STORY "My language might not be understood; a mere servant might not grasp why I am in such a rush. I have no time to apologize to anyone, nor can I stop to greet a soul. In the state I find myself, this candy—the very thing that lured me out of our house at this late hour due to my cursed greed and insatiable craving—has become my undoing. It could surely bring about my death tonight. My mind is frantic; my only goal is to reach the safety of our home before my father returns!" This is what the young maiden thought to herself, her body draped in a floor-length hijab, her legs moving with desperate, rhythmic speed. She saw no one and recognized nothing, unable even to offer greetings to the neighbors. Her only focus was reaching home, despite the onlookers' surprise at seeing ANMI—who was old enough to be in a husband’s room—running with such unladylike haste. She headed toward a grand house, the kind of residence that immediately signaled the wealth of its owner. As she gripped the small side gate and pushed it open, her stomach churned with a sickening rumble. She saw a car parked in the courtyard under the garage canopy. It was a terrifying confirmation: the "Ogre" had arrived home, and she had been caught outside. She clutched her head in her hands, whispering, "I am dead. I am ruined." In an instant, the candy she had craved lost its sweetness. She felt as if nothing could pass down her throat, not even her own saliva, for one agony always surpasses another. With trembling limbs, she approached their wing of the house, which was connected to the quarters of her father's other wives. she crept in, her eyes darting around in terror of what was to come. SLAP! The sharp crack of a palm hitting her brother’s face made her drop the candy in her hand. Her body began to shake violently. She tried to shrink into a corner as she saw her father grab her brother by the collar, lashing him with a "dorina" (a heavy leather whip used on donkeys). His voice thundered: "In this house, my daughter goes out before Maghrib and no one knows where she went? A young, grown maiden? You saw her leave and failed to stop her? Today, I will see who dares to stand up for you! Are you all conspiring against me? I could kill you and it would be for nothing, for no one dares challenge me! I will curse you right here—I am out there struggling to provide for you to eat, and you are here trying to disgrace me?" His wife, the young girl’s mother, Hajia Usaina, rushed in trembling, trying to intervene as the whip rained down on the young man. Though they should have been used to the Alhaji’s temperament—for not a day passed without him flogging his children—they never could be. In his eyes, no mistake was too small to overlook. To him, severe punishment was the only way to raise a disciplined child. When he beat them, his mouth poured out a torrent of rage. He was a man of immense anger, which he frequently unleashed upon his family, especially his children. They could only pray for his guidance and a change in his character. With a forceful shove, he pushed his wife back after a stray lash caught her instead of the boy. In a frenzied state, he reached out and snatched the young girl, Anmi, intending to lash her as if divinely commissioned to do so. He beat her until her hijab fell off, bruising her fair skin until it looked like the jagged back of a crocodile. Finally, he released her, panting with rage. "Let this be a warning!" he roared. "From now on, if anyone leaves this house and the rest remain silent, the punishment will fall on everyone—from the mother to the children! No one will ruin the upbringing of my children while I watch! You worthless, insolent brats!" With that, he turned and stormed off toward his private quarters. As he left, Lubna let out a heavy sigh of relief, her heart still thumping with fear. She wiped the sweat from her face and hurried to her room, thanking God she hadn't been hit today. She muttered a prayer, thinking how Anmi was always bringing trouble upon them. Truly, if she had been beaten today, she would have made Anmi’s life a living nightmare tonight! The other children likewise got up and retreated to their rooms to prepare for the night lessons with their Islamic teacher. The newest wife, who had been cooking, had already slipped away to the Alhaji’s quarters when he arrived. That left only the mother and the young girl, Anmi, who was huddled in a corner, sobbing, her skin welted and bleeding from the whip. With great difficulty, the mother dragged herself toward her room without looking at anyone. She collapsed onto her bed, her abdomen cramping with an excruciating, sharp pain. She held her head and face, hot tears spilling out. Looking up, she saw her daughter standing by the door, scratching her back and weeping silently—a sight that pierced the heart. The mother wiped her own tears and called out softly, "Thgmassss naunuj marda" (My dear, come here). Anmi approached slowly, watching her mother's face. She didn't want to commit another fault, for although her mother didn't beat her, she feared her mother's disapproval deeply. The girl knelt a distance away, which broke Hajia’s heart even further. She reached out and pulled the girl close, asking gently, "Anmina, why did you go out without my permission? Where did you go so close to Maghrib?" "Mama," the girl said, her voice trembling. "I went to Old Woman Ummu's place. She gave me the candy I didn't take yesterday. She even told me not to get caught so I wouldn't be beaten. I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't let me go." The mother thought to herself, 'The child’s cry has brought a stone upon the mother's head.' Aloud, she said softly, "But Anmi, you know we have candy in this room, don't you? Why didn't you ask me? And besides, Anmi, aren't you too old to be running around for candy?" Anmi lowered her head, unable to answer. Her mother sighed. "Don't ever go out again without asking, do you hear? Or do you want to keep getting whipped like that?" Anmi shook her head vigorously. Her mother smiled weakly. "Alright then. Wipe your tears and go pray. When the teacher leaves, we will treat your wounds and give you medicine, okay, my daughter?" Anmi nodded, feeling a sense of peace. Her mother touched her head. "God bless you. Go now, good girl. After you pray, pray for me, pray for your father, your siblings, and the whole Muslim community, okay?" "Insha Allah, Mama," KHADIJA (Anmi) replied. But in her heart, she thought: 'I will pray for everyone except Baba, because he always beats me.' The mother watched her leave, then let her own tears flow again. The abdominal pain was returning, rising like a tide, feeling as though it might be her end. With extreme effort, she performed her Maghrib and Isha prayers. Clutching her prayer beads, she opened the back door and headed toward Alhaji's wing. She felt a fire in her soul; she was going to have it out with him. By Allah, she could no longer tolerate his cruelty. She stayed in his house only because she had to, waiting for the day she could leave. Only two things kept her there: the children (of which only Anmi was hers biologically) and her own mother, who always wished for her to stay and endure for the sake of the home. She unlocked the small door and entered, drawing back the curtain. "Assalamu Alaykum," she said, her eyes falling on the youngest wife, who was elegantly dressed and serving the Alhaji a plate of lavishly cooked guinea fowl, smiling as they shared a private conversation—the kind of affection his children never saw. He answered her greeting, but seeing her face, his own expression hardened. He knew she had come for a confrontation. Despite his harshness, he loved Hajia more than any of his other wives, even though she was from a poor background. She was his "Gimbiya" (Princess), a title he had given her since their courtship because of the natural grace and pride she carried in her blood. "Can't you wait until it is your turn on the roster?" he asked dismissively, looking away. "Let's not infringe on others' rights, Princess." The young wife smirked, saying nothing. She feared Hajia’s occasional outbursts as much as she feared the Alhaji. It was common knowledge that Hajia was the only one who could truly stand up to him. "I cannot wait until the day after tomorrow," Hajia said shortly and firmly. He sighed. "Fine. Bismillah, I am listening." Hajia looked at him, then at the young wife, and then spoke plainly. "Regarding what happens in this house when you are angry... Alhaji, I want you to soften. Look at these children, look at us. Do you know that your words are like poison? I fear that your curses will catch up to your children. Life is short, the world is small..." "So you've come to teach me how to handle my own children?" he interrupted, his brow furrowed. "Or are you here to show your anger because I hit your precious daughter? Princess, you know no one comes between me and my children. I am raising them. No one teaches me how to look after them!" He began to shout, looking as if he might strike her too. She looked at him calmly. "Alhaji, why can't we sit and talk with understanding? I am not teaching you, nor am I here just because you hit Anmi. I am here to remind you: if you must beat them, beat them. Break them if you must—you’re the one who will pay for the medicine anyway. But guard your tongue. Do not call them 'thugs,' 'bastards,' or 'low-lifes.' You are their father. If the angels say 'Amen' to those words, where will we go? For God’s sake, have mercy on us. When things get heated, seek Allah’s help. What is the use of—" "Lahaula wala kuwata ila bilah! (There is no power but with Allah!) So, 'Mother,' you think you can lecture me? Surely the angels are cursing you for raising your voice to me!" He stood up, offended that a woman in a simple wrapper was challenging a man who "wore the trousers" of wealth. "Indeed," his youngest wife chimed in, "a woman's voice should never be higher than a man's. Subhanallah!" Hajia glanced at her, then back at him. Suddenly, she felt a violent twist in her abdomen and the sensation of something warm and painful escaping her. She knew instantly what was happening. Alhaji’s words had paralyzed her. After the long wait since Anmi’s birth, Allah had finally given another, and now this stress was ending it. The Alhaji didn't stop. He unleashed a torrent of abuse, threatening to divorce her, claiming he could replace her with three more wives with his wealth. He hated "disrespectful things." Slowly, she gripped a chair to stand. Dizziness washed over her. She turned her back to leave; she wouldn't look at the mess until she reached her room. As she turned, his eyes fell on the dark, heavy stains on her hijab and the chair. He froze, staring at the blood. His voice turned high and shaky. "You... what is this blood? Why are you bleeding when you are carrying a child? Are you doing this to spite me? Are you aborting the pregnancy? By Allah, if you lose that child, I will take you to court! Innalilahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un! What kind of wickedness is this?" She stopped, her vision doubling and tripling. She stared at the blood on her clothes, then at him. A cold fire of hatred swept away any remaining drop of pity or love she had for him. She realized she meant nothing to him but a machine to produce children. She looked him in the eye, wondering if her life would always be this hollow. The despair rising in her throat threatened to choke her. She looked at him with utter loathing and then collapsed. Hysterical, he rushed to her, screaming at the young wife to help him lift Hajia. Despite his cruelty, he knew in his heart he loved her. He was the type of man who tortured those he loved most. He carried her out, shouting for the gates to be opened, and sped off in his car toward the hospital. He drove like a madman, not even stopping to put on shoes. He headed for the main hospital in DAMAGARAN (Zinder), though the maternity ward was separate. Because she was a doctor herself, and accompanied by a prominent man like him, she was admitted immediately. The staff recognized her condition and her status. Even as she was being treated, Alhaji stood over her, loudly insisting that no male doctor should touch his wife. He cursed the male doctors to their faces, calling them "shameless lechers" who hid behind their profession to look at women. His other wife, who had followed in another car, stood by, unable to show her true feelings. Finally, a senior female doctor, Doctor Zalika, had to push the other doctors back, insisting they treat their colleague immediately. They worked feverishly to stabilize her, stopped the bleeding, and administered injections. They took her for an ultrasound and then moved her to a recovery room. Only then did Dr. Zalika allow the Alhaji and his other wife to enter. With a professional but weary air, Dr. Zalika greeted him.
PAID BOOK NOTICE / AUTHOR DETAILS
Farkon Ganin Idona (The First Sight of My Eyes) Written by Sajida Nijar (Contact/Payment details for Niger and Nigeria included in text). Chapter 2 continues... Doctor Zalika greeted him again. He responded, his eyes fixed on Hajia, who lay there breathing shallowly. He exhaled sharply. "Doctor, she had a miscarriage, didn't she? Did she take something to get rid of my child out of hatred?" Dr. Zalika looked at him in amazement. She had heard of this man—stubborn, difficult, and nearly impossible to work with. He had barely allowed Hajia to continue her medical practice. The doctors had witnessed many of their arguments. He was a man who never hid his rage, regardless of where he was. In this town, he was known as the "Rich Man, Father of All," who looked down on everyone. But she never imagined he would accuse a respected senior doctor of aborting her own child. Keeping her voice calm, she said, "No, Alhaji. She didn't take anything or do anything to cause this. We have done everything necessary. Her blood pressure spiked dangerously high—that is why the pregnancy didn't hold. She will stay with us until tomorrow, insha Allah, to see how she recovers before going home. May Allah grant her health." Having said her piece, she left to join her staff. He stood there for a long time, various thoughts swirling in his mind. Finally, he sighed, looked at his youngest wife, and said, "I am going home."
STORY
"My language might not be understood; a mere servant might not grasp why I am in such a rush. I have no time to apologize to anyone, nor can I stop to greet a soul. In the state I find myself, this candy—the very thing that lured me out of our house at this late hour due to my cursed greed and insatiable craving—has become my undoing. It could surely bring about my death tonight. My mind is frantic; my only goal is to reach the safety of our home before my father returns!"
This is what the young maiden thought to herself, her body draped in a floor-length hijab, her legs moving with desperate, rhythmic speed. She saw no one and recognized nothing, unable even to offer greetings to the neighbors. Her only focus was reaching home, despite the onlookers' surprise at seeing ANMI—who was old enough to be in a husband’s room—running with such unladylike haste.
She headed toward a grand house, the kind of residence that immediately signaled the wealth of its owner.
As she gripped the small side gate and pushed it open, her stomach churned with a sickening rumble. She saw a car parked in the courtyard under the garage canopy. It was a terrifying confirmation: the "Ogre" had arrived home, and she had been caught outside. She clutched her head in her hands, whispering, "I am dead. I am ruined."
In an instant, the candy she had craved lost its sweetness. She felt as if nothing could pass down her throat, not even her own saliva, for one agony always surpasses another.
With trembling limbs, she approached their wing of the house, which was connected to the quarters of her father's other wives. she crept in, her eyes darting around in terror of what was to come.
SLAP! The sharp crack of a palm hitting her brother’s face made her drop the candy in her hand. Her body began to shake violently. She tried to shrink into a corner as she saw her father grab her brother by the collar, lashing him with a "dorina" (a heavy leather whip used on donkeys).
His voice thundered: "In this house, my daughter goes out before Maghrib and no one knows where she went? A young, grown maiden? You saw her leave and failed to stop her? Today, I will see who dares to stand up for you! Are you all conspiring against me? I could kill you and it would be for nothing, for no one dares challenge me! I will curse you right here—I am out there struggling to provide for you to eat, and you are here trying to disgrace me?"
His wife, the young girl’s mother, Hajia Usaina, rushed in trembling, trying to intervene as the whip rained down on the young man. Though they should have been used to the Alhaji’s temperament—for not a day passed without him flogging his children—they never could be. In his eyes, no mistake was too small to overlook. To him, severe punishment was the only way to raise a disciplined child. When he beat them, his mouth poured out a torrent of rage. He was a man of immense anger, which he frequently unleashed upon his family, especially his children. They could only pray for his guidance and a change in his character.
With a forceful shove, he pushed his wife back after a stray lash caught her instead of the boy. In a frenzied state, he reached out and snatched the young girl, Anmi, intending to lash her as if divinely commissioned to do so. He beat her until her hijab fell off, bruising her fair skin until it looked like the jagged back of a crocodile. Finally, he released her, panting with rage.
"Let this be a warning!" he roared. "From now on, if anyone leaves this house and the rest remain silent, the punishment will fall on everyone—from the mother to the children! No one will ruin the upbringing of my children while I watch! You worthless, insolent brats!" With that, he turned and stormed off toward his private quarters.
As he left, Lubna let out a heavy sigh of relief, her heart still thumping with fear. She wiped the sweat from her face and hurried to her room, thanking God she hadn't been hit today. She muttered a prayer, thinking how Anmi was always bringing trouble upon them. Truly, if she had been beaten today, she would have made Anmi’s life a living nightmare tonight!
The other children likewise got up and retreated to their rooms to prepare for the night lessons with their Islamic teacher.
The newest wife, who had been cooking, had already slipped away to the Alhaji’s quarters when he arrived. That left only the mother and the young girl, Anmi, who was huddled in a corner, sobbing, her skin welted and bleeding from the whip.
With great difficulty, the mother dragged herself toward her room without looking at anyone. She collapsed onto her bed, her abdomen cramping with an excruciating, sharp pain. She held her head and face, hot tears spilling out.
Looking up, she saw her daughter standing by the door, scratching her back and weeping silently—a sight that pierced the heart.
The mother wiped her own tears and called out softly, "Thgmassss naunuj marda" (My dear, come here).
Anmi approached slowly, watching her mother's face. She didn't want to commit another fault, for although her mother didn't beat her, she feared her mother's disapproval deeply.
The girl knelt a distance away, which broke Hajia’s heart even further. She reached out and pulled the girl close, asking gently, "Anmina, why did you go out without my permission? Where did you go so close to Maghrib?"
"Mama," the girl said, her voice trembling. "I went to Old Woman Ummu's place. She gave me the candy I didn't take yesterday. She even told me not to get caught so I wouldn't be beaten. I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't let me go."
The mother thought to herself, 'The child’s cry has brought a stone upon the mother's head.' Aloud, she said softly, "But Anmi, you know we have candy in this room, don't you? Why didn't you ask me? And besides, Anmi, aren't you too old to be running around for candy?"
Anmi lowered her head, unable to answer. Her mother sighed. "Don't ever go out again without asking, do you hear? Or do you want to keep getting whipped like that?"
Anmi shook her head vigorously. Her mother smiled weakly. "Alright then. Wipe your tears and go pray. When the teacher leaves, we will treat your wounds and give you medicine, okay, my daughter?"
Anmi nodded, feeling a sense of peace. Her mother touched her head. "God bless you. Go now, good girl. After you pray, pray for me, pray for your father, your siblings, and the whole Muslim community, okay?"
"Insha Allah, Mama," KHADIJA (Anmi) replied. But in her heart, she thought: 'I will pray for everyone except Baba, because he always beats me.'
The mother watched her leave, then let her own tears flow again. The abdominal pain was returning, rising like a tide, feeling as though it might be her end.
With extreme effort, she performed her Maghrib and Isha prayers. Clutching her prayer beads, she opened the back door and headed toward Alhaji's wing. She felt a fire in her soul; she was going to have it out with him. By Allah, she could no longer tolerate his cruelty. She stayed in his house only because she had to, waiting for the day she could leave. Only two things kept her there: the children (of which only Anmi was hers biologically) and her own mother, who always wished for her to stay and endure for the sake of the home.
She unlocked the small door and entered, drawing back the curtain. "Assalamu Alaykum," she said, her eyes falling on the youngest wife, who was elegantly dressed and serving the Alhaji a plate of lavishly cooked guinea fowl, smiling as they shared a private conversation—the kind of affection his children never saw.
He answered her greeting, but seeing her face, his own expression hardened. He knew she had come for a confrontation. Despite his harshness, he loved Hajia more than any of his other wives, even though she was from a poor background. She was his "Gimbiya" (Princess), a title he had given her since their courtship because of the natural grace and pride she carried in her blood.
"Can't you wait until it is your turn on the roster?" he asked dismissively, looking away. "Let's not infringe on others' rights, Princess."
The young wife smirked, saying nothing. She feared Hajia’s occasional outbursts as much as she feared the Alhaji. It was common knowledge that Hajia was the only one who could truly stand up to him.
"I cannot wait until the day after tomorrow," Hajia said shortly and firmly.
He sighed. "Fine. Bismillah, I am listening."
Hajia looked at him, then at the young wife, and then spoke plainly. "Regarding what happens in this house when you are angry... Alhaji, I want you to soften. Look at these children, look at us. Do you know that your words are like poison? I fear that your curses will catch up to your children. Life is short, the world is small..."
"So you've come to teach me how to handle my own children?" he interrupted, his brow furrowed. "Or are you here to show your anger because I hit your precious daughter? Princess, you know no one comes between me and my children. I am raising them. No one teaches me how to look after them!" He began to shout, looking as if he might strike her too.
She looked at him calmly. "Alhaji, why can't we sit and talk with understanding? I am not teaching you, nor am I here just because you hit Anmi. I am here to remind you: if you must beat them, beat them. Break them if you must—you’re the one who will pay for the medicine anyway. But guard your tongue. Do not call them 'thugs,' 'bastards,' or 'low-lifes.' You are their father. If the angels say 'Amen' to those words, where will we go? For God’s sake, have mercy on us. When things get heated, seek Allah’s help. What is the use of—"
"Lahaula wala kuwata ila bilah! (There is no power but with Allah!) So, 'Mother,' you think you can lecture me? Surely the angels are cursing you for raising your voice to me!" He stood up, offended that a woman in a simple wrapper was challenging a man who "wore the trousers" of wealth.
"Indeed," his youngest wife chimed in, "a woman's voice should never be higher than a man's. Subhanallah!"
Hajia glanced at her, then back at him. Suddenly, she felt a violent twist in her abdomen and the sensation of something warm and painful escaping her. She knew instantly what was happening. Alhaji’s words had paralyzed her. After the long wait since Anmi’s birth, Allah had finally given another, and now this stress was ending it.
The Alhaji didn't stop. He unleashed a torrent of abuse, threatening to divorce her, claiming he could replace her with three more wives with his wealth. He hated "disrespectful things."
Slowly, she gripped a chair to stand. Dizziness washed over her. She turned her back to leave; she wouldn't look at the mess until she reached her room. As she turned, his eyes fell on the dark, heavy stains on her hijab and the chair.
He froze, staring at the blood. His voice turned high and shaky. "You... what is this blood? Why are you bleeding when you are carrying a child? Are you doing this to spite me? Are you aborting the pregnancy? By Allah, if you lose that child, I will take you to court! Innalilahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un! What kind of wickedness is this?"
She stopped, her vision doubling and tripling. She stared at the blood on her clothes, then at him. A cold fire of hatred swept away any remaining drop of pity or love she had for him. She realized she meant nothing to him but a machine to produce children. She looked him in the eye, wondering if her life would always be this hollow. The despair rising in her throat threatened to choke her. She looked at him with utter loathing and then collapsed.
Hysterical, he rushed to her, screaming at the young wife to help him lift Hajia. Despite his cruelty, he knew in his heart he loved her. He was the type of man who tortured those he loved most. He carried her out, shouting for the gates to be opened, and sped off in his car toward the hospital. He drove like a madman, not even stopping to put on shoes. He headed for the main hospital in DAMAGARAN (Zinder), though the maternity ward was separate.
Because she was a doctor herself, and accompanied by a prominent man like him, she was admitted immediately. The staff recognized her condition and her status.
Even as she was being treated, Alhaji stood over her, loudly insisting that no male doctor should touch his wife. He cursed the male doctors to their faces, calling them "shameless lechers" who hid behind their profession to look at women. His other wife, who had followed in another car, stood by, unable to show her true feelings.
Finally, a senior female doctor, Doctor Zalika, had to push the other doctors back, insisting they treat their colleague immediately. They worked feverishly to stabilize her, stopped the bleeding, and administered injections. They took her for an ultrasound and then moved her to a recovery room. Only then did Dr. Zalika allow the Alhaji and his other wife to enter.
With a professional but weary air, Dr. Zalika greeted him.
PAID BOOK NOTICE / AUTHOR DETAILS
Farkon Ganin Idona (The First Sight of My Eyes)
Written by Sajida Nijar
(Contact/Payment details for Niger and Nigeria included in text).
Chapter 2 continues...
Doctor Zalika greeted him again. He responded, his eyes fixed on Hajia, who lay there breathing shallowly.
He exhaled sharply. "Doctor, she had a miscarriage, didn't she? Did she take something to get rid of my child out of hatred?"
Dr. Zalika looked at him in amazement. She had heard of this man—stubborn, difficult, and nearly impossible to work with. He had barely allowed Hajia to continue her medical practice. The doctors had witnessed many of their arguments. He was a man who never hid his rage, regardless of where he was. In this town, he was known as the "Rich Man, Father of All," who looked down on everyone. But she never imagined he would accuse a respected senior doctor of aborting her own child.
Keeping her voice calm, she said, "No, Alhaji. She didn't take anything or do anything to cause this. We have done everything necessary. Her blood pressure spiked dangerously high—that is why the pregnancy didn't hold. She will stay with us until tomorrow, insha Allah, to see how she recovers before going home. May Allah grant her health."
Having said her piece, she left to join her staff.
He stood there for a long time, various thoughts swirling in his mind. Finally, he sighed, looked at his youngest wife, and said, "I am going home."