked his son.

“Almost done, but it hasn’t been easy,” Musa said, as he typed away on his keyboard.

Mr. Shajareh then proceeded to drop a box in Musa’s hand.

“Oh! You got the phone,” Musa exclaimed.

“It wasn’t cheap,” Mr. Shajareh commented. “The phone cost forty thousand Naira, and twenty thousand for the SIM card. So, don’t lose them.”

“Thanks, dad,” Musa said.

Excitedly, he looked over each side of the box to read each text, and examine the illustrations. It wasn’t a phone that Musa had seen before, but it would come to define the era for years to come.

But, then, Musa came to a realization, something that had been bothering him for a long time. From a distance, his father took notice of his son’s facial expression on the matter.

“What’s wrong, son?” Mr. Shajareh asked.

 “Have you realized that nothing around us has stayed the same?” Musa asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Shajareh said, then asked, “You miss your childhood days, don’t you?"

Musa nodded, as he turned his new phone on. Then, he said, “I mean, some of my favorite foods and drinks either got discontinued or were replaced, businesses keep coming and going, and, now, we’re ditching landlines for cell phones. It’s like the world around us just doesn’t stay the same as we get older.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t. I had always had that feeling since I was your age. That’s just how life is,” Mr. Shajareh said, then asked, “You told me that Ibrahim will be relocating to Lebanon this year, isn’t he?”

Musa briefly nodded. “Yeah. He and his family,” he said.

“And what about Najib? Are you still him?” Mr. Shajareh.

“He’s still around,” Musa said, “but he’s planning to relocate to Indonesia for his further studies by next year.”

Right next to Musa’s computer was his bed, where Mr. Shajareh decided to sit so as to be right next to his son.

“I always enjoy sharing life’s lessons with you, but there is something I’m sure I haven’t shared with you yet,” Mr. Shajareh said.

“What’s that?” Musa asked.

As he placed his hand on his son's shoulder, Mr. Shajareh said, “Nothing lasts forever.”

His statement got Musa’s attention. Looking into his father’s eyes, it was a famous saying that Musa was familiar with, but had never heard his father say.

“We’re Muslims,” Mr. Shajareh said, “and, as Muslims, we believe that this world, this Dunya, is only temporary. Everything that happens around us is a constant reminder of that. Only Heaven, Al-Akhira, stays the same as it is our final destination.”

But, suddenly, this reminded Mr. Shajareh of a concern that he had for his son for a while now, then he asked, “I noticed you hadn’t been saying all five daily prayers.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Musa said. “Between school and homework, I can only say two, or maybe three at best.”

“But, something else has been troubling you, hasn’t it?” Mr. Shajareh asked, following his intuition.

Musa felt uneasy by the question but, perhaps more troubled by the answer.

“Sometimes, I just refused,” he admitted. “If God is the All-knowing, why doesn't He care about His creations?”

“Musa!” Mr. Shajareh exclaimed with a stern tone. “Is it because my business has been slow?”

“And the bullying. I’m sick of it," Musa added, with his eyes glaring over his side. His parents were already aware of their son’s personal struggles by this point in time.

“The bullies in your class, God no longer police human affairs since the days of the prophets,” Mr. Shajareh said. “We all have our own religions and scriptures. We’re supposed to read them, and learn how to treat each other with dignity.” With his finger wagging back and forth, he continued, “If they do anything wrong, that’s on them. You just have to bear with it, or find a way to get along.”

It wasn’t what Musa wanted to hear at the time, but he could appreciate his father sharing his advice on the matter.

“And as for my shop,” Mr. Shajareh said, while placing his hand on Musa's back, “don’t worry about it too much. If God doesn’t care about this family, He wouldn’t have hit us with hardships.”

He then proceeded to quote a verse from the Qur’an, and followed it with an English translation, “With hardship, there is ease. Indeed, with hardship, there is ease.” He wagged finger one more time, and said, “Every suffering is temporary. Do not forget.”

“Thanks, dad,” Musa said, as he felt comfort from his father’s wisdom.

Mr. Shajareh grabbed his son by his head, and drew him nearer for a kiss.

“I’m going to check in on your brother,” he said, “ then I'll head back to the living room for my night prayers.” But, before he could leave, he asked, “I almost forgot. Have you thought of which university you want to enroll in?”

“Not really. I haven’t thought that far,” Musa said.

“Then it’s a good thing I found these,” Mr. Shajareh said, as he pulled out some folded leaflets from his pockets. “These are the best universities that your schoolmates are heading off to,” he said.

Musa took the leaflets from his father and quickly read through details about each one. Neither of them were in Nigeria but, instead, in Beirut. His eyes lit up in excitement for what that meant.

“I know it’s a long time from now, and you haven’t been there for years, but are you excited to fly to Beirut, and meet your cousins once more?” Mr. Shajareh asked.

Mr. Shajareh was a Lebanese expatriate married to a Hausa woman, making Musa a child with mixed heritage. Musa had always been Nigerian first but, hadn't been to Beirut since when he was just five years old, he was more than excited to rediscover his Lebanese heritage. “Yes,” he said to his father with certainty.