She stood inside the cybercafé, leaning slightly against the front counter. She was dressed in a long, dark maroon hijab that had faded significantly from long-term wear, its hem trailing softly against the floor. Her gaze was locked onto the café operator—a tall young man seated on a chair in front of a desktop monitor, his fingers tapping rhythmically away at the keyboard. From all indications, he was working on something for her, as she watched him intently, as if trying to decipher what was appearing on the screen. She simply widened her large, oily eyes, staring at him with a heart that hammered heavily against her ribs. She was terrified of failing this WAEC (West African Senior School Certificate Examination), knowing with painful clarity how difficult it had been for her father, Baba, to scrape together the money just to pay for her registration. She dreaded anything that might prevent her from gaining admission, even if it was just into the Federal College of Education (FCE). Deep in her anxious thoughts, she watched the young man rise from his chair and step toward the printer to retrieve a sheet of paper that had just slid out. Her heart did another violent drop, and her eyes widened even further, glowing like electric bulbs. He picked up the paper, walked back to his desk, picked up her WAEC candidate card, and approached the counter. Extending the paper toward her with a warm smile, he said, "Congratulations, Fatima Zarah! You cleared your WAEC with flying colors. You have six credits! You have six solid credits, I am so genuinely happy for you. May Allah grant this certificate absolute blessings." She snatched the paper from his hand in a rush, her eyes scanning the results. There it was: she had scored credits (Cs) in Mathematics, English, and all the other core, important subjects required for a science student. A soft, incredibly charming smile broke across her face, causing deep dimples to dent both of her cheeks, and her bright, white teeth flashed beautifully. Without a second thought, she dropped right onto the floor and bowed in a prostrate prayer of thanksgiving (Sujjud). The café owner burst into a hearty laugh, turning back around to reclaim his seat. Chuckling, he teased, "Well, look at that! Someone witness our pious Ustaziya Faty!" She stood up, still smiling radiantly. She unzipped her small handbag—the leather surface of which was entirely peeled and worn down from years of rugged use—carefully tucked the certificate and the examination card inside, and zipped it securely back up. Looking up at the operator, she said, "Thank you so much, Yaya Habu." He turned and fixed his eyes tightly on her, staring intensely. Entirely oblivious to his lingering gaze, she turned around, exited the shop, and walked away in a hurry. She couldn't stop smiling, her heart overflowing with a level of joy that felt unparalleled. She walked along in her own world until she reached her neighborhood street, which was swarming with local children playing, shouting, and running around. Passing through them, she entered a relatively large house fronted by a long entrance corridor (Zaure). It was a shared tenement property (Gidan Hayan) containing five separate housing units. Each unit consisted of a small living room and two main bedrooms. The property shared four communal restrooms—two for bathing and two latrines—alongside a shared drainage area for washing dishes, and a massive communal kitchen where every tenant family cooked their respective meals. The compound's courtyard was neatly paved with pristine, smooth concrete, so polished that one could easily slip if not careful.
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The courtyard was completely empty of people. However, the sight of a motorcycle—the popular Wayyo Kudina ("Alas, My Money!") model—parked directly in front of their doorstep informed her that her father was home. She hurried toward their quarters, quickly greeting a few of the co-wives and female tenants who were just stepping out of the kitchen. They responded to her greeting with a cold, indifferent lukewarmness—neither welcoming nor overtly hostile. Whispering a soft greeting (Sallama), she stepped into the living room. It was a decent, modestly furnished space. The floor was covered in standard linoleum flooring, matched with a set of neat chairs and a small wall-mounted flat-screen television. Beautiful curtains hung from the windows, and a wall clock ticked away. The walls were painted a clean, milky-cream color. Four children were inside the room playing. The eldest was a twelve-year-old boy named Habib, followed by Ishak, then Bashir, and the fourth was a baby girl and the last-born, Abida, who was still an unweaned infant. The children were huddled together, fair-skinned, remarkably beautiful, and looking like identical little steps. Faty looked at the eldest, Habib, who was dressed in an apprentice mechanic’s greasy overalls, and asked, "Is Baba back, Habib?" He nodded, rising from where he sat. "Yes, he's inside the bedroom with our Mother." She nodded in understanding. Knowing that whenever Baba and Mama were behind closed bedroom doors, none of the children dared disturb them, she bypassed their room and walked into the opposite bedroom facing her parents' quarters. Inside, a massive, thick mattress rested directly on the floor, taking up almost the entirety of the small room. A tiny, tattered thin mattress had been tossed into the small remaining space in the corner, right next to the metal trunk where they stored their clothes. She sat down gently on the edge of the large mattress, a soft smile returning to her face as she pulled out the WAEC statement of result to look at it again. It was official: she, too, would be attending a university just like her friend Hafiza. The moment Baba stepped out of the room, she would ask to borrow his mobile phone to call her aunt, Mami, and share the glorious news. As she sat on the mattress, she heard her mother’s voice ring out from the other room, picking up a crying Abida and murmuring words of comfort. Then, her mother called out, "Habib, where is Zakiyya?" Before Habib could offer an answer from the parlor, their father’s voice echoed firmly from inside the bedroom: "For heaven's sake, Habee! How many times have I told you to stop calling that girl Zakiyya? Call her by her proper name, my Fatima! What on earth is 'Zakiyya'? The girl possesses a beautiful, noble name—the very name of the Prophet's daughter—and yet you persist in changing it for her!" With an aggressive, venomous tone, Mama fired back, "Oh, I swear by God, Habibu’s father, your endless complaints will never cease! You sit inside the bedroom but your ears are stretched out here, listening to our every move. For goodness' sake, what is so terrible about a name to warrant this explosive tantrum this afternoon?!" She hissed loudly, sitting down and pulling the baby to her breast to nurse. Knowing her stepmother would definitely call for her again, Fatima quickly stood up, rushed out of the room, and knelt respectfully before her. In a soft, humble voice, she said, "I am here, Mama." Mama threw a sharp glare at her. "So you were inside all along, hearing my voice, and you deliberately kept quiet? It took your father opening his mouth before you sneaked out, you little hypocrite! Always roaming around wrapped tightly in that massive hijab like a sorcerer's wife! Out with it—take Abida and strap her to your back. Go into the kitchen; I have already set water on the hearth. Mix it for your father so he can take a bath, and then set the pot for afternoon lunch." Fatima nodded submissively and reached out to collect Abida along with the carrying shawl being shoved toward her. As she prepared to wrap the baby over her hijab, Mama barked at her violently: "Are you seriously not going to take off that ridiculous hijab before strapping this baby to your back?! Or do you want to make her burst into tears right after I finally got her to shut up? Do you want to suffocate my last-born to death with heat?!" Fatima remained silent. She quietly pulled off her hijab, set it aside, and turned her back toward her stepmother out of intense shyness to strap Abida onto her back. Mama watched her from behind, rolling her eyes with deep malice. She stared at the girl’s developing chest, which was rapidly growing larger—a physical maturity Fatima constantly tried to conceal by wrapping herself daily in heavy hijabs. Once the baby was securely strapped, Fatima exited the room and headed toward the communal kitchen. The moment she left, Mama turned around, walked into the inner room, fetched a bag of commercial bread, and threw it aggressively at Habib. "Glutton!" Mama snapped. "It isn't even noon yet, and you’ve already fled your master's workshop to run back home, as if you didn't stuff your face this morning! A boy consumed by nothing but food; were you sent to this world merely to eat? Take that, divide it between yourself and your younger brothers, wash it down with water, and get the hell back to work! Look at how late it is, and lunch hasn't even been cooked yet. Take Ishak and Bashir along with you and drop them off at Malam Idi’s Islamic evening school." She delivered the commands with a continuous glare. The boy pouted his lips, muttering under his breath as Mama turned on her heel and retreated into her bedroom, completely ignoring them. Inside the bedroom, a middle-aged man who appeared to be between 45 and 50 years old lay flat on the bed, wrapped in a simple bedsheet. His hands were clasped beneath his head as he stared blankly up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above. One look at his face revealed he was drowned in deep, agonizing contemplation. Adjusting the door curtain, Rukayya (Mama) stepped into the room. Untying the wrapper tightly secured around her chest, she climbed onto the bed, pulled up the bedsheet, and slid in right next to him. She reached her hand down to touch his groin, but finding him completely flaccid and unresponsive, she stared at his face. Pouting her lips, she began to rub herself tightly against his body, desperately trying to arouse him so they could resume their marital intimacy. Annoyed, he violently pushed her away from him. It was as if he had been waiting for an excuse to vent. In a voice heavy with bitter frustration, he said, "For God's sake, Rukayya! I am drowning in a massive financial catastrophe, and yet you don't carry a single worry in the world! You are the one who threw me into this living hell, yet it doesn't affect you in the least! You manipulated me into coming home early today under the pretext of an emergency, preventing me from staying out on the streets to search for daily bread, only to force me into this bedroom intimacy as if I have absolutely nothing better to do with my life!" He sighed, his voice dripping with resentment. "Is it because you know how helplessly I love you that you treat me with such reckless disregard, Ruka? Three million Naira, Rukayya! Where on earth am I supposed to find three million Naira in exactly one week's time when the creditors return?! If I fail to pay them, do you have any idea what they will do to me? And you were the one who pushed me to take out this massive interest loan, yet you didn't allow me to invest a single dime of it into a viable business! Instead, you forced me to rent this expensive tenement apartment that is entirely beyond my financial means. You made me furnish your rooms with luxurious furniture, a wall-mounted TV, a refrigerator, expensive mattresses for the children, and this ridiculously extravagant king-sized bed for ourselves, as if we were wealthy newlyweds! If I had used that money for trade, I would at least have a reliable means of repayment. But I have nothing! Yet here you are, from morning till night, wanting to remain glued to my body as if this bedroom intimacy is what will magically clear my debts!" Furious, Rukayya snapped back, "How dare you say I don't care about the debt hanging over your head?! And stop accusing me of wasting your money. Everything I had you buy was a necessity. Besides, you also bought yourself that flashy, expensive brand-new motorcycle—that Wayyo Kudina model—and you spend your days riding it ostentatiously up and down Gandujiyya Road like a big man! Don't you enjoy the prestige? Don't you love how the other tenants in this compound bow to us and treat us like royalty? We are the undisputed elites of this house! Today we eat pasta, tomorrow a rich meat pepper-soup. Every single evening, I deliberately discard the empty skewers of the expensive Suya meat you buy me right in the middle of the courtyard for all the co-wives to see! We have a fridge, a TV—amenities exclusively reserved for the wealthy. Have you not seen how the neighbors come to beg me for basic favors? Doesn't that stroke your ego, Habibu's father? We are highly respected here. Stop panicking; money will come from somewhere and we will clear the debt. One week is plenty of time!" He glared at her, his voice rising in anger. "Do you take me for a foolish child, Ruka?! Am I a sorcerer who can magically conjure three million Naira out of thin air in seven days? And what about that local women's contribution circle (Adashe) you've been collecting? You told me you had saved at least two hundred thousand Naira in it—give me that money so I can at least pay them a fraction of the debt to buy us more time!" Pouting, she averted her eyes. "I emptied that savings account a long time ago to take care of urgent household expenses. I've already begun purchasing bridal dowry items for Abida." He stared at her in utter bewilderment. "For Abida? Or for Fatima?" Shifting her gaze away, she snapped, "You heard me perfectly clear the first time, so why ask a stupid question? I said I've started accumulating high-end household and bridal kitchenware for Abida. If you look right under this bed, you will see the expensive items I have already purchased and stored away." He looked at her with a mixture of disgust and disbelief. Letting out a long, exhausted sigh, he said, "Abida isn't even two years old yet! She hasn't even been fully weaned from breastmilk, and yet you are gathering a marriage dowry for her? Why don't you focus your mind on finding a marriage suitor for Fatima instead, if a serious young man comes looking for her hand?" Mama let out a sharp, dismissive hiss. "That sister of theirs lacks even an atom of good luck or social charm! To this day, not a single man—not even a common commercial motorcyclist—has ever stopped to look at her, let alone a man of substance. It's better to focus on Abida; our neighbors have already begun booking her for their sons since she was an infant!"
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DISASTROUS LOVE
Seeing how her husband was staring at her in silent, stunned judgment as if she were a television screen, she confidently continued: "If you saw the quality of the items I bought, you wouldn't be standing here complaining, Habibu’s father! I joined the Mom Afreen Pre-Order Collection. I paid a very small amount of money, and she imported top-tier, premium luxury items for me straight from overseas! I swear to God, I have never seen such breathtaking designs of cooking pots and vacuum flasks in my entire life. The exclusive designs I ordered for Abida cannot be found anywhere else in this city except in the mansions of the ultra-wealthy, and even then, only a select few possess them! I pray Allah rewards Mom Afreen with immense blessings. Ordering through her is incredibly cheap; her prices are ridiculously low, and the goods look so luxurious you’d think they were handed to you as a free gift. I am just waiting for our next wave of cash to arrive so we can place an even larger order from overseas through her. Once the goods arrive, we can open a retail shop or a mini-mart and start selling them for a massive profit!" Throughout her long monologue, he simply stared at her, his heart filled with an overwhelming, toxic combination of grief and frustration. This woman had dragged him into a catastrophic financial black hole, yet she remained completely unaffected, rambling on with useless, superficial chatter. What truly broke his spirit was his complete inability to firmly discipline her or put his foot down; it felt as though his mouth had been supernaturally locked whenever he faced her. As he continued to gaze at her without blinking, his eyes welled up with heavy tears. Seeing the raw pain in his eyes, Rukayya’s hardened demeanor softened. She gently laid her head against his bare chest, her fingers softly stroking his nipple. "Please be patient, Habibu’s father," she murmured in a rare affectionate tone. "Everything is a matter of time; this storm will pass as if it never happened. Wealth will come, In sha Allah, and we will clear this debt completely. You are neither the first nor the last man to take a financial loan. My only condition is that I forbid you from ever engaging in manual labor or commercial transport driving around this neighborhood. I don't want the other tenants in this compound to discover our financial struggles and mock me. Don't worry, I will brainstorm a solution for us, okay?" He offered no verbal response, merely nodding his head weakly. He gently pushed her aside, sat up on the edge of the bed, reached for his traditional male gown (Jallabiya) resting on the side, and pulled it on. He was a tall, exceptionally fair-skinned man; one look at him confirmed that all the children in the parlor took entirely after his striking physical features, while their mother was dark-skinned. Rukayya watched him dress. Though she felt a wave of irritation that he had refused to satisfy her sexual desires, she brushed it aside. Tying a hijab over the wrapper secured around her chest, she said, "Let me escort you out to the restroom, and from there, I will check on that girl’s cooking in the kitchen." He didn't say a word to her. They stepped out of the bedroom together. The other women of the compound were gathered in the shared courtyard. The moment Rukayya emerged, she haughtily cocked her head high in the air, deliberately ignoring them, and hurried to walk close behind her husband. He walked with his head lowered, completely oblivious to the women in the courtyard; out of sheer modesty and personal despair, he never looked at other men's wives. He headed toward the shared restrooms while Rukayya turned into the communal kitchen. The moment she stepped inside, she found that baby Abida had already fallen fast asleep on Fatima’s back. Fatima was crouched on the floor, frantically using a traditional hand-fan to stoke a stubborn firewood fire. The lunch pot was already boiling furiously. Fatima was completely unaware that anyone had entered the kitchen; she was fully focused on battling the thick smoke, which had left her eyes bloodshot and watery. Mama rolled her eyes with deep irritation. "Once you are done fanning that fire, go lay her down on the bed inside!" Fatima merely nodded her head submissively, determined not to say anything that would provoke her stepmother into hurling insults at her. As Mama turned to leave, she suddenly let out a sharp hiss, stepped up behind Fatima, and demanded, "Hand over my child!" She reached her hands over Fatima’s chest to untie the knots of the carrying shawl. Terrified by her stepmother’s sudden, aggressive proximity, Fatima instinctively closed her eyes tightly and winced in pure panic. Mama froze, staring at her with deep annoyance. She barked at her violently, "Get a grip! Untie my child for me and stop closing your eyes tightly like someone performing a dark, sinister ritual!" Letting out a massive, trembling sigh of relief, Fatima whispered, "Uhn, okay." She quickly untied the knots, handed the sleeping baby over to Mama, and watched her walk out of the kitchen before turning back to finish the cooking. Around 3:00 PM, Fatima finished preparing the meal. Placing the large cooking pot onto a wide metal tray, she carried it into their living room. She found her father seated on one of the chairs holding the TV remote, with Mama sitting right beside him. It was obvious they had both been waiting for the food. The moment Fatima’s eyes landed on her father, a genuine, radiant smile broke across her face—a smile that clearly originated from the deepest depths of her heart. Mama threw a harsh glare at her. "Well, don't just stand there like a statue! Set the pot down and go fetch the serving bowls so I can dish out your father’s food." Baba instantly shot his wife a furious, protective glare. "Can you not allow the poor girl to catch her breath for even a single second?!" Turning to Habib, who had just walked into the room looking thoroughly exhausted and moody from intense hunger, Baba commanded, "Go into the kitchen, fetch the bowls, and bring them here so the food can be served." Mama instantly flared up, her voice sharp. "Oh, so now you are openly undermining my authority and countermanding my orders right in front of the children?! Am I no longer significant in this house?!" Lowering his voice to maintain a calm but firm tone, Baba replied, "The girl is completely exhausted and needs to rest. She has younger siblings. Once she finishes the heavy labor of cooking, the younger ones should be tasked with the lighter chores, shouldn't they?" As Mama opened her mouth to argue further, Baba ignored her and turned his gaze toward Fatima. She was standing quietly in the corner, her head lowered submissively as sweat poured down her face. "Zahra'u," Baba called out gently, "did you manage to check the exam results?" She instantly lifted her head, a brilliant smile illuminating her face as she nodded quickly. The absolute, pure love she harbored for her father was glaringly obvious in her gaze. Baba’s face softened, a warm smile of intense paternal affection spreading across his features. "Bring the paper let me see it," he requested. She rushed into the inner bedroom to fetch it. Mama watched her retreating figure with a venomous glare. Just then, Habib returned with the plates. Mama snatched them and began dishing out the food. She served large portions for her husband and herself, but served a tiny, measly portion for Fatima and set it off to the side. Baba noticed the blatant unfairness and opened his mouth to protest, but choosing to maintain peace, he bit his tongue and remained silent. He picked up his spoon and began to eat, smiling to himself. He was incredibly proud of Fatima’s exceptional culinary skills; even Rukayya, with all her pretense, could not match the delicious flavors this young girl conjured in the kitchen. Fatima emerged from the bedroom. Before she could even step fully into the room, Baba set his plate down and eagerly extended his hand toward her. She placed the WAEC statement of result into his palm. Pointing toward the corner, he told her, "Sit down right over there, your food has been served. Eat." She looked down at the tiny portion of food allocated to her, then looked at the generous portions given to her younger brothers. She said absolutely nothing. She thanked God that she wasn't a gluttonous eater and didn't possess an overactive appetite that would make her starve. Picking up her plate, she sat down close to her father’s feet. As her father reviewed the paper, a magnificent smile spread across his face. He nodded proudly and exclaimed, "Uhmmm, Masha Allah! He who does not possess a Fatima, possesses no... what?" Fatima let out a soft, shy smile. In a quiet, sweet voice that carried a natural, melodic sweetness, she whispered, "...possesses no good fortune." She kept her voice exceptionally low to avoid drawing her stepmother's wrath. Baba laughed warmly, turning to face his wife. "Our daughter has completely cleared her WAEC! Every single subject!" He then turned to Habib, who was staring at the certificate while shoving food into his mouth. "Look at that, Habib! That is exactly what I want from you. You need to pull up your socks and excel at school. You are the eldest male child of this household—our future pillars—yet you are always ranking at the bottom of your class! The only skill you seem to have mastered perfectly is your love for food." Habib scowled deeply, turning his face away in a silent pout, but said nothing. Baba gently patted Fatima on the head as she ate. "Next stop is university, right, Baba’s Zahra'u? The future lawyer of this household! May Allah bless you, and may He grant immense blessings to this certificate. Now, the moment a serious, worthy suitor comes knocking on our door, we will happily get you married off, right?" Overcome with intense shyness, Fatima’s cheeks burned. She quickly abandoned her spot, picked up her half-eaten plate of food, and fled into the inner bedroom. Baba burst into a fit of hearty, ringing laughter, and Habib joined in. Baba shook his head with pure affection. Mama tabbed her lips dismissively, her voice dripping with scorn. "Your precious daughter lacks even an atom of social charm or suitors. You better stop daydreaming about her marriage anytime soon, because not even a common beggar has ever asked for her hand, let alone a man of substance." The cruel words stung Baba deeply, wounding his paternal pride. He fixed a firm look on his wife and said, "Marriage is entirely a matter of divine timing, Rukayya. When the destined time arrives, it happens seamlessly, even if the person is lying in a medical coma! And for goodness' sake, how old is she anyway? She hasn't even reached twenty years of age! Therefore, keep your bitter thoughts to yourself; the destined husband of my Zahra'u is already on his way, isn't that right, Habibu's father?" Habib quickly nodded in agreement, smiling warmly at his father. "Yes, Baba! I swear I can't wait for us to host a massive wedding celebration in this house, just like our neighbor Mansur's house when their older sister got married. I desperately want to see Ya Faty get married too!" Baba smiled proudly and took another bite of his food, listening happily as Habib began giving a detailed, animated account of his friend’s sister's recent wedding festivities. Once Baba finished his meal completely, he stood up, smoothing his clothes. He looked at Mama, who was currently nursing baby Abida after she had just awoken. "I am heading out to the streets to search for our daily bread. I will be back later." He gently touched baby Abida’s tiny leg. "The beautiful lady of her father's heart! Today you won't even spare me a glance because you are fully occupied with Mama, right?" Abida aggressively pushed his hand away from her leg, completely unwilling to tolerate anything that would interrupt her breastfeeding. Baba let out a soft chuckle. "Oh, so you're throwing tantrums now? Alright, we shall see who will bring you your favorite biscuits later this evening if you keep acting up. Keep drinking your milk." He looked at Mama. "I am leaving." With an undercurrent of bitter resentment, Mama muttered coldly, "May you return safely." Baba exited the room, holding Fatima's WAEC certificate securely in his hand. As he rolled his motorcycle out toward the long entrance corridor, he called out loudly, "Zahra'u!" From the inner room, she quickly responded, "Yes, Baba!" He continued pushing his motorcycle into the shaded corridor. Fatima emerged from the living room, wearing her hijab, her eyes respectfully lowered as she hurried into the corridor to join him. Baba had parked his motorcycle securely by the exit and turned back to face her. With a warm, loving smile, he handed the certificate back to her and said, "May Allah shower you with endless blessings. May He grant you a righteous, honorable husband who will cherish and love you fiercely, and who will look after your welfare far better than I ever could. No matter what harsh treatments or provocations you face in this house, I want you to remain patient and steadfast. I know you are a girl endowed with immense patience, deep modesty, and remarkable endurance. One day, all of these struggles will be nothing but a distant memory, you hear me?" She nodded her head softly, her heart swelling with emotion. In a lower, tender whisper, he asked, "Did you truly eat to your satisfaction from the portion she dished out for you?" She quickly nodded, a reassuring smile on her lips. "I am completely full, I swear to God, Baba." Baba went quiet, staring at her intently as if lost in a profound, heavy train of thought. Sensing the sudden gravity in his gaze, she felt a wave of worry. "I swear by Allah, Baba, I am full. You know I never tell you lies, right?" His eyes grew visibly bloodshot and watery. "I know, Zahra. You have never lied to me, and I bear witness to your absolute truthfulness, my sweet daughter." Reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled out a crisp, single 1,000 Naira note—the absolute last piece of currency he possessed on earth. He placed it gently into her hand. "Take this. Hide it securely and spend it carefully on yourself. Use it to buy whatever small things you need, okay? Right now, I don't have any airtime left on my phone. The moment I return this evening, I will purchase some airtime and give you the phone so you can call your aunt, Mami, and break the spectacular news of your WAEC results to her." She accepted the money, bowing her head slightly in deep respect. "Thank you so much, Baba. May Allah reward you with immense goodness, and may He open the floodgates of lawful provisions and blessings for you." His eyes filled completely with tears as he looked at her. Controlling his emotions, he said, "Hurry along back inside. It is almost 4:00 PM; gather your younger brothers and head straight to the Islamic evening school (Islamiyya), okay? Dedicate yourself entirely to your studies—education is the most beautiful ornament a woman can ever possess." She nodded obediently. "I will do exactly that, Baba." He gently placed his hand on her head, drawing her into a brief, warm side-hug. "Keep praying for me, Zahra. Pray that Allah blesses your father with wealth. I promise I will buy you a brand-new mobile phone, because you have fully grown into a beautiful young woman now, just like every other lady out there. I will buy you beautiful new wrappers, shoes, and makeup kits." She smiled softly, a wave of profound shyness washing over her. "Baba, please don't worry about any of those things. Everything is a matter of divine timing. May Allah bless you with an abundance of pure, lawful wealth. You should head out now so you aren't late for your business." She spoke softly, turning her face away quickly because she couldn't bear to let him see the emotions welling up in her eyes...
2. Comprehensive Story Summary
This introductory chapter establishes a brand-new narrative arc centered around a new heroine, Fatima Zarah (Faty/Zakiyya), contrasting sharply with the previous chapters' focus on Sofiyyah (Fiyah) and Abdoulnasser (Alfah).
The Academic Triumph: Fatima Zarah, a modest, deeply pious young girl who constantly hides her physical maturity under a faded maroon hijab, visits a local cybercafé to check her West African Senior School Certificate Examination (WAEC) results. To her immense joy, she passes all core science subjects with six credits, securing her dream of entering university.
The Tenement Environment & Domestic Abuse: Fatima returns to her family's home—a crowded communal tenement yard (Gidan Hayan). Her stepmother, Rukayya (Mama), harbors a deep, toxic jealousy toward Fatima due to her physical beauty and closeness to her father. Rukayya subjects Fatima to emotional and domestic abuse, calling her a hypocrite, forcing her to do heavy chores like fanning firewood smoke and babysitting, and deliberately starving her by serving her microscopic portions of food.
The Debt Crisis & Pretension: A massive financial crisis looms over the household. Fatima’s father (Malam Kabir) was manipulated by his vain wife, Rukayya, into taking out a catastrophic high-interest loan of Three Million Naira with a looming one-week repayment deadline. Instead of investing it in business, Rukayya forced him to waste the capital on high-end luxury items (expensive beds, flat-screen TVs, a motorcycle, and imported overseas kitchenware) purely to brag to the neighbors and pretend they are wealthy elites. While the father is drowning in suicidal despair and tears, Rukayya is completely unbothered, using bedroom intimacy to manipulate him and ignoring the reality of the impending debt collectors.
Paternal Love: In stark contrast to her stepmother's cruelty, Fatima shares a profoundly pure, beautiful bond of mutual love and respect with her father. He fiercely protects her from his wife's malice, celebrates her academic success, and hands her his absolute last 1,000 Naira note, promising to buy her beautiful things once Allah changes his financial condition.
3. Literary Analysis & Description of the Text
Genre and Literary Style: The text is structured in the classical tradition of contemporary Northern Nigerian Hausa prose fiction (Littattafan Soyayya / Adabin Kasuwar Kano). It utilizes a realistic, slice-of-life domestic drama framework to critique societal issues such as economic hardship, polygamous/stepfamily malice, interest-bearing loans, and the toxic culture of keeping up appearances (bura'uba / fariya) in low-income urban neighborhoods.
Sociological Tapestry of the Tenement Yard: The author provides a brilliant, architecturally descriptive layout of a traditional Gidan Haya (shared rental compound). By detailing the four shared bathrooms, the communal kitchen, and the smooth cement floor, the author immediately sets a vivid cultural stage. This environment serves as a hotbed for gossip, where keeping up appearances—like deliberately throwing away meat skewers in the middle of the yard—defines a woman's social hierarchy.
Linguistic Identity and Commercial Integration: The narrative seamlessly blends standard Hausa prose with modern street colloquialisms and urban acronyms (WAEC, FCE, system, printer, table, zip, remote, plates, flat-screen, joystick, paparazzi). A unique feature of this contemporary text is the structural insertion of Sponsor Advertisements (Mom Afreen Pre-Order Group) directly into the flow of the story. Rather than keeping ads separate, the author brilliantly weaves the real-world sponsor into the actual dialogue of the villainous character (Rukayya), using the plot's theme of material greed to fulfill commercial advertising commitments.
Thematic Conflict (True Worth vs. Superficial Vanity): The core thematic conflict is perfectly mirrored in the naming dispute between the parents. The stepmother insists on calling the heroine Zakiyya (a name she associates with misfortune or plainness), while the loving father fiercely honors her as Fatima Zarah (invoking the pure, holy lineage of the Prophet’s daughter). Fatima represents internal beauty, academic brilliance, and spiritual endurance, while her stepmother represents sexual manipulation, reckless consumerism, and financial ruin.
She stood inside the cybercafé, leaning slightly against the front counter. She was dressed in a long, dark maroon hijab that had faded significantly from long-term wear, its hem trailing softly against the floor. Her gaze was locked onto the café operator—a tall young man seated on a chair in front of a desktop monitor, his fingers tapping rhythmically away at the keyboard. From all indications, he was working on something for her, as she watched him intently, as if trying to decipher what was appearing on the screen.
She simply widened her large, oily eyes, staring at him with a heart that hammered heavily against her ribs. She was terrified of failing this WAEC (West African Senior School Certificate Examination), knowing with painful clarity how difficult it had been for her father, Baba, to scrape together the money just to pay for her registration. She dreaded anything that might prevent her from gaining admission, even if it was just into the Federal College of Education (FCE).
Deep in her anxious thoughts, she watched the young man rise from his chair and step toward the printer to retrieve a sheet of paper that had just slid out. Her heart did another violent drop, and her eyes widened even further, glowing like electric bulbs. He picked up the paper, walked back to his desk, picked up her WAEC candidate card, and approached the counter.
Extending the paper toward her with a warm smile, he said, "Congratulations, Fatima Zarah! You cleared your WAEC with flying colors. You have six credits! You have six solid credits, I am so genuinely happy for you. May Allah grant this certificate absolute blessings."
She snatched the paper from his hand in a rush, her eyes scanning the results. There it was: she had scored credits (Cs) in Mathematics, English, and all the other core, important subjects required for a science student. A soft, incredibly charming smile broke across her face, causing deep dimples to dent both of her cheeks, and her bright, white teeth flashed beautifully. Without a second thought, she dropped right onto the floor and bowed in a prostrate prayer of thanksgiving (Sujjud).
The café owner burst into a hearty laugh, turning back around to reclaim his seat. Chuckling, he teased, "Well, look at that! Someone witness our pious Ustaziya Faty!"
She stood up, still smiling radiantly. She unzipped her small handbag—the leather surface of which was entirely peeled and worn down from years of rugged use—carefully tucked the certificate and the examination card inside, and zipped it securely back up. Looking up at the operator, she said, "Thank you so much, Yaya Habu."
He turned and fixed his eyes tightly on her, staring intensely. Entirely oblivious to his lingering gaze, she turned around, exited the shop, and walked away in a hurry. She couldn't stop smiling, her heart overflowing with a level of joy that felt unparalleled. She walked along in her own world until she reached her neighborhood street, which was swarming with local children playing, shouting, and running around.
Passing through them, she entered a relatively large house fronted by a long entrance corridor (Zaure). It was a shared tenement property (Gidan Hayan) containing five separate housing units. Each unit consisted of a small living room and two main bedrooms. The property shared four communal restrooms—two for bathing and two latrines—alongside a shared drainage area for washing dishes, and a massive communal kitchen where every tenant family cooked their respective meals. The compound's courtyard was neatly paved with pristine, smooth concrete, so polished that one could easily slip if not careful.
The courtyard was completely empty of people. However, the sight of a motorcycle—the popular Wayyo Kudina ("Alas, My Money!") model—parked directly in front of their doorstep informed her that her father was home. She hurried toward their quarters, quickly greeting a few of the co-wives and female tenants who were just stepping out of the kitchen. They responded to her greeting with a cold, indifferent lukewarmness—neither welcoming nor overtly hostile.
Whispering a soft greeting (Sallama), she stepped into the living room. It was a decent, modestly furnished space. The floor was covered in standard linoleum flooring, matched with a set of neat chairs and a small wall-mounted flat-screen television. Beautiful curtains hung from the windows, and a wall clock ticked away. The walls were painted a clean, milky-cream color.
Four children were inside the room playing. The eldest was a twelve-year-old boy named Habib, followed by Ishak, then Bashir, and the fourth was a baby girl and the last-born, Abida, who was still an unweaned infant. The children were huddled together, fair-skinned, remarkably beautiful, and looking like identical little steps.
Faty looked at the eldest, Habib, who was dressed in an apprentice mechanic’s greasy overalls, and asked, "Is Baba back, Habib?"
He nodded, rising from where he sat. "Yes, he's inside the bedroom with our Mother."
She nodded in understanding. Knowing that whenever Baba and Mama were behind closed bedroom doors, none of the children dared disturb them, she bypassed their room and walked into the opposite bedroom facing her parents' quarters.
Inside, a massive, thick mattress rested directly on the floor, taking up almost the entirety of the small room. A tiny, tattered thin mattress had been tossed into the small remaining space in the corner, right next to the metal trunk where they stored their clothes. She sat down gently on the edge of the large mattress, a soft smile returning to her face as she pulled out the WAEC statement of result to look at it again. It was official: she, too, would be attending a university just like her friend Hafiza. The moment Baba stepped out of the room, she would ask to borrow his mobile phone to call her aunt, Mami, and share the glorious news.
As she sat on the mattress, she heard her mother’s voice ring out from the other room, picking up a crying Abida and murmuring words of comfort. Then, her mother called out, "Habib, where is Zakiyya?"
Before Habib could offer an answer from the parlor, their father’s voice echoed firmly from inside the bedroom: "For heaven's sake, Habee! How many times have I told you to stop calling that girl Zakiyya? Call her by her proper name, my Fatima! What on earth is 'Zakiyya'? The girl possesses a beautiful, noble name—the very name of the Prophet's daughter—and yet you persist in changing it for her!"
With an aggressive, venomous tone, Mama fired back, "Oh, I swear by God, Habibu’s father, your endless complaints will never cease! You sit inside the bedroom but your ears are stretched out here, listening to our every move. For goodness' sake, what is so terrible about a name to warrant this explosive tantrum this afternoon?!" She hissed loudly, sitting down and pulling the baby to her breast to nurse.
Knowing her stepmother would definitely call for her again, Fatima quickly stood up, rushed out of the room, and knelt respectfully before her. In a soft, humble voice, she said, "I am here, Mama."
Mama threw a sharp glare at her. "So you were inside all along, hearing my voice, and you deliberately kept quiet? It took your father opening his mouth before you sneaked out, you little hypocrite! Always roaming around wrapped tightly in that massive hijab like a sorcerer's wife! Out with it—take Abida and strap her to your back. Go into the kitchen; I have already set water on the hearth. Mix it for your father so he can take a bath, and then set the pot for afternoon lunch."
Fatima nodded submissively and reached out to collect Abida along with the carrying shawl being shoved toward her. As she prepared to wrap the baby over her hijab, Mama barked at her violently: "Are you seriously not going to take off that ridiculous hijab before strapping this baby to your back?! Or do you want to make her burst into tears right after I finally got her to shut up? Do you want to suffocate my last-born to death with heat?!"
Fatima remained silent. She quietly pulled off her hijab, set it aside, and turned her back toward her stepmother out of intense shyness to strap Abida onto her back. Mama watched her from behind, rolling her eyes with deep malice. She stared at the girl’s developing chest, which was rapidly growing larger—a physical maturity Fatima constantly tried to conceal by wrapping herself daily in heavy hijabs.
Once the baby was securely strapped, Fatima exited the room and headed toward the communal kitchen. The moment she left, Mama turned around, walked into the inner room, fetched a bag of commercial bread, and threw it aggressively at Habib.
"Glutton!" Mama snapped. "It isn't even noon yet, and you’ve already fled your master's workshop to run back home, as if you didn't stuff your face this morning! A boy consumed by nothing but food; were you sent to this world merely to eat? Take that, divide it between yourself and your younger brothers, wash it down with water, and get the hell back to work! Look at how late it is, and lunch hasn't even been cooked yet. Take Ishak and Bashir along with you and drop them off at Malam Idi’s Islamic evening school." She delivered the commands with a continuous glare. The boy pouted his lips, muttering under his breath as Mama turned on her heel and retreated into her bedroom, completely ignoring them.
Inside the bedroom, a middle-aged man who appeared to be between 45 and 50 years old lay flat on the bed, wrapped in a simple bedsheet. His hands were clasped beneath his head as he stared blankly up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above. One look at his face revealed he was drowned in deep, agonizing contemplation.
Adjusting the door curtain, Rukayya (Mama) stepped into the room. Untying the wrapper tightly secured around her chest, she climbed onto the bed, pulled up the bedsheet, and slid in right next to him. She reached her hand down to touch his groin, but finding him completely flaccid and unresponsive, she stared at his face. Pouting her lips, she began to rub herself tightly against his body, desperately trying to arouse him so they could resume their marital intimacy.
Annoyed, he violently pushed her away from him. It was as if he had been waiting for an excuse to vent. In a voice heavy with bitter frustration, he said, "For God's sake, Rukayya! I am drowning in a massive financial catastrophe, and yet you don't carry a single worry in the world! You are the one who threw me into this living hell, yet it doesn't affect you in the least! You manipulated me into coming home early today under the pretext of an emergency, preventing me from staying out on the streets to search for daily bread, only to force me into this bedroom intimacy as if I have absolutely nothing better to do with my life!"
He sighed, his voice dripping with resentment. "Is it because you know how helplessly I love you that you treat me with such reckless disregard, Ruka? Three million Naira, Rukayya! Where on earth am I supposed to find three million Naira in exactly one week's time when the creditors return?! If I fail to pay them, do you have any idea what they will do to me? And you were the one who pushed me to take out this massive interest loan, yet you didn't allow me to invest a single dime of it into a viable business! Instead, you forced me to rent this expensive tenement apartment that is entirely beyond my financial means. You made me furnish your rooms with luxurious furniture, a wall-mounted TV, a refrigerator, expensive mattresses for the children, and this ridiculously extravagant king-sized bed for ourselves, as if we were wealthy newlyweds! If I had used that money for trade, I would at least have a reliable means of repayment. But I have nothing! Yet here you are, from morning till night, wanting to remain glued to my body as if this bedroom intimacy is what will magically clear my debts!"
Furious, Rukayya snapped back, "How dare you say I don't care about the debt hanging over your head?! And stop accusing me of wasting your money. Everything I had you buy was a necessity. Besides, you also bought yourself that flashy, expensive brand-new motorcycle—that Wayyo Kudina model—and you spend your days riding it ostentatiously up and down Gandujiyya Road like a big man! Don't you enjoy the prestige? Don't you love how the other tenants in this compound bow to us and treat us like royalty? We are the undisputed elites of this house! Today we eat pasta, tomorrow a rich meat pepper-soup. Every single evening, I deliberately discard the empty skewers of the expensive Suya meat you buy me right in the middle of the courtyard for all the co-wives to see! We have a fridge, a TV—amenities exclusively reserved for the wealthy. Have you not seen how the neighbors come to beg me for basic favors? Doesn't that stroke your ego, Habibu's father? We are highly respected here. Stop panicking; money will come from somewhere and we will clear the debt. One week is plenty of time!"
He glared at her, his voice rising in anger. "Do you take me for a foolish child, Ruka?! Am I a sorcerer who can magically conjure three million Naira out of thin air in seven days? And what about that local women's contribution circle (Adashe) you've been collecting? You told me you had saved at least two hundred thousand Naira in it—give me that money so I can at least pay them a fraction of the debt to buy us more time!"
Pouting, she averted her eyes. "I emptied that savings account a long time ago to take care of urgent household expenses. I've already begun purchasing bridal dowry items for Abida."
He stared at her in utter bewilderment. "For Abida? Or for Fatima?"
Shifting her gaze away, she snapped, "You heard me perfectly clear the first time, so why ask a stupid question? I said I've started accumulating high-end household and bridal kitchenware for Abida. If you look right under this bed, you will see the expensive items I have already purchased and stored away."
He looked at her with a mixture of disgust and disbelief. Letting out a long, exhausted sigh, he said, "Abida isn't even two years old yet! She hasn't even been fully weaned from breastmilk, and yet you are gathering a marriage dowry for her? Why don't you focus your mind on finding a marriage suitor for Fatima instead, if a serious young man comes looking for her hand?"
Mama let out a sharp, dismissive hiss. "That sister of theirs lacks even an atom of good luck or social charm! To this day, not a single man—not even a common commercial motorcyclist—has ever stopped to look at her, let alone a man of substance. It's better to focus on Abida; our neighbors have already begun booking her for their sons since she was an infant!"
DISASTROUS LOVE
Seeing how her husband was staring at her in silent, stunned judgment as if she were a television screen, she confidently continued:
"If you saw the quality of the items I bought, you wouldn't be standing here complaining, Habibu’s father! I joined the Mom Afreen Pre-Order Collection. I paid a very small amount of money, and she imported top-tier, premium luxury items for me straight from overseas! I swear to God, I have never seen such breathtaking designs of cooking pots and vacuum flasks in my entire life. The exclusive designs I ordered for Abida cannot be found anywhere else in this city except in the mansions of the ultra-wealthy, and even then, only a select few possess them! I pray Allah rewards Mom Afreen with immense blessings. Ordering through her is incredibly cheap; her prices are ridiculously low, and the goods look so luxurious you’d think they were handed to you as a free gift. I am just waiting for our next wave of cash to arrive so we can place an even larger order from overseas through her. Once the goods arrive, we can open a retail shop or a mini-mart and start selling them for a massive profit!"
Throughout her long monologue, he simply stared at her, his heart filled with an overwhelming, toxic combination of grief and frustration. This woman had dragged him into a catastrophic financial black hole, yet she remained completely unaffected, rambling on with useless, superficial chatter. What truly broke his spirit was his complete inability to firmly discipline her or put his foot down; it felt as though his mouth had been supernaturally locked whenever he faced her.
As he continued to gaze at her without blinking, his eyes welled up with heavy tears. Seeing the raw pain in his eyes, Rukayya’s hardened demeanor softened. She gently laid her head against his bare chest, her fingers softly stroking his nipple.
"Please be patient, Habibu’s father," she murmured in a rare affectionate tone. "Everything is a matter of time; this storm will pass as if it never happened. Wealth will come, In sha Allah, and we will clear this debt completely. You are neither the first nor the last man to take a financial loan. My only condition is that I forbid you from ever engaging in manual labor or commercial transport driving around this neighborhood. I don't want the other tenants in this compound to discover our financial struggles and mock me. Don't worry, I will brainstorm a solution for us, okay?"
He offered no verbal response, merely nodding his head weakly. He gently pushed her aside, sat up on the edge of the bed, reached for his traditional male gown (Jallabiya) resting on the side, and pulled it on. He was a tall, exceptionally fair-skinned man; one look at him confirmed that all the children in the parlor took entirely after his striking physical features, while their mother was dark-skinned.
Rukayya watched him dress. Though she felt a wave of irritation that he had refused to satisfy her sexual desires, she brushed it aside. Tying a hijab over the wrapper secured around her chest, she said, "Let me escort you out to the restroom, and from there, I will check on that girl’s cooking in the kitchen."
He didn't say a word to her. They stepped out of the bedroom together. The other women of the compound were gathered in the shared courtyard. The moment Rukayya emerged, she haughtily cocked her head high in the air, deliberately ignoring them, and hurried to walk close behind her husband. He walked with his head lowered, completely oblivious to the women in the courtyard; out of sheer modesty and personal despair, he never looked at other men's wives.
He headed toward the shared restrooms while Rukayya turned into the communal kitchen. The moment she stepped inside, she found that baby Abida had already fallen fast asleep on Fatima’s back. Fatima was crouched on the floor, frantically using a traditional hand-fan to stoke a stubborn firewood fire. The lunch pot was already boiling furiously. Fatima was completely unaware that anyone had entered the kitchen; she was fully focused on battling the thick smoke, which had left her eyes bloodshot and watery.
Mama rolled her eyes with deep irritation. "Once you are done fanning that fire, go lay her down on the bed inside!"
Fatima merely nodded her head submissively, determined not to say anything that would provoke her stepmother into hurling insults at her. As Mama turned to leave, she suddenly let out a sharp hiss, stepped up behind Fatima, and demanded, "Hand over my child!"
She reached her hands over Fatima’s chest to untie the knots of the carrying shawl. Terrified by her stepmother’s sudden, aggressive proximity, Fatima instinctively closed her eyes tightly and winced in pure panic.
Mama froze, staring at her with deep annoyance. She barked at her violently, "Get a grip! Untie my child for me and stop closing your eyes tightly like someone performing a dark, sinister ritual!"
Letting out a massive, trembling sigh of relief, Fatima whispered, "Uhn, okay." She quickly untied the knots, handed the sleeping baby over to Mama, and watched her walk out of the kitchen before turning back to finish the cooking.
Around 3:00 PM, Fatima finished preparing the meal. Placing the large cooking pot onto a wide metal tray, she carried it into their living room. She found her father seated on one of the chairs holding the TV remote, with Mama sitting right beside him. It was obvious they had both been waiting for the food. The moment Fatima’s eyes landed on her father, a genuine, radiant smile broke across her face—a smile that clearly originated from the deepest depths of her heart.
Mama threw a harsh glare at her. "Well, don't just stand there like a statue! Set the pot down and go fetch the serving bowls so I can dish out your father’s food."
Baba instantly shot his wife a furious, protective glare. "Can you not allow the poor girl to catch her breath for even a single second?!" Turning to Habib, who had just walked into the room looking thoroughly exhausted and moody from intense hunger, Baba commanded, "Go into the kitchen, fetch the bowls, and bring them here so the food can be served."
Mama instantly flared up, her voice sharp. "Oh, so now you are openly undermining my authority and countermanding my orders right in front of the children?! Am I no longer significant in this house?!"
Lowering his voice to maintain a calm but firm tone, Baba replied, "The girl is completely exhausted and needs to rest. She has younger siblings. Once she finishes the heavy labor of cooking, the younger ones should be tasked with the lighter chores, shouldn't they?"
As Mama opened her mouth to argue further, Baba ignored her and turned his gaze toward Fatima. She was standing quietly in the corner, her head lowered submissively as sweat poured down her face.
"Zahra'u," Baba called out gently, "did you manage to check the exam results?"
She instantly lifted her head, a brilliant smile illuminating her face as she nodded quickly. The absolute, pure love she harbored for her father was glaringly obvious in her gaze. Baba’s face softened, a warm smile of intense paternal affection spreading across his features.
"Bring the paper let me see it," he requested.
She rushed into the inner bedroom to fetch it. Mama watched her retreating figure with a venomous glare. Just then, Habib returned with the plates. Mama snatched them and began dishing out the food. She served large portions for her husband and herself, but served a tiny, measly portion for Fatima and set it off to the side. Baba noticed the blatant unfairness and opened his mouth to protest, but choosing to maintain peace, he bit his tongue and remained silent. He picked up his spoon and began to eat, smiling to himself. He was incredibly proud of Fatima’s exceptional culinary skills; even Rukayya, with all her pretense, could not match the delicious flavors this young girl conjured in the kitchen.
Fatima emerged from the bedroom. Before she could even step fully into the room, Baba set his plate down and eagerly extended his hand toward her. She placed the WAEC statement of result into his palm. Pointing toward the corner, he told her, "Sit down right over there, your food has been served. Eat."
She looked down at the tiny portion of food allocated to her, then looked at the generous portions given to her younger brothers. She said absolutely nothing. She thanked God that she wasn't a gluttonous eater and didn't possess an overactive appetite that would make her starve. Picking up her plate, she sat down close to her father’s feet.
As her father reviewed the paper, a magnificent smile spread across his face. He nodded proudly and exclaimed, "Uhmmm, Masha Allah! He who does not possess a Fatima, possesses no... what?"
Fatima let out a soft, shy smile. In a quiet, sweet voice that carried a natural, melodic sweetness, she whispered, "...possesses no good fortune." She kept her voice exceptionally low to avoid drawing her stepmother's wrath.
Baba laughed warmly, turning to face his wife. "Our daughter has completely cleared her WAEC! Every single subject!" He then turned to Habib, who was staring at the certificate while shoving food into his mouth. "Look at that, Habib! That is exactly what I want from you. You need to pull up your socks and excel at school. You are the eldest male child of this household—our future pillars—yet you are always ranking at the bottom of your class! The only skill you seem to have mastered perfectly is your love for food."
Habib scowled deeply, turning his face away in a silent pout, but said nothing. Baba gently patted Fatima on the head as she ate. "Next stop is university, right, Baba’s Zahra'u? The future lawyer of this household! May Allah bless you, and may He grant immense blessings to this certificate. Now, the moment a serious, worthy suitor comes knocking on our door, we will happily get you married off, right?"
Overcome with intense shyness, Fatima’s cheeks burned. She quickly abandoned her spot, picked up her half-eaten plate of food, and fled into the inner bedroom. Baba burst into a fit of hearty, ringing laughter, and Habib joined in. Baba shook his head with pure affection.
Mama tabbed her lips dismissively, her voice dripping with scorn. "Your precious daughter lacks even an atom of social charm or suitors. You better stop daydreaming about her marriage anytime soon, because not even a common beggar has ever asked for her hand, let alone a man of substance."
The cruel words stung Baba deeply, wounding his paternal pride. He fixed a firm look on his wife and said, "Marriage is entirely a matter of divine timing, Rukayya. When the destined time arrives, it happens seamlessly, even if the person is lying in a medical coma! And for goodness' sake, how old is she anyway? She hasn't even reached twenty years of age! Therefore, keep your bitter thoughts to yourself; the destined husband of my Zahra'u is already on his way, isn't that right, Habibu's father?"
Habib quickly nodded in agreement, smiling warmly at his father. "Yes, Baba! I swear I can't wait for us to host a massive wedding celebration in this house, just like our neighbor Mansur's house when their older sister got married. I desperately want to see Ya Faty get married too!"
Baba smiled proudly and took another bite of his food, listening happily as Habib began giving a detailed, animated account of his friend’s sister's recent wedding festivities.
Once Baba finished his meal completely, he stood up, smoothing his clothes. He looked at Mama, who was currently nursing baby Abida after she had just awoken. "I am heading out to the streets to search for our daily bread. I will be back later." He gently touched baby Abida’s tiny leg. "The beautiful lady of her father's heart! Today you won't even spare me a glance because you are fully occupied with Mama, right?"
Abida aggressively pushed his hand away from her leg, completely unwilling to tolerate anything that would interrupt her breastfeeding. Baba let out a soft chuckle. "Oh, so you're throwing tantrums now? Alright, we shall see who will bring you your favorite biscuits later this evening if you keep acting up. Keep drinking your milk." He looked at Mama. "I am leaving."
With an undercurrent of bitter resentment, Mama muttered coldly, "May you return safely."
Baba exited the room, holding Fatima's WAEC certificate securely in his hand. As he rolled his motorcycle out toward the long entrance corridor, he called out loudly, "Zahra'u!"
From the inner room, she quickly responded, "Yes, Baba!"
He continued pushing his motorcycle into the shaded corridor. Fatima emerged from the living room, wearing her hijab, her eyes respectfully lowered as she hurried into the corridor to join him. Baba had parked his motorcycle securely by the exit and turned back to face her.
With a warm, loving smile, he handed the certificate back to her and said, "May Allah shower you with endless blessings. May He grant you a righteous, honorable husband who will cherish and love you fiercely, and who will look after your welfare far better than I ever could. No matter what harsh treatments or provocations you face in this house, I want you to remain patient and steadfast. I know you are a girl endowed with immense patience, deep modesty, and remarkable endurance. One day, all of these struggles will be nothing but a distant memory, you hear me?"
She nodded her head softly, her heart swelling with emotion.
In a lower, tender whisper, he asked, "Did you truly eat to your satisfaction from the portion she dished out for you?"
She quickly nodded, a reassuring smile on her lips. "I am completely full, I swear to God, Baba."
Baba went quiet, staring at her intently as if lost in a profound, heavy train of thought. Sensing the sudden gravity in his gaze, she felt a wave of worry. "I swear by Allah, Baba, I am full. You know I never tell you lies, right?"
His eyes grew visibly bloodshot and watery. "I know, Zahra. You have never lied to me, and I bear witness to your absolute truthfulness, my sweet daughter."
Reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled out a crisp, single 1,000 Naira note—the absolute last piece of currency he possessed on earth. He placed it gently into her hand. "Take this. Hide it securely and spend it carefully on yourself. Use it to buy whatever small things you need, okay? Right now, I don't have any airtime left on my phone. The moment I return this evening, I will purchase some airtime and give you the phone so you can call your aunt, Mami, and break the spectacular news of your WAEC results to her."
She accepted the money, bowing her head slightly in deep respect. "Thank you so much, Baba. May Allah reward you with immense goodness, and may He open the floodgates of lawful provisions and blessings for you."
His eyes filled completely with tears as he looked at her. Controlling his emotions, he said, "Hurry along back inside. It is almost 4:00 PM; gather your younger brothers and head straight to the Islamic evening school (Islamiyya), okay? Dedicate yourself entirely to your studies—education is the most beautiful ornament a woman can ever possess."
She nodded obediently. "I will do exactly that, Baba."
He gently placed his hand on her head, drawing her into a brief, warm side-hug. "Keep praying for me, Zahra. Pray that Allah blesses your father with wealth. I promise I will buy you a brand-new mobile phone, because you have fully grown into a beautiful young woman now, just like every other lady out there. I will buy you beautiful new wrappers, shoes, and makeup kits."
She smiled softly, a wave of profound shyness washing over her. "Baba, please don't worry about any of those things. Everything is a matter of divine timing. May Allah bless you with an abundance of pure, lawful wealth. You should head out now so you aren't late for your business." She spoke softly, turning her face away quickly because she couldn't bear to let him see the emotions welling up in her eyes...
2. Comprehensive Story Summary
This introductory chapter establishes a brand-new narrative arc centered around a new heroine, Fatima Zarah (Faty/Zakiyya), contrasting sharply with the previous chapters' focus on Sofiyyah (Fiyah) and Abdoulnasser (Alfah).
Paternal Love: In stark contrast to her stepmother's cruelty, Fatima shares a profoundly pure, beautiful bond of mutual love and respect with her father. He fiercely protects her from his wife's malice, celebrates her academic success, and hands her his absolute last 1,000 Naira note, promising to buy her beautiful things once Allah changes his financial condition.
3. Literary Analysis & Description of the Text