The next morning , having prayed Fajr and prepared for the day, I come down to a table laid with the most scrumptious breakfast. These are some of the things I missed while studying at Nelson Mandela University – loads of healthy ,halal food prepared by my mother’s helper .

My Abi , which is what I call my father is not in sight . Early business meetings . He is rarely home . “Princess , I signed you up on marrymuslim.com !” My mother announces as we settle down to eat pancakes with cream . My mother calls me that because that’s what “Amirah” means and I am her only child . She goes on to explain that I am now almost 21, the last of my class still holding out. It’s enough that she let me convince her to get this nursing qualification but I should consider getting married . “Marriage is half the deen “, she continues . ‘The reason you are such a lovely young woman is because your father and I married young and raised you in a happy home . ‘”

I can’t exactly argue. I have always wanted to marry young myself . I don’t exactly have any suitors scrambling at my door. Well, if you don’t count some old dudes in their late thirties who keep approaching Abi .Yikes . I take the login details from her and promise to look the site up . I’m probably not going to do it. I grab my bag just as our driver knocks on the door . We drive off to the hospital .