My mind was in total chaos as I moved back and forth between the bedroom and the living room. I was pacing, thinking of how to deal with this “poison” I had brought into the house with my own hands, now seemingly intent on destroying me.
I could hear them, their English chatter drifting from her house. These people seemed completely unconcerned with anything; they had no restraint, no fear of losing, and if they wanted, they could take whatever belonged to someone else.
The Maghrib call to prayer rang, and I saw Usman arriving. I watched as he parked and got out of the car. At the same time, I felt movement—Mufidah was coming out of her house as well. Their paths would meet on the stairway. My heart raced; I didn’t know who to stop or what to do.
I hadn’t even finished putting on my makeup—only half my face had powder—and I rushed out. We encountered them at the gate. I knew they wouldn’t greet me, and as they had proven before, I wouldn’t greet them either. I passed in front of them, and they followed behind. Their conversation was a mix of Paris and American slang.
They didn’t bother me; I was careful not to provoke anything with my husband. He didn’t notice me as I passed, and didn’t even think he’d see me; he just felt someone holding him. When he finally saw me, he was surprised, yet seemed pleased.
“Wow, nice couple, perfect match… and they’re fair-skinned too. But these spouses impress me. Is love like this common in the North?” Murjanatu Bibi commented, while Mufidah yanked her hand away and ran off toward her car.
Murjanatu added, “Your husband is handsome and very gentle.”
Usman looked at me and gave a loving, affectionate smile. “See, they say we match perfectly—that’s why I love you even more,” he said.
Excited, I said, “Look, she says you are handsome. I don’t know if she’ll follow you anywhere.”
He shook his head. “Why would I care about women like that? God protect me. You alone are enough for me.” A warmth filled me, and I accepted his laptop bag, took his hand, and we headed upstairs. Then he paused and said, “Go pray; I’ll leave for the mosque. The Maghrib call came from the house gate.”
Murjanatu and Mufidah returned, apparently not leaving yet—they had brought something in the car. Murjanatu was on the phone, saying she stopped at the gate and hadn’t entered yet; it seemed her driver had arrived to pick her up. I panicked and grabbed Usman’s hand, insisting he pray at home.
This time, Usman yanked his hand away angrily. “Fatiti, do you even know what you’re saying? I said I’ll pray; why are you trying to stop me?”
Murjanatu, overhearing, stared at us in astonishment, mouth agape. “By God, these are truly Northern people—love isn’t permanent, it’s temporary. I’m even praising them, yet it’s ending in a fight?”
Usman glared at her, and their eyes met, full of surprise.
She said, “You’re Usman Aliyu, right?”
He replied, “Murjanatu Bibi, are you from this house?”
Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un—I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Conversations erupted; they hurried away, while Mufidah, fuming, yanked her hand from Murjanatu and left. I didn’t notice when I set down the laptop; I followed them. Murjanatu got into her car, Usman standing beside her, speaking, while Mufidah, annoyed, told her they would talk on the phone instead.
I realized that Murjanatu was more dangerous than I had thought—a “volcano eruption,” so to speak.
By the car, Usman saw me and smiled, “Here’s the lady too, greet her.”
She extended her long, slender fingers, and we greeted; her soft voice and perfume were enough. She asked softly, “Madam, how are the children?”
I didn’t answer, standing stiffly, trembling. She offered two hundred dollars to buy candy for the children. I thanked her profusely; Usman also expressed his gratitude.
“Monday I’ll come again,” she said. “Insha Allah, we’ll finish this conversation.”
Usman told her, “Okay, when?”
She said, “Monday, Insha Allah.”
He seemed tense, but he told me, “Go inside; I’ll pray Alwalla, even if the iqama has been raised.” He quickly went inside to pray.
I felt like my heart had cracked, and I rushed into the house. The children were making a ruckus, and I handed them three candies each to calm them, sending them to their rooms. I removed my scarf because it felt heavy, flopped to the floor, and sat down.
Then Usman came in, visibly angry. “What’s wrong with you? Why did you leave my laptop on the floor? Did the car step on it?”
I suddenly remembered—it had been on the ground. I had no excuse, and he continued watching me carefully.
As he was about to go to the bedroom, he turned back. “Fatiti, I saw you at the gate without a scarf. Who told you to do this? And these two hundred dollars Murjanatu gave you—why?”
I couldn’t respond; he watched me carefully and began to understand why I had acted this way. He shook his head: “God bless you. Murjanatu Bibi is a major customer; she has a dollar account in our bank, and I manage it. She’s a money exchanger; she came to open an account. She came only to the bank, only for business. Any questions?”
I shook my head, signaling none. He went to his room, showered, then came out famished. I prepared his favorite meal: tuwo, miyar kuka, and manshanu. He ate heartily, chatting, though I suspected he was also pleased to have seen Murjanatu. I resolved to check his phone for evidence of their interaction later.
I told him in a soft voice, “Since they came with Mufidah and made all that noise in the living room, it seems they have no manners—maybe they were coming from a club or after drinking.”
He shook his head. “That’s not music; it was Quranic recitation. And don’t judge someone just by appearances. Murjanatu is kind, generous, and pious; she gives charity, builds mosques and wells, and prays and fasts consistently. She may dress formally because of her European background, but she is upright. Don’t insult her.”
From that moment, I realized my earlier anger and insults toward older women like Murjanatu were completely wrong. I had been plotting, criticizing, and imagining conflicts—but she had done nothing to harm us. I knew now that I had to separate the women in my mind, handle the situation carefully, and protect my household.
Months later, one evening, Usman returned from work visibly upset. I could tell by his fatigued neck and wrinkled white shirt that he was furious. I panicked, thinking about what I might have done to upset him. I realized I hadn’t contacted anyone; I hadn’t meddled with his phone to call Murjanatu.
Usman glared at me, pointing toward Mufidah’s house. “Even as a joke, don’t go near that woman. Not at the stairway, not anywhere. Do you understand?”
Relieved, I nodded, “Insha Allah, sweet, as you say, that’s what we’ll do.”
He went to his room in anger, and I felt warmth and joy at how protective he was. I danced a little with the children as they cheered, preparing his food on the dining table. After bathing, he sat down in a light white jalabiya, eating, while I poured tea and joined him.
He glanced at me and remarked subtly about how often I had skipped meals. I understood—he knew my daily struggles. He began sharing about Murjanatu, explaining that she had come to his office to open a dollar account. One of her assistants had called him, but when she arrived, it was Mufidah who greeted him politely. He recounted that even in a room full of colleagues, Mufidah’s behavior was controlled and respectful.
I realized then how unjust my earlier suspicions had been. Murjanatu had done nothing wrong. My jealousy had almost destroyed peace at home.
Later, I continued strategizing solutions, praying, and consulting with Usman, who trusted my judgment. We agreed to pray and strengthen our bond through Quranic recitation, ensuring we remained protected from harm and deceit.
My mind was in total chaos as I moved back and forth between the bedroom and the living room. I was pacing, thinking of how to deal with this “poison” I had brought into the house with my own hands, now seemingly intent on destroying me.
I could hear them, their English chatter drifting from her house. These people seemed completely unconcerned with anything; they had no restraint, no fear of losing, and if they wanted, they could take whatever belonged to someone else.
The Maghrib call to prayer rang, and I saw Usman arriving. I watched as he parked and got out of the car. At the same time, I felt movement—Mufidah was coming out of her house as well. Their paths would meet on the stairway. My heart raced; I didn’t know who to stop or what to do.
I hadn’t even finished putting on my makeup—only half my face had powder—and I rushed out. We encountered them at the gate. I knew they wouldn’t greet me, and as they had proven before, I wouldn’t greet them either. I passed in front of them, and they followed behind. Their conversation was a mix of Paris and American slang.
They didn’t bother me; I was careful not to provoke anything with my husband. He didn’t notice me as I passed, and didn’t even think he’d see me; he just felt someone holding him. When he finally saw me, he was surprised, yet seemed pleased.
“Wow, nice couple, perfect match… and they’re fair-skinned too. But these spouses impress me. Is love like this common in the North?” Murjanatu Bibi commented, while Mufidah yanked her hand away and ran off toward her car.
Murjanatu added, “Your husband is handsome and very gentle.”
Usman looked at me and gave a loving, affectionate smile. “See, they say we match perfectly—that’s why I love you even more,” he said.
Excited, I said, “Look, she says you are handsome. I don’t know if she’ll follow you anywhere.”
He shook his head. “Why would I care about women like that? God protect me. You alone are enough for me.” A warmth filled me, and I accepted his laptop bag, took his hand, and we headed upstairs. Then he paused and said, “Go pray; I’ll leave for the mosque. The Maghrib call came from the house gate.”
Murjanatu and Mufidah returned, apparently not leaving yet—they had brought something in the car. Murjanatu was on the phone, saying she stopped at the gate and hadn’t entered yet; it seemed her driver had arrived to pick her up. I panicked and grabbed Usman’s hand, insisting he pray at home.
This time, Usman yanked his hand away angrily. “Fatiti, do you even know what you’re saying? I said I’ll pray; why are you trying to stop me?”
Murjanatu, overhearing, stared at us in astonishment, mouth agape. “By God, these are truly Northern people—love isn’t permanent, it’s temporary. I’m even praising them, yet it’s ending in a fight?”
Usman glared at her, and their eyes met, full of surprise.
She said, “You’re Usman Aliyu, right?”
He replied, “Murjanatu Bibi, are you from this house?”
Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un—I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Conversations erupted; they hurried away, while Mufidah, fuming, yanked her hand from Murjanatu and left. I didn’t notice when I set down the laptop; I followed them. Murjanatu got into her car, Usman standing beside her, speaking, while Mufidah, annoyed, told her they would talk on the phone instead.
I realized that Murjanatu was more dangerous than I had thought—a “volcano eruption,” so to speak.
By the car, Usman saw me and smiled, “Here’s the lady too, greet her.”
She extended her long, slender fingers, and we greeted; her soft voice and perfume were enough. She asked softly, “Madam, how are the children?”
I didn’t answer, standing stiffly, trembling. She offered two hundred dollars to buy candy for the children. I thanked her profusely; Usman also expressed his gratitude.
“Monday I’ll come again,” she said. “Insha Allah, we’ll finish this conversation.”
Usman told her, “Okay, when?”
She said, “Monday, Insha Allah.”
He seemed tense, but he told me, “Go inside; I’ll pray Alwalla, even if the iqama has been raised.” He quickly went inside to pray.
I felt like my heart had cracked, and I rushed into the house. The children were making a ruckus, and I handed them three candies each to calm them, sending them to their rooms. I removed my scarf because it felt heavy, flopped to the floor, and sat down.
Then Usman came in, visibly angry. “What’s wrong with you? Why did you leave my laptop on the floor? Did the car step on it?”
I suddenly remembered—it had been on the ground. I had no excuse, and he continued watching me carefully.
As he was about to go to the bedroom, he turned back. “Fatiti, I saw you at the gate without a scarf. Who told you to do this? And these two hundred dollars Murjanatu gave you—why?”
I couldn’t respond; he watched me carefully and began to understand why I had acted this way. He shook his head: “God bless you. Murjanatu Bibi is a major customer; she has a dollar account in our bank, and I manage it. She’s a money exchanger; she came to open an account. She came only to the bank, only for business. Any questions?”
I shook my head, signaling none. He went to his room, showered, then came out famished. I prepared his favorite meal: tuwo, miyar kuka, and manshanu. He ate heartily, chatting, though I suspected he was also pleased to have seen Murjanatu. I resolved to check his phone for evidence of their interaction later.
I told him in a soft voice, “Since they came with Mufidah and made all that noise in the living room, it seems they have no manners—maybe they were coming from a club or after drinking.”
He shook his head. “That’s not music; it was Quranic recitation. And don’t judge someone just by appearances. Murjanatu is kind, generous, and pious; she gives charity, builds mosques and wells, and prays and fasts consistently. She may dress formally because of her European background, but she is upright. Don’t insult her.”
From that moment, I realized my earlier anger and insults toward older women like Murjanatu were completely wrong. I had been plotting, criticizing, and imagining conflicts—but she had done nothing to harm us. I knew now that I had to separate the women in my mind, handle the situation carefully, and protect my household.
Months later, one evening, Usman returned from work visibly upset. I could tell by his fatigued neck and wrinkled white shirt that he was furious. I panicked, thinking about what I might have done to upset him. I realized I hadn’t contacted anyone; I hadn’t meddled with his phone to call Murjanatu.
Usman glared at me, pointing toward Mufidah’s house. “Even as a joke, don’t go near that woman. Not at the stairway, not anywhere. Do you understand?”
Relieved, I nodded, “Insha Allah, sweet, as you say, that’s what we’ll do.”
He went to his room in anger, and I felt warmth and joy at how protective he was. I danced a little with the children as they cheered, preparing his food on the dining table. After bathing, he sat down in a light white jalabiya, eating, while I poured tea and joined him.
He glanced at me and remarked subtly about how often I had skipped meals. I understood—he knew my daily struggles. He began sharing about Murjanatu, explaining that she had come to his office to open a dollar account. One of her assistants had called him, but when she arrived, it was Mufidah who greeted him politely. He recounted that even in a room full of colleagues, Mufidah’s behavior was controlled and respectful.
I realized then how unjust my earlier suspicions had been. Murjanatu had done nothing wrong. My jealousy had almost destroyed peace at home.
Later, I continued strategizing solutions, praying, and consulting with Usman, who trusted my judgment. We agreed to pray and strengthen our bond through Quranic recitation, ensuring we remained protected from harm and deceit.