It had been nearly a month since Musa walked back from the restaurant. Throughout the day, he kept looking over his phone for new messages from Karim, but hadn't received anything as of yet. Hence, he took up his handheld gaming device and resumed his play session.

Then, suddenly, his phone lit up, and that’s when he saw a message from Karim, with titles “Summer Time in Beirut: What to Expect,” “5 Things to Do in Batroun,” and “How Gasoline Prices Are Affecting the Economy.” Each had a handful of links to existing articles, so that Musa could do his research.

“That’s the last one. My client won’t be commissioning any new articles. You will have to look for another source of income,” Karim said, then added, “Also, I just received your last article. I needed to make some corrections with it. I keep telling you to review your stuff before submitting. You’re making us look bad.”

“Why are you frowning?” Mrs. Sharajeh confronted Musa one morning.

“Well, try and learn how to smile, or else you will chase people away from you,” Mrs. Shajareh said.

“Why are you vexing at me?” Mrs. Shajareh scolded.

“I'm not angry,” Musa said in confusion.

“Yes, you are. You are walking away and talking at the same time,” Mrs. Shajareh insisted.

Since childhood, Musa had never remembered being on good terms with his mother, who often found one reason or another to argue over. If he's not misunderstanding what her son was saying, she would express her concerns whenever Musa couldn't say “Good morning” due to having a sore throat, or tried growing his beard a bit longer. And, whenever she felt as if she was losing an argument, she would, without fail, report him to Mr. Shajareh, who would then scold and punish Musa for upsetting his mother. When he was much younger, it was never like this as he and his mother used to be close. Perhaps, this whole time, it wasn't just the education that Musa was pursuing in Beirut; he was trying to get away from his family, so as to have a new start in life. Instead, he now found himself hiding in his bedroom, or, at the very least, trying to keep a distance so that his mother wouldn't find something new to complain about.

It was May of 2020 when most of Lagos was under lockdown. Since its discovery, COVID-19 was the new pandemic that would keep the entire world on high alert, with several countries taking necessary measures to lower transmission rates, and pharmaceutical companies given the greenlight to research workable vaccines. In the case of Lagos, non-essential businesses were ordered to shut down, with people being told to wear surgical masks despite most weren’t. Soon, many street vendors were selling both surgical and cloth masks, many of which sold out quickly earlier on.

“Here, let me help with that,” he said to his mother one afternoon, as he took her knife to cut the salad ingredients for Iftar.

“Thank you, my son,” Mrs. Shajareh said.

Usually, Mrs. Shajareh was in charge of keeping the house in order. Whenever she saw just a slight peel of paint, she would ask for the painter to paint the whole house. If a toilet lever broke, she wasted no time calling the neighborhood plumber. In short, the Shajareh residence had a good dose of feminine touch.

However, Musa couldn’t help but lend a helping hand to his parents and the housekeepers, especially throughout 2020. “Our son is working hard, isn’t he?” Mrs. Shajareh would comment to her husband. It was also a good way to keep the extra weight off, although healthier eating had also helped. As she got older, Musa noticed that his mother’s hands were not in good shape. Mr. Shajareh had, at times, made him aware of it, saying, “Always help your mother with housework.”

No one knew what ailed her at the time, more especially her feet, but Mr. and Mrs. Shajareh suspected rheumatoid arthritis. From the mid 2000s, Mrs. Shajareh would hire malams to carry out cupping, a therapeutic bloodletting aimed at helping the sick feel better, on her feet. Ever since, one of her sisters, Khadijat, would often mail her medicated shoes all the way from Kano, which helped her a lot.

The lockdowns were during when Musa would be offered a freelance job through Karim. With that, he was able to afford maintaining his lifestyle, as well as buying new clothes, and groceries for himself. At times, he would spend out of his money on fuel and other necessities around the house, but his father insisted that he should keep the rest of the money for himself. The money was not as much as Musa would have liked to plan his future, but he was just grateful to be working again.

On any day of the week, especially on the weekends, Musa would head out to some of the city’s popular hangouts. But, in September of that year, he returned home only to learn that the parents had left, leaving Rabi’a and the housekeepers alone. It was certainly out of the ordinary, and neither parents had informed him of their absence prior.

“Your father took your mother to the hospital,” the watchman said.

“Hospital?” Musa exclaimed in shock. “Did he say which one?”

“Oga never told me anything after that,” the watchman said.

Musa pulled out his phone and typed a message to his father, “Hi. I‘m your house. The watchman told me that you took mom to the hospital. What happened?”

“Your mom was just not feeling well, son; she’s been sick. We will be at the hospital for a while,” Mr. Shajareh answered, then added, “You can go home now. I’ll call you when I have the chance.”

At first, Musa took his father’s words that his mother wasn’t too gravely ill, but he was bothered by how his father wouldn’t let his mother have a chat with him yet. Perhaps, she had finally contracted COVID. “She’s old after all,” he thought, as Mr. Shajareh had once contracted the virus himself. But then, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. More than anything, Musa began to worry and, after pushing his father for an answer, that was when he learned the truth.

“Mom has cancer,” Mr. Shajareh said in an online conversation.

Musa was left shaken by the news, but not surprised. Since his childhood, Mr. and Mrs. Shajareh were heavy smokers, and Mrs. Shajareh was fond of cosmetic products that he thought were harmful to humans. Regardless, no one really knew the cause, but. It would end up taking Musa’s mind back to the mid 2000s when his mother started undergoing cupping therapy. Perhaps, it wasn’t rheumatoid arthritis, but an early symptom of cancer.

By January, Mr. and Mrs. Shajareh returned home, following the advice of their doctor. Hearing that her sister, Khadijat, was coming to visit, her recovery stunned everyone at the hospital. Regardless, they were advised to return for blood transfusion. Even in her weakened state, Mrs. Shajareh was still in charge, overseeing work around the house. In other times, Mr. Shajareh, Musa, and Rabi’a would cater to her needs, even oftentimes keeping her company in the evening as she sat to watch her favorite programs. One evening, Mrs. Shajareh advised Musa to spend time with his mother, as he left his bedroom to run some errands. There was something wholesome, but depressing, about a child spending time with his parents on what could potentially be the final moments of their lives, as Mrs. Shajareh, just like during his childhood, placed her hand over Musa’s.

“You killed her!” Khadijat bellowed at the doctor, as she was restrained by the nurses, and Mr. Shajareh from piercing his face with her nails. “I told you the tumor was going to kill her! I will never forgive each, and single one of you!”

That afternoon, Musa saw his father and his aunt returning home, exiting the car without his mother. Tears dripped over Mr. Shajareh’s chics, and Musa knew what that meant. “I had never seen my dad like this before,” he thought to himself.

But, what made the whole ordeal unsettling to Mr. Shajareh was when it happened: February 20th, at 4:55PM. It was the same month, day, and time, in 1976, when he fled Lebanon’s civil war, and called Nigeria his new “home.” It shook him to the core for it felt as if God had sent the Angel of Death to the Shajareh family as it happened.

A few hours later, just before sunset, the family took Mrs. Shajareh’s shrouded body to a cemetery where a local imam led the Shajareh family, their extended families, and mosque goers in prayer. Before heading their separate ways, Mr. Shajareh, Musa, Rabi’a, and Khadijat stood next to the grave, and narrated the first chapter of the Qur’an, “Al-Fatiha,” as supplication, the first of many more to come. To Musa, as he could come to realize in a few weeks, his new reality without his mother was as if a regular swimmer at a noisy river were to disappear, finally causing the ripples to stop. The fishes could finally be at peace, but at a cost.