ARMA AND JEALOUSY

                                    

                                          
Abidat
I felt pretty—probably because I looked pretty. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my room, I turned slightly to the side, tugging at the flowy fabric of my dark purple abaya. It draped elegantly to my ankles, pooling gently over my feet like something out of a movie. The material shimmered subtly in the light filtering in from my window, soft enough to complement the black vest and baggy pants I wore underneath. I’d chosen comfort and style for today because the Grand Abuja Fest—a yearly event where any entrepreneur, both aspiring and established, gathered to sell and advertise their goods—wasn’t going to be a small affair.
I smoothed my abaya one last time, adjusting the little golden pin on my veil.
"Abidat, you’ve outdone yourself," I muttered, almost grinning at my reflection. I knew it wasn’t arrogance—I didn’t think it was, anyway. But it wasn’t often I looked at myself and felt this kind of quiet confidence. I was ready.
And how could I not be? A week ago, everything changed.
That Saturday morning, I’d woken up groggily, as usual, trying to find the snooze button on my phone alarm. But instead of an alarm, I was met with the blinding notifications lighting up my screen—over 50,000 new followers on my cake business Instagram page, Sweet ArmaBakes (a name that Armaan had smugly suggested, saying it was a perfect mix of our names because, in his words, “We’re partners—professionally and emotionally, habibti”). I already had 20,000 followers, and now an extra 50 which was shocking for a business that was barely a month old, but this? This was something else.
I’d screamed loud enough to startle the neighborhood rooster into silence. I danced in circles around my bed, arms flailing, before running straight to Mama’s room. She’d barely had time to sit up before I launched myself onto her, phone outstretched.
“Mama! Mama! Fifty thousand followers! Fifty!”
Mama’s sleepy eyes widened before she gave me the brightest smile and whispered, “Masha’Allah, baby girl!” And then, to my complete delight, Mama got up and danced with me. There we were, spinning around her small room in our pajamas, laughing like children.
Naturally, the next person I called was Armaan.
The phone barely rang twice before he picked up, his voice groggy. “Abidat? You okay?”
“Armaan! I hit fifty thousand! Fifty! Can you believe it?”
“What? Wait—say that again!” His excitement blasted through the speaker, jolting me as though he were right there.
Before I could respond, he cut the call. 20 minutes later, I heard a knock at the gate. I opened it to find Armaan standing there, his curls tousled and wild, a bouquet of blue lilies in one hand and his phone in the other.
“You look…” I trailed off, half amused and half bewildered.
“Like someone who just woke up?” He grinned, waving the lilies in front of me. “But never mind me. This is your day.”
And because Armaan was Armaan, he dragged me out for a celebratory brunch. Mama teased me endlessly when I got home later, cheeks flushed and arms full of flowers.
Of course, the biggest surprise of all came three days ago when Armaan barged into the living room, dangling a receipt in front of me.
“What’s this?” I asked suspiciously.
“A stall at the Grand Abuja Fest.”
I nearly dropped the cake I was decorating. “You did what?”
“Reserved a stall for you,” he repeated, sitting on the armrest of the couch like he owned the place. “It’s non-refundable.”
“Armaan—no! That’s 100,000 naira. I can’t let you do that!”