Musa was finally back at the family residence. He made his way into the fridge where he dropped the tupperware from the restaurant. A fridge can tell when its owner is experiencing slowing cash flow towards the end of a working month. Not counting the tupperware, the family had just three eggs, an apple, a cabbage, a bundle of pita bread, and a bag of garri. This was in addition to a few sachets of coffee and milk powder in the fridge’s door. Having received his salary for the month, he was just happy to be able to eat something good for dinner at least this one time. All he needed to do now was to make a new grocery list for the next day.

Soon after, Musa took the opportunity to take a rest. He shut the door behind him, and winded the key twice for good measure. Placing his head over his pillow, with his right hand under it for support, he looked over his left side and noticed his drawer that he had not opened for a very long time. With his legs, he leaped out of bed to take a look. The drawer was covered in dust, a sign of how long it had been since he last opened it. In it were his old certificates, and a photo album filled with photos from his school years. In this album were several pictures of his old friends, as well as those of his school crush, Rosalina. The mere sight of her caused his blood to boil. He pulled out all of her photos, and proceeded to rip each one before throwing everything to the ground.

“I’m sorry, but I just cannot grant Musa exemption,” a soldier lamented to Karim in Arabic, as the pair looked through each of Musa’s documents. Since his Arabic was poor, all Musa could do was wait at a corner. “Something is out of order with his letter from the Ministry of Higher Studies. Sort this out and, then, come back to us as soon as possible,” the soldier advised.

It was November of 2006, and Karim was helping his cousin with his documents. Since Musa was not the only son in his family, it was mandatory for every first son to receive military training. This especially applied to potential recruits not studying at the moment. Before heading to Lebanon, he was mistakenly told that, being born in Africa, he was automatically exempted from military training. Upon arrival, however, his family members, and the Lebanese Armed Forces themselves told him otherwise.

Despite being fluent in Arabic, Karim was just as confused as Musa. He couldn’t make out what was really written on the letter. Like Musa, he too grew up in Nigeria throughout most of his childhood as a dual citizen. As the pair walked away from the local barracks to order a service, “service” being a Lebanese French term for local taxis, Karim explained everything to Musa. “We’re going to need some help from a native Arabic speaker,” he said.

While heading back to Zaidanieh, Musa recommended the two ought to ask a phone business owner, Mr. Nazaheh. Providing services to expatriates from Southeast Asia, he was quite fluent in Arabic, but also English. Karim agreed. After looking through the letter, however, what came out of it wasn’t what Musa wanted to hear.

“The letter states that you only completed eleventh grade, and that you never sat down for Baccalauréat,” Mr. Nazaheh said, Baccalauréat being a certification standard in Beirut.

Musa's heart sank when he heard that last part, for he realized what “never sat down for Baccalauréat” meant: his regional certification was not recognized in Lebanon after all. Their next visit to the Ministry of Higher Studies certainly confirmed it. This also meant that Musa would not be resuming university, and that his admission may have been a mistake. The boys then headed for Musa's university campus for confirmation.

“I’m afraid this is true. Musa won’t be able to resume his studies until this is sorted out,” said one of the staff. He then looked to Musa, and asked, “Do you remember the staff who looked through your application?”

Musa looked left and right, but he couldn’t see the individual in question. “I don’t see him,” he said. “He was clean shaved, with hair gel, always wearing a red bowtie….”

“Ah! Husni!” the staff exclaimed. Feeling rather uncomfortable, he admitted, “Yeah, you’re not the only one he wrongfully admitted this way. That’s why we fired him.”

At this point, all the staff could do was to issue a refund. With that money, and some research, Karim suggested a center in Downtown where Musa could practice for his international certification. Alas, all Musa got were bad memories of taking the exam the first time in Lagos. In English classes, he would often score anywhere between sixty and over ninety percent. The same was true for his regional exams. However, with this exam, he kept scoring below thirty percent, and seemingly kept failing in comprehension, an English subject where he usually excelled in. Throwing his hands up in the air, he decided to just move back to Lagos, and resume his old studies at an IT institution. In addition, anti-government protests held in Downtown, and the tensions that came out of it, didn’t help put Musa at ease either.

“It’s not the banking career that I wanted, but being a software engineer is better than constantly failing in these exams,” he thought, as he had to give up on his dreams of working in the banking sector at the GCC.

As a cruel irony, his mind took him back to his father’s old saying, “Nothing lasts forever.” Indeed, nothing that Musa could have planned for could necessarily be certain. By Christmas Eve, he would find himself at the Rafic Hariri International Airport, waiting at the terminal for his next flight. With a box of donuts for the family, at the very least, he didn’t feel like he was leaving Lebanon empty-handed

Two years had passed since returning to Lagos, and Musa was just about to round up his second year at the IT institution. That evening, he returned to his parent’s new home in Lekki, treating himself to carefully portioned nutrition to maintain his new waistline. At the back of his mind, just like highschool, he felt a bit worried about his future. Perhaps, he should look at the likelihood of furthering his studies with his new certification overseas, so as to secure a bachelor’s degree, or he could try and start a career in Lagos.

But, then, he remembered the pep talk that his father had with him all those years ago. In addition to being told that nothing in life was certain, before traveling to Beirut, Mr. Shajareh had also taught him the power of supplication, on how it could help change one’s destiny.

“If you really want something, and it’s halal, ask Allah with du’a,” he said to his son, “du’a” being an Islamic term for supplication.

It was time for evening prayer, hence Musa stepped into his bathroom to perform ablution. After prayer, he offered his supplication for the goals he had in life. At this point, he still wasn’t able to say all five prayers daily, probably up to four at best, but he had shown improvement ever since leaving secondary school.

Lying in bed, he then proceeded to send an SMS to his childhood crush, Rosalina. In fact, Rosalina had been the only reason he was able to still be smiling during tough days. During his time at his old intercontinental school, he and a fellow student, Ibrahim, became close friends, and would often spend the day at each other’s house, or the weekend at a family club with family members and friends. Ibrahim was the first child in his family, with his sister, Rosalina, being the younger sibling. For years, Musa grew to know Rosalina but, due to her shy nature, not by much. In fact, it would take years till both truly began to interact with each other, despite Rosalina tagging along with her brother and his friends.

As a child, Musa had always enjoyed playing with action figures and toy bricks that he owned for years but, one afternoon, he stared at all his toys and felt nothing for them. He picked each one up and dropped them back into the drawer where they remained for years. Over a year later, when he was just fourteen, he felt as if the Cupid had paid him a visit. He began to have a crush on Rosalina. Looking back, there were many things that he loved about her from her soft, melodic voice to her bubbly personality, and long, silky hair. “Rosalina” was also a peculiar name for a Muslim girl, but a name that made her stand out from other girls at school.

“I must try and get to know this girl,” he thought.

However, it wouldn’t be till next year when Rosalina and her mother would return to Lagos for summer vacation. This would be Musa’s chance to pass by her house for a quick chat. But, since her brother was still in Beirut, by Lebanese custom, it was considered inappropriate for Muslim male and female strangers to interact with each other, so the pair kept the visit brief. And, before flying back to Beirut, Rosalina gladly shared her email address with Musa. For the first time, Musa then had other dreams than just being a banker.

“I hope to be a good husband to her, and, perhaps one day, a good father,” he thought. In fact, having a wife pregnant with his flesh and blood became more important to him than having a career.

Before leaving Nigeria, Musa would sneak into any available internet cafes for a chance to check on his friends, especially Rosalina. At times, he would also mail parcels of gifts to her, an idea that he picked up from a dating simulation game on his computer. During his time in Beirut, he had help from one of Karim’s friends in tracking down where she lived en route to Hazmieh. Ever since, the pair were happy to see each other once more, with Musa amazed by how she had matured in just a couple of years.

“You look beautiful,” he complimented.

“Thank you,” Rosalina said, feeling rather bashful.

About a month before the July War, Musa made his way to a western Beirut neighborhood, Mar Elias, where he made an order for a box of chocolate in advance. It was his birthday present to Rosalina. He took a bus from Mar Elias, and made his way over.

“Why, thank you! You shouldn’t have!” Rosalina said, with a huge smile on her face.

She picked from some varieties and, looking at Musa for a brief moment, she stretched the box towards him, and said, “Have some.”

“But, I got them for you,” Musa said, feeling rather confused.

“I insist,” Rosalina said.

Musa accepted, and picked a handful of chocolates, with his favorite being dark chocolate. In fact, buying Rosalina that box of chocolate was probably amongst his most cherished memories in Beirut.

Hence, on that Christmas Eve, Musa  took the time to use his telephone card one last time, and made a call to Rosalina.

“Hey, Musa! How are you?” Rosaline asked, as she always had.

“I’m fine, and you?” Musa asked.

“I’m fine. I was just about to sleep,” Rosalina said. “Are you at the airport?”

“I am,” Musa said. “My flight should take off in the next two hours, so I wanted to give you a call before heading back to Lagos.”

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you,” Rosalina said, then added, “I hope you’re doing okay.”

“I am. Thanks,” Musa said.

It was eleven o'clock in the evening, so Musa felt half asleep. He tried his hardest to pay attention to the conversation but, before ending his call, he thought he heard Rosalina say, “Take care of yourself. I love you.”

“Did you say you love me?” he asked.

“Yes,” Rosalina said.

This couldn’t have made Musa feel more loved, as he flew back to Nigeria smiling all the way home.

Alas, without warning, Musa’s world soon came crumbling down. He logged into his computer to chat with everyone, as he always did each night, but he was most excited to have a quick chat with Rosalina. The pair had kept in touch since Musa’s return to Lagos, on the phone and online. But, on that night, something felt off as Rosalina proceeded to ask, “What do you see in me?”

“I see you as a friend, but maybe even more than friends,” Musa blissfully answered.

“I never had feelings for you like that. Maybe you should find another girl,” Rosalina said, then added, “Can we still be friends?”

“Yes,” Musa typed.

Musa took the news at first well but, like a cartoon, his indifference soon turned to grief as he spent the next three days crying. All the years he spent trying to win Rosalina’s heart turned to waste, and no amount of effort could ever change her mind.

“I thought you said you loved me,” Musa typed during a brief conversation.

“I never remember saying that,” Rosalina said, hence causing Musa to wonder if he was just too sleepy that night to really remember the conversation at the airport.

After months of going back and forths, and suppressing his sorrow with his parents’ ice-creams and chocolates, Musa’s grief turned to scorn. No matter what he had tried, he wasn’t able to convince Rosalina to give him a chance in love, afraid that he would never find anyone like her. Things became heated between the pair, delisting and relisting each other on social media for a couple of years, that they would end up blocking each other indefinitely, but not without Rosalina sending Musa an angry email titled “Read Well!!!” He never bothered opening it before reaching out for the delete button.

To his regret, by the end, Musa realized just how awfully he mistreated Rosalina. He blamed her for falling out of love, or never loving him to begin with, whatever may have been the case, when, all along, Musa probably only had himself to blame.

“Maybe I just don’t know how to talk to girls after all,” he thought, as he tried to reexamine his past communications with Rosalina, with a tail between his legs. Perhaps, he thought, there was a reason his classmates kept picking on him all those years ago after all.

Alas, it was the end of Musa’s dreams of making Rosalina his wife, or being able to one day hold his own child in his hands. Hence, like a menacing ghost, his father’s old saying, “Nothing lasts forever,” came back to haunt him once more, as he buried his sorrow with a bowl of ice-cream.