He thus left without receiving the school fees. She looked at his face and could discern his irritation over failing to get what he came for.
She placed her hands on his head, cradling his face, and said, “What if I let you take Bobo along with you and your siblings?”
“However, it wouldn't be until tomorrow that I'd let you take him to school, after I fry some samosas for you all to take along. You see, tomorrow is Friday—make a choice, my good boy, a child who came into this world while misfortune was asleep, the dear child of his mother and father.”
At that, he burst into laughter and said, “For me, I'd rather wait until tomorrow to go with mine, but perhaps I can start ahead with Aminullahi and the others.”
“Alright then, may Allah spare our lives to see it. Since they aren't listening, leave them until tomorrow as well. Hurry up, they are already reading over there.”
“But you, Mama, haven't you left for your school yet?”
"I am going to the hospital first so Nana can get an injection. You see, she spent the entire night down with a fever." Thus, he left without any further opportunity.
Alhaji Sabo's house was one overflowing with wealth and prosperity. However, Allah had tested him with a wife who possessed no respect for him or his parents. She wouldn't mind if he severed ties with everyone just for her sake. Any day she discovered that he had extended a kindness to a relative—even if it were his own mother—she would spend the night in a bitter mood, scowling and rolling her eyes.
Right now, she had been sitting down since morning, tossing and turning as hunger gnawed at her stomach. Yet, out of sheer malice, she refused to stand up and cook, choosing to remain idle just to pick a fight. Around that time, a beautiful elderly woman emerged, invoking blessings upon the Prophet (Salat). She targeted the kitchen situated right by her side, opening and closing cabinets while covering her mouth—signs that clearly indicated she was yawning and feeling hungry herself. Finding nothing of interest, she came out and called out loudly to the mistress of the house:
“Sadiya! Sadiya! Sadiya!”
She called her repeatedly, but received no response. Seeing that the silence had dragged on for too long, she lifted the curtain shielding the room.
Instantly, with a dramatic display of insolence and disrespect, Sadiya looked up and snapped, "What is it? Was something entrusted to my care that I am being harassed like this? I know well enough that it is your greedy stomach making you call out. I am hungry too, and I haven't cooked anything. Even if I do cook, there will be no share for you. A maid wasn't married into this house! Just because you boast that he is your son—well, he is my husband, so stop suffocating me. I am not a servant here!" She finished with a sharp twist of her mouth.
The elderly woman simply stared at her. It was evident she had grown accustomed to the hostility of her daughter-in-law, as this was hardly the first time. From the very first week Allah brought them together under one roof, Sadiya had completely ceased treating her with respect, turning her instead into a sworn adversary.
“Well, look at my plight today, Sadiya! Am I the one to be humiliated by you? Me? Me? The mother of Sabo? I lived with my son in absolute peace and upright upbringing, but all at once, you are seeking to ruin his hard-earned blessings. You are tempting my wrath to descend upon him. You better watch your step, because you are on the absolute brink of being cast out of this house.”
“Oh, so what? Am I the one to be ordered around? If it isn't sheer nosiness, why can't a person be left alone to enjoy her husband in peace? No, instead you plant yourself right in front of us, watching our every move. Even during this honeymoon period, I am denied any rest; by seven o'clock, I am dragged out to come and cook.”
"They claim: 'Get up, bride, let's cook so Umma doesn't go hungry.' Well, if it wasn't a servant that was married into this house, then everyone should just leave me alone!" she muttered, twisting her mouth once more.
The elderly woman gave a soft smile, brought on by nothing other than the sheer immaturity she observed in Sadiya.
She said, "If you would only listen to me, you would reap the benefits of our cohabitation. And not just with me alone—you would enjoy both your youth and your old age." Without giving her a chance to interrupt, she pressed on, “How long does one even spend in this world? If I weren't acting out of the fear of Allah, Sadiya, you wouldn't have lasted this long in this house. My son belongs to everyone. If you care for someone for the sake of Allah, Allah will preserve you. Likewise, a mother—even if she isn't your biological mother—ought to be embraced with open arms. When a woman enters a marital home, she gains additional parents; at that moment, she becomes a person with four parents. Her husband's mother becomes her own mother, and her husband's father becomes her own father. It is in such moments that the upbringing you received at home will be put to the test—whether you live a beautiful life with them or the exact opposite. Do not cry to anyone in the future, for your past actions will surely repeat themselves upon you. I do not wish an evil recompense for you; the door remains open for you to correct your mistakes. I am a mother to you, Sadiya. We did not live our lives in this shameful manner, but here we are, confronted by the twisted modern trends that have overtaken us. Do yourself a favor, I beg of you, even if it is solely for the sake of maintaining peace with your husband.”
At this, she felt completely drained, as if every word had penetrated her brain, forcing her to analyze and weigh the statements to see if they aligned with her own thoughts. However, because she was deeply entrenched in her arrogance, she simply settled her backside onto the seat, shaking her head like a pampered queen.
“Welcome. How was work?”
“We thank Allah.”
“I am the mother of Saddiku and Shu'aibu.”
“Oh, I see. Is there a problem?”
“Well, it is regarding the matter of their school fees and textbooks.”
“I am listening.”
“They were sent home.”
“This marks the third time he has had to return home.”
“Would it be possible to grant me an extension until the end of this month? I assure you I will bring the payment. I dislike having them sent away constantly, because it plants a seed of doubt in their hearts regarding our capability as parents.”
“When a child begins to perceive the failure or inadequacy of their parents, it creates a psychological issue. This is a favor I am seeking strictly in my capacity as a mother.”
“Furthermore, if that angle falls short, I am seeking this favor as a fellow civil servant, because you and I serve the same system. I beg of you.”
He shook his head slowly, fixing his eyes intently upon her.
He replied, “You are a truly exemplary mother. I will grant you a favor even beyond what you have requested. I believe the words of your mouth; if your statements are as genuine as they sound, coming straight from the heart, then it would be highly unlikely for you to break your promise to me. I will provide them with even the textbooks. Will you be able to reimburse me fully at the end of this month?”
“No, I will pay the school fees then. As for the cost of the textbooks, I can offset that in the following month. I give you my word, Insha Allah.”
“And for my part, let me clarify: you do not need to request any further extensions. Your words have moved me to the point where there is no favor I would deny you.”
She smiled and said, “That is the main favor, then. My only concern is the frequent evictions from class, which I want avoided, as it exposes our financial constraints to them. Additionally, I would like to inquire about their general conduct and how they carry out their activities at school.”
“If it is only that, do not worry in the least. Your children are remarkably disciplined and highly attentive. The only obstacle was the lack of learning materials, and we have brought that issue to an end since they will now be provided.”
“Thank you very much. Have a wonderful day.”
Upon returning home, I rushed to complete my remaining household chores. Afterward, I made an effort to set their meal on the stove. To my immense frustration, just as I went to strike the gas cooker, it sputtered and died—the gas had completely run out without my knowledge. Clicking my tongue in annoyance, I muttered:
“How could it deplete to the very end without me noticing?”
I fetched the charcoal brazier (kurfoti) and set about lighting the coals. Soon, the fire caught beautifully. I fried some flour pastries (wainar fulawa) for them and prepared a refreshing juice so they would find a delightful treat upon their return. Following that, I busied myself pacing back and forth, clearing away all the utensils I had used, even though the house was already spotlessly clean. Before leaving, the master of the house had meticulously cleaned every nook and cranny I had missed; he had even scrubbed the entire courtyard completely clean.
As I stepped into the living room to tidy up, a soft smile spread across my face. A beautiful, clean fragrance wafted from every corner—one would easily assume a woman had performed the chores. Closing my eyes as a wave of deep contentment washed over me, I whispered, “May Allah preserve our union and increase your affection for me. May Allah continuously soften your heart with tenderness toward me, and may He preserve our mutual devotion to one another.”
Now, what household is this? Let us proceed to the next page.
If I receive an abundance of comments exceeding yesterday's tally, I shall gladly exert myself to churn out another update for you by evening or tonight!
I REITERATE MY PROFOUND GRATITUDE TO YOU ALL. PERSONALLY, I DO NOT NEED TO BE REMINDED; I KNOW THIS NOVEL HAS BEEN HEARTILY RECEIVED. I CAN ONLY THANK ALLAH. FANS, YOU ARE THE TRUE LOVERS OF THIS WORK, AND FOR A LOVED ONE, ONE CONSTANTLY OFFERS PRAYERS. MAY ALLAH PRESERVE OUR LOVE.
This household was one filled with wonders. The mistress of the house was none other than Karimatu, the epitome of generosity—a woman blessed with abundant virtues and grace.
She and her husband, named Shu'aibu, had married out of deep affection—a youthful love, in fact. She was married to him at the tender age of sixteen, while he was thirty-two years old. He showered her with absolute care and devotion.
They possessed no grand wealth, merely a comfortable modesty (rufin\ asiri) and the grace of Allah. He was a trader, though the goods did not belong to him; they belonged to his half-brother, with whom he shared the same father. He managed the retail stall for him from nine o'clock in the morning until seven o'clock in the evening, enduring all the operational hardships on his behalf. At the close of the day, his brother would compensate him with a flat rate of one thousand Naira (1,000\text{ N}). It was with this daily allowance that we managed our entire household affairs, by the grace of Allah. Before heading out each morning, he would hand me money for daily groceries (cefane), out of which I even managed to set aside a little savings. This financial constraint did not mean we ate poorly, for I had been thoroughly trained in the culinary arts.
We did not even have the luxury of stocking up on food supplies; instead, we bought entirely by small measures (awo). He would typically purchase two measures (kwano) of grain, about five packs of pasta, and whatever minor essentials could be managed. At the time, kerosene was our primary fuel; he would buy a single gallon, and I would stretch its use for a very long time. Back then, life was far less expensive; a gallon of kerosene cost a mere two hundred and twenty Naira (220\text{ N}), while a measure of rice went for two hundred and fifty Naira (250\text{ N}). For this reason, we lived in relative abundance.
Furthermore, let it not be assumed that we lived in our own private house—no, it was a rented apartment (gidan\ haya) shared between just two tenants. There is hardly any challenge unique to a shared rented house that I did not confront; I crossed paths with every imaginable hardship. It reached a point where I essentially became a servant to my co-tenant, performing every chore for her—cooking, washing dishes, sweeping, and even pounding the ingredients (jajjage) she needed for her stews. Yet, none of these sacrifices spared me from her hostility.
It eventually reached a point where we were completely at odds. To make matters worse, I had been married for a year without conceiving a child, whereas she was heavily pregnant at the time.
Even the landlord turned hostile toward me, to say nothing of the other residents. My simple habit of sitting out in the shared courtyard to catch some fresh air became an impossibility. Despite all this, I never once complained to Shu'aibu; whenever an incident occurred while he was present, he would gently comfort me, reminding me that the patient ones are always accompanied by Allah.
The turning point that completely ended my stays in the courtyard occurred as follows: I was an avid reader of novels. One evening, I was sitting outside with a traditional small kerosene lamp (fitilar\ kwai) placed before me as I read. The landlord arrived, carrying a container of fuel, intending to top up an engine or lantern. He looked around but, seeing no alternative light source, proceeded to pour the fuel right there. I was completely ignorant of the highly volatile nature of petroleum, and neither he nor my co-tenant, who was also seated nearby, warned me to move my naked flame away. The moment he opened the container, the powerful fumes from the fuel caught fire from the lamp. Instantly, the flames leaped onto my body. I began to frantically jump and scream in sheer agony from the burning pain consuming my hands and legs.
Instead of rushing to my aid, my frantic state merely amused them, and they burst into laughter. By the grace of Allah, as I rolled desperately on the ground, the fire was extinguished, but I was severely burned. I dragged myself up and retreated into my room. From that day forward, I never sat in the courtyard again, regardless of how stifling the heat became. Fortunately, Allah had blessed us with a single self-contained room (falle\ daya).
As it turned out, their ultimate goal was to evict us. One day, I attended a wedding ceremony at my family home. Around seven o'clock in the evening, when the guests had dispersed, I turned to my mother and said, “I am not returning to that house tonight; I am completely exhausted.”
She looked at me sharply and asked, "Is something wrong?" I replied, "No." She pressed further, "Then why have you decided not to return?" It was then that I confessed the reality of my living conditions with the landlords. Upon hearing this, she immediately called my father and relayed the situation to him. We received a stern lecture for allowing me to stay out so late. My father then concluded, “You must wait for your husband here. I know that once he returns from the market and finds you absent, he will surely come here to fetch you. When she arrives, follow him home, but we shall have a formal discussion with him later on. For now, continue to endure with patience.”
He did not arrive until around ten o'clock at night because, upon closing from the market, he usually attended an evening school. We set out for our house together, and throughout the journey, he kept offering his heartfelt apologies, saying, “Please exercise patience, my queen (hajiyata). Everything has its appointed time. My mother constantly prays that Allah will build a house of my own for me. Even though I currently see no financial path toward building a house, she is a mother, and I know Allah will answer her prayers eventually, no matter how long it takes. Just bear with me a little longer.”
We continued our conversation as we walked. We didn't manage to hail a vehicle until nearly half past ten, which ultimately prevented us from reaching the house early.
By the time we arrived, they had securely locked the main gate. He and I spent at least two hours knocking continuously, but there wasn't the slightest sign of anyone opening up. It was nearly midnight when the landlord finally opened the gate, only to coldly announce that we would not be permitted inside his house that night, effectively turning us away. We pleaded with him repeatedly, and even the neighbors emerged to intervene on our behalf, but the man remained completely unyielding. Stranded in the dead of night, we had no choice but to seek alternative transport. There were no vehicles available on the deserted street except for a lone commercial motorcyclist (dan\ acaba). We hailed him, and he transported Shu'aibu and me back to my parents' house.
That was that. Since my father owned an ongoing construction project intended for his own future relocation, he took pity on our plight and said, “You both should move into that building, since it has a space that is habitable.”
Possessing deep foresight, he explained the arrangement to me in a manner I fully understood. Thus, another accommodation was secured for us. I was the sole tenant there, though it carried its own unique set of challenges—it was an old-style house whose doors could only be secured by crude latches (ka\ during\ kusa).
We shall converge again tomorrow. I have fulfilled my promise today solely out of my regard for you, my beloved fans. Thank you for your unwavering support.
Using the odest savings I had been accumulating, I enrolled in a continuing education school for married women, attending classes on Saturdays and Sundays. I faced no difficulties during the admission process; they accepted me warmly, and I proudly resumed my studies.
Later on, I began to gradually upgrade my room furnishings, piece by piece, until I completely finished my schooling without accumulating a single cent of debt. Throughout this period, I maintained an absolute peace of mind. I deliberately refrained from demanding money from my husband for these pursuits because I knew that if I caused an uproar, he would be forced to stretch his meager income to the breaking point just
He thus left without receiving the school fees. She looked at his face and could discern his irritation over failing to get what he came for.
She placed her hands on his head, cradling his face, and said, “What if I let you take Bobo along with you and your siblings?”
“However, it wouldn't be until tomorrow that I'd let you take him to school, after I fry some samosas for you all to take along. You see, tomorrow is Friday—make a choice, my good boy, a child who came into this world while misfortune was asleep, the dear child of his mother and father.”
At that, he burst into laughter and said, “For me, I'd rather wait until tomorrow to go with mine, but perhaps I can start ahead with Aminullahi and the others.”
“Alright then, may Allah spare our lives to see it. Since they aren't listening, leave them until tomorrow as well. Hurry up, they are already reading over there.”
“But you, Mama, haven't you left for your school yet?”
"I am going to the hospital first so Nana can get an injection. You see, she spent the entire night down with a fever." Thus, he left without any further opportunity.
Alhaji Sabo's house was one overflowing with wealth and prosperity. However, Allah had tested him with a wife who possessed no respect for him or his parents. She wouldn't mind if he severed ties with everyone just for her sake. Any day she discovered that he had extended a kindness to a relative—even if it were his own mother—she would spend the night in a bitter mood, scowling and rolling her eyes.
Right now, she had been sitting down since morning, tossing and turning as hunger gnawed at her stomach. Yet, out of sheer malice, she refused to stand up and cook, choosing to remain idle just to pick a fight. Around that time, a beautiful elderly woman emerged, invoking blessings upon the Prophet (Salat). She targeted the kitchen situated right by her side, opening and closing cabinets while covering her mouth—signs that clearly indicated she was yawning and feeling hungry herself. Finding nothing of interest, she came out and called out loudly to the mistress of the house:
“Sadiya! Sadiya! Sadiya!”
She called her repeatedly, but received no response. Seeing that the silence had dragged on for too long, she lifted the curtain shielding the room.
Instantly, with a dramatic display of insolence and disrespect, Sadiya looked up and snapped, "What is it? Was something entrusted to my care that I am being harassed like this? I know well enough that it is your greedy stomach making you call out. I am hungry too, and I haven't cooked anything. Even if I do cook, there will be no share for you. A maid wasn't married into this house! Just because you boast that he is your son—well, he is my husband, so stop suffocating me. I am not a servant here!" She finished with a sharp twist of her mouth.
The elderly woman simply stared at her. It was evident she had grown accustomed to the hostility of her daughter-in-law, as this was hardly the first time. From the very first week Allah brought them together under one roof, Sadiya had completely ceased treating her with respect, turning her instead into a sworn adversary.
“Well, look at my plight today, Sadiya! Am I the one to be humiliated by you? Me? Me? The mother of Sabo? I lived with my son in absolute peace and upright upbringing, but all at once, you are seeking to ruin his hard-earned blessings. You are tempting my wrath to descend upon him. You better watch your step, because you are on the absolute brink of being cast out of this house.”
“Oh, so what? Am I the one to be ordered around? If it isn't sheer nosiness, why can't a person be left alone to enjoy her husband in peace? No, instead you plant yourself right in front of us, watching our every move. Even during this honeymoon period, I am denied any rest; by seven o'clock, I am dragged out to come and cook.”
"They claim: 'Get up, bride, let's cook so Umma doesn't go hungry.' Well, if it wasn't a servant that was married into this house, then everyone should just leave me alone!" she muttered, twisting her mouth once more.
The elderly woman gave a soft smile, brought on by nothing other than the sheer immaturity she observed in Sadiya.
She said, "If you would only listen to me, you would reap the benefits of our cohabitation. And not just with me alone—you would enjoy both your youth and your old age." Without giving her a chance to interrupt, she pressed on, “How long does one even spend in this world? If I weren't acting out of the fear of Allah, Sadiya, you wouldn't have lasted this long in this house. My son belongs to everyone. If you care for someone for the sake of Allah, Allah will preserve you. Likewise, a mother—even if she isn't your biological mother—ought to be embraced with open arms. When a woman enters a marital home, she gains additional parents; at that moment, she becomes a person with four parents. Her husband's mother becomes her own mother, and her husband's father becomes her own father. It is in such moments that the upbringing you received at home will be put to the test—whether you live a beautiful life with them or the exact opposite. Do not cry to anyone in the future, for your past actions will surely repeat themselves upon you. I do not wish an evil recompense for you; the door remains open for you to correct your mistakes. I am a mother to you, Sadiya. We did not live our lives in this shameful manner, but here we are, confronted by the twisted modern trends that have overtaken us. Do yourself a favor, I beg of you, even if it is solely for the sake of maintaining peace with your husband.”
At this, she felt completely drained, as if every word had penetrated her brain, forcing her to analyze and weigh the statements to see if they aligned with her own thoughts. However, because she was deeply entrenched in her arrogance, she simply settled her backside onto the seat, shaking her head like a pampered queen.
“Welcome. How was work?”
“We thank Allah.”
“I am the mother of Saddiku and Shu'aibu.”
“Oh, I see. Is there a problem?”
“Well, it is regarding the matter of their school fees and textbooks.”
“I am listening.”
“They were sent home.”
“This marks the third time he has had to return home.”
“Would it be possible to grant me an extension until the end of this month? I assure you I will bring the payment. I dislike having them sent away constantly, because it plants a seed of doubt in their hearts regarding our capability as parents.”
“When a child begins to perceive the failure or inadequacy of their parents, it creates a psychological issue. This is a favor I am seeking strictly in my capacity as a mother.”
“Furthermore, if that angle falls short, I am seeking this favor as a fellow civil servant, because you and I serve the same system. I beg of you.”
He shook his head slowly, fixing his eyes intently upon her.
He replied, “You are a truly exemplary mother. I will grant you a favor even beyond what you have requested. I believe the words of your mouth; if your statements are as genuine as they sound, coming straight from the heart, then it would be highly unlikely for you to break your promise to me. I will provide them with even the textbooks. Will you be able to reimburse me fully at the end of this month?”
“No, I will pay the school fees then. As for the cost of the textbooks, I can offset that in the following month. I give you my word, Insha Allah.”
“And for my part, let me clarify: you do not need to request any further extensions. Your words have moved me to the point where there is no favor I would deny you.”
She smiled and said, “That is the main favor, then. My only concern is the frequent evictions from class, which I want avoided, as it exposes our financial constraints to them. Additionally, I would like to inquire about their general conduct and how they carry out their activities at school.”
“If it is only that, do not worry in the least. Your children are remarkably disciplined and highly attentive. The only obstacle was the lack of learning materials, and we have brought that issue to an end since they will now be provided.”
“Thank you very much. Have a wonderful day.”
Upon returning home, I rushed to complete my remaining household chores. Afterward, I made an effort to set their meal on the stove. To my immense frustration, just as I went to strike the gas cooker, it sputtered and died—the gas had completely run out without my knowledge. Clicking my tongue in annoyance, I muttered:
“How could it deplete to the very end without me noticing?”
I fetched the charcoal brazier (kurfoti) and set about lighting the coals. Soon, the fire caught beautifully. I fried some flour pastries (wainar fulawa) for them and prepared a refreshing juice so they would find a delightful treat upon their return. Following that, I busied myself pacing back and forth, clearing away all the utensils I had used, even though the house was already spotlessly clean. Before leaving, the master of the house had meticulously cleaned every nook and cranny I had missed; he had even scrubbed the entire courtyard completely clean.
As I stepped into the living room to tidy up, a soft smile spread across my face. A beautiful, clean fragrance wafted from every corner—one would easily assume a woman had performed the chores. Closing my eyes as a wave of deep contentment washed over me, I whispered, “May Allah preserve our union and increase your affection for me. May Allah continuously soften your heart with tenderness toward me, and may He preserve our mutual devotion to one another.”
Now, what household is this? Let us proceed to the next page.
If I receive an abundance of comments exceeding yesterday's tally, I shall gladly exert myself to churn out another update for you by evening or tonight!
I REITERATE MY PROFOUND GRATITUDE TO YOU ALL. PERSONALLY, I DO NOT NEED TO BE REMINDED; I KNOW THIS NOVEL HAS BEEN HEARTILY RECEIVED. I CAN ONLY THANK ALLAH. FANS, YOU ARE THE TRUE LOVERS OF THIS WORK, AND FOR A LOVED ONE, ONE CONSTANTLY OFFERS PRAYERS. MAY ALLAH PRESERVE OUR LOVE.
This household was one filled with wonders. The mistress of the house was none other than Karimatu, the epitome of generosity—a woman blessed with abundant virtues and grace.
She and her husband, named Shu'aibu, had married out of deep affection—a youthful love, in fact. She was married to him at the tender age of sixteen, while he was thirty-two years old. He showered her with absolute care and devotion.
They possessed no grand wealth, merely a comfortable modesty (rufin\ asiri) and the grace of Allah. He was a trader, though the goods did not belong to him; they belonged to his half-brother, with whom he shared the same father. He managed the retail stall for him from nine o'clock in the morning until seven o'clock in the evening, enduring all the operational hardships on his behalf. At the close of the day, his brother would compensate him with a flat rate of one thousand Naira (1,000\text{ N}). It was with this daily allowance that we managed our entire household affairs, by the grace of Allah. Before heading out each morning, he would hand me money for daily groceries (cefane), out of which I even managed to set aside a little savings. This financial constraint did not mean we ate poorly, for I had been thoroughly trained in the culinary arts.
We did not even have the luxury of stocking up on food supplies; instead, we bought entirely by small measures (awo). He would typically purchase two measures (kwano) of grain, about five packs of pasta, and whatever minor essentials could be managed. At the time, kerosene was our primary fuel; he would buy a single gallon, and I would stretch its use for a very long time. Back then, life was far less expensive; a gallon of kerosene cost a mere two hundred and twenty Naira (220\text{ N}), while a measure of rice went for two hundred and fifty Naira (250\text{ N}). For this reason, we lived in relative abundance.
Furthermore, let it not be assumed that we lived in our own private house—no, it was a rented apartment (gidan\ haya) shared between just two tenants. There is hardly any challenge unique to a shared rented house that I did not confront; I crossed paths with every imaginable hardship. It reached a point where I essentially became a servant to my co-tenant, performing every chore for her—cooking, washing dishes, sweeping, and even pounding the ingredients (jajjage) she needed for her stews. Yet, none of these sacrifices spared me from her hostility.
It eventually reached a point where we were completely at odds. To make matters worse, I had been married for a year without conceiving a child, whereas she was heavily pregnant at the time.
Even the landlord turned hostile toward me, to say nothing of the other residents. My simple habit of sitting out in the shared courtyard to catch some fresh air became an impossibility. Despite all this, I never once complained to Shu'aibu; whenever an incident occurred while he was present, he would gently comfort me, reminding me that the patient ones are always accompanied by Allah.
The turning point that completely ended my stays in the courtyard occurred as follows: I was an avid reader of novels. One evening, I was sitting outside with a traditional small kerosene lamp (fitilar\ kwai) placed before me as I read. The landlord arrived, carrying a container of fuel, intending to top up an engine or lantern. He looked around but, seeing no alternative light source, proceeded to pour the fuel right there. I was completely ignorant of the highly volatile nature of petroleum, and neither he nor my co-tenant, who was also seated nearby, warned me to move my naked flame away. The moment he opened the container, the powerful fumes from the fuel caught fire from the lamp. Instantly, the flames leaped onto my body. I began to frantically jump and scream in sheer agony from the burning pain consuming my hands and legs.
Instead of rushing to my aid, my frantic state merely amused them, and they burst into laughter. By the grace of Allah, as I rolled desperately on the ground, the fire was extinguished, but I was severely burned. I dragged myself up and retreated into my room. From that day forward, I never sat in the courtyard again, regardless of how stifling the heat became. Fortunately, Allah had blessed us with a single self-contained room (falle\ daya).
As it turned out, their ultimate goal was to evict us. One day, I attended a wedding ceremony at my family home. Around seven o'clock in the evening, when the guests had dispersed, I turned to my mother and said, “I am not returning to that house tonight; I am completely exhausted.”
She looked at me sharply and asked, "Is something wrong?" I replied, "No." She pressed further, "Then why have you decided not to return?" It was then that I confessed the reality of my living conditions with the landlords. Upon hearing this, she immediately called my father and relayed the situation to him. We received a stern lecture for allowing me to stay out so late. My father then concluded, “You must wait for your husband here. I know that once he returns from the market and finds you absent, he will surely come here to fetch you. When she arrives, follow him home, but we shall have a formal discussion with him later on. For now, continue to endure with patience.”
He did not arrive until around ten o'clock at night because, upon closing from the market, he usually attended an evening school. We set out for our house together, and throughout the journey, he kept offering his heartfelt apologies, saying, “Please exercise patience, my queen (hajiyata). Everything has its appointed time. My mother constantly prays that Allah will build a house of my own for me. Even though I currently see no financial path toward building a house, she is a mother, and I know Allah will answer her prayers eventually, no matter how long it takes. Just bear with me a little longer.”
We continued our conversation as we walked. We didn't manage to hail a vehicle until nearly half past ten, which ultimately prevented us from reaching the house early.
By the time we arrived, they had securely locked the main gate. He and I spent at least two hours knocking continuously, but there wasn't the slightest sign of anyone opening up. It was nearly midnight when the landlord finally opened the gate, only to coldly announce that we would not be permitted inside his house that night, effectively turning us away. We pleaded with him repeatedly, and even the neighbors emerged to intervene on our behalf, but the man remained completely unyielding. Stranded in the dead of night, we had no choice but to seek alternative transport. There were no vehicles available on the deserted street except for a lone commercial motorcyclist (dan\ acaba). We hailed him, and he transported Shu'aibu and me back to my parents' house.
That was that. Since my father owned an ongoing construction project intended for his own future relocation, he took pity on our plight and said, “You both should move into that building, since it has a space that is habitable.”
Possessing deep foresight, he explained the arrangement to me in a manner I fully understood. Thus, another accommodation was secured for us. I was the sole tenant there, though it carried its own unique set of challenges—it was an old-style house whose doors could only be secured by crude latches (ka\ during\ kusa).
We shall converge again tomorrow. I have fulfilled my promise today solely out of my regard for you, my beloved fans. Thank you for your unwavering support.
Using the odest savings I had been accumulating, I enrolled in a continuing education school for married women, attending classes on Saturdays and Sundays. I faced no difficulties during the admission process; they accepted me warmly, and I proudly resumed my studies.
Later on, I began to gradually upgrade my room furnishings, piece by piece, until I completely finished my schooling without accumulating a single cent of debt. Throughout this period, I maintained an absolute peace of mind. I deliberately refrained from demanding money from my husband for these pursuits because I knew that if I caused an uproar, he would be forced to stretch his meager income to the breaking point just