The Missed Call

A tribute to my cousin, my sister, my mirror — taken too soon.

Today, you took your last breath.

Thirty-seven years young.

7,000 miles away from me and I had no idea.

But my body did.

Around 2 p.m., an unshakable weight settled into my chest — heavy, invisible, and sudden. I couldn’t breathe right. I didn’t know what it was, only that I couldn’t bear to sit at my desk a moment longer.

I called a friend. “Something’s wrong,” I told her. “I don’t know what, but something in the world doesn’t feel right today.” And I stepped away. I went for a drive.

While you were slipping away from this world, I was chasing air.

I didn’t know you were already gone.

My father waited until the day had softened, until my meetings were done. At 6 p.m., he broke the news gently — the kind of gentle that comes when a parent knows their child is about to shatter.

I shattered.

You had been sick for years. I knew.

But I think there are some souls you believe are stitched into the fabric of your world so tightly that you can’t imagine the cloth without them.

You were one of mine.

A few weeks ago, you messaged me:

“Afia, call me when you get a chance.”

Such a simple request. But I didn’t find the chance for two whole weeks.

I finally called, but you didn’t answer.

You tried again later, but I was driving…heading to check out the new brunch spot in town. Probably humming a new song, probably thinking about my birthday plans or my next trip.

I didn’t pick up.

I didn’t know it was your goodbye.

And now I’ll never get to hear your voice again. Or hold your hand. Or see your face.

Tonight, I cried until my ribs hurt. My mascara streaked down my face in black rivers while my parents watched me with helpless silence over FaceTime. I could book a flight home, but you’ll already be gone…

You won’t be at the airport. You won’t be at Mummy/Baba’s house. You won’t be anywhere I look.

So instead, I went for another drive. To pick up a lipstick.

You would’ve loved it.

Remember when we used to steal Appi’s black kohl and glitter and make our own “silver lipstick” in secret? We’d twirl around in dupattas too big for our heads, pretending we were movie stars.

Then I walked into a candle shop. You used to play with flames like they couldn’t hurt you, pretending you could hold fire in your palms. And I believed you.

You were my magician.

You made everything feel possible.

You were five years older, but you never made me feel small.

You made me feel like I belonged.

We played shopkeeper on the stairs. We stole Dadaabba’s medicine bottles and got scolded like bandits. You showed me how to part my hair. You taught me which colors looked best on my skin.

I told you about the boy I loved.

I gossiped with you about the annoying girls.

You knew what I was feeling without needing to ask.

And now… you’re gone.

Just like your older sister — our trio, now reduced to just a lonely old me.

I saw that photo today, the one of us holding hands. I stared at it for a long time, thinking, They’re both gone now.

Tonight I take my friends’ calls like everything’s fine. But they don’t see it. They don’t know me the way you did.

Because when Afia talks too much — she’s okay.

When Afia says nothing — she’s not.

And right now, I have no words. Just silence.

And that silence is the shape of your absence.

That missed call… it’s going to follow me forever.

There will always be a part of me that’s reaching for the phone, dialing you back. A part of me that never gets through.

Still, life will move on, won’t it?

I’ll celebrate my next birthday, but this time you won’t be the first to wish me. You always were.

I’ll book that next vacation and visit that 13th country. I’ll choreograph another dance for another wedding. I’ll live, I’ll laugh and love.

And God-willing, one day I’ll get married. You won’t be there or see me as a bride. I’ll have children. And they’ll never meet you.

But I’ll tell them about you.

How you held fire in your hands.

How you painted my childhood with magic.

How you were my cousin but loved me like a sister.

And how I loved you more than words ever said.

Grief is strange. It comes in waves, but right now, it’s numbing me.

Still, I’ll live the long, full life you prayed for me to have.

And one day, when this chapter ends, I’ll see you again.

Maybe in heaven where we can share a room again, steal glitter again, play shopkeeper in the clouds, and laugh the way we used to before this world made us grow up.

I’m sorry I didn’t pick up, Rabia Baji.

I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye.

But I’ll keep you alive in every lipstick shade, every childhood memory, every whispered prayer.

And when my time comes, you better be there — waiting in heaven with a kohl stick and a silly grin.

Until the next life.

Until always.