From The Eyes Of GrandMa Jasmine!

We go through life, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour and day by day. They just roll past us, without us really knowing they are slipping away. Lo and behold, old age catches up with those of us blessed with longevity, we then reflect on our past.
 I reflect...
 As a young woman, I had so much more than most people around me. Lots of money, beauty, education from the most prestigious schools in the world; all the luxuries defined as 'for the elite'.
 As a young kanuri female pilot, I was a sort of icon to so many people. My parents' friends adored me. My educated relatives made me a role model for their growing kids. My not so educated relatives sent their kids to school so they would also fly a plane someday. My parents were the proudest of all, flaunting me wherever they go; their beautiful Captain Jasmine Mustapha.
 I was dedicated to my work, so I wouldn't let them down. Sometimes, I skipped eating during office breaks so I'd get enough time to finish a chapter after I say my prayers. I always impressed my bosses and colleagues with my ideas and strategies.
 Whilst working hard, I forgot the essence of friendship. I kept away from social activities, except those my parents' made absolutely compulsory on me. I was an introvert and found the young people trying to befriend me annoying. I had no friends, only admirers. During my leisure times, I 'hung out' with my laptop and other gadgets.
 I met my husband in the oddest of ways. He was a passenger on a plane I flew when I was barely twenty three years. He had arrived the airport earlier than necessary and sat reading. I was walking to the plane to make sure everything was in order when my attention caught the cover of the book he was reading. It was a book I had been searching for and I just had to ask him a few questions. 
Unknown to me, he was attracted by my knowledge of the subject and also by my
beauty. He devised a way of meeting me and did so two months later. I grudgingly became friends with him, even though we shared so much in common.
He was a young medical doctor from the north, with an interest in flying too. He patiently withstood all my attitudes until I finally gave in, surrendering to a friendship which later became love.
 Being good young Muslims, we wasted no time in letting our parents in on our plans. Our marriage was a simple affair, strictly following the teachings of islam. 
My husband, Doctor Muzammil Mubarak taught me the essence of friendship. We shared everything and had no secrets. Meal times were always our sacred hours. No matter the distance, we always managed to share our meal times. We worked hard in our various fields and became a spectacular couple, envy of all.
 Our first set of twins came when I was twenty seven, Muzammil was thirty then. We named them Hafsa and Hafiz, a girl and a boy. They were the joy of my family and his family. They were our bundle of happiness. My gynecologist warned that I was prone to having complications. So, I had to take precautions not to become pregnant. We were contented with the two we had, so we didn't grieve too much about the news.
 Life was as rosy as it could ever be. We lived peacefully and happily with our two kids. Our parents and siblings were our closest counterparts as we hardly mingled with Muzammil's few friends. As for me, I had managed to send away all my childhood friends a long time ago,as they couldn't bear my introvert nature.
 I never knew everybody needed friends until tragedy struck five years after the birth of the twins and nine years into our marriage. Muzammil and the kids were involved in a terrible motor accident. We lost the kids,while my husband survived with a fracture of the arm.
 Life became sorrowful for us. Our kids were our happiness. I couldn't offer Muzammil much consolation, neither could he offer me. We both were engrossed in our individual grief. Our families couldn't offer us all the support we needed,as they weren't in the same town with us. Besides,they too were grieving. We were all alone.
 That was our roughest year. We nearly lost each other as we fought to survive. I stayed at home and neglected my work. Muzammil stayed out late so he could avoid my gloomy face. He kept blaming himself for driving carelessly.
 If not for our friendly neighbors, a yoruba couple, the Olugbenga family, our marriage would have hit the rocks.
 They noticed how grief-struck we were. At first,we tried to push them away, as we usually did. But they stood their ground. They sent us home made delicacies, invited us to family outings and visited us regularly. Their efforts were so helpful.
We noticed how we neglected each other. We gradually became friends again and shared our grief. Our love blossomed. The Olugbengas were indeed a miracle to our family. They brought Muzammil and I back together. For that, we became great friends with them, and were eternally grateful for their friendship.
 Three years after we lost the twins, I became pregnant again. I was prone to complications already and at thirty five, age wasn't on my side. I was keenly monitored by my doctors. With the help of the Almighty, I gave birth to yet another set of twins. We named them, Hafiza and Hafsa, as both were females.
 I went back to work, after being away for almost four years. All my colleagues were surprised at the change in me. I was as hard working as ever, but with a new attitude. I was much happier and friendlier. I became a friend to everyone. I had a smile for everyone.
 Our family became happier than we ever were. Muzammil too had changed. We were each other's treasure.
 Today, thirty years after the birth of my twin girls, I sit in the midst of my kids and my grandchildren, as well as the Olugbenga grandchildren. My husband by my side, I told them my story, our story.