“…Oh oh, Baba, what is all this long talk? Isn’t your mouth tired? Please forgive me, I respect your old age in my heart even though I am not seeing you face to face. But I have a message for you. Go and tell the one who sent you: is he afraid of Samraah Abdul-wahab Gwarzo? Or is he not man enough and hiding behind your old age to threaten me? If he is close to you, let him open his ears wide and listen carefully; if he is not, record this message for him. I, Samraah Abdul-wahab Gwarzo, did not make that video to issue threats. If what he wants is for us to meet, then let us meet before the authorities. And if he thinks he is strong, let him come and face me directly. But let him know this: if he so much as lays a finger on anyone from my family, that video will be released to the world. So the choice is his. Wake up from this deep sleep of yours. I leave you in peace.”
With that, I ended the call before he could. The man who brought me the phone stared at me angrily, but I ignored him and turned away. The phone rang again; he quickly answered and put it to his ear. I didn’t know what was said, but I saw him glare at me again before turning and walking out. I followed him with my eyes, smacking my lips in irritation. Then I lay down, my heart boiling with rage. Still, on one side I felt a little relieved—at least I had gotten a thread of information about who was behind bringing me here. Many suspicions crossed my mind, especially people from my own household.
I slept heavily that afternoon. I had nothing else to do now except eat and lie down. Sometimes, when I got tired of staying in one place, I would walk around the room or do a bit of exercise, because I noticed I had started gaining a little weight—unlike when I was first brought here, when I barely ate and only cried. Realizing that destroying myself would only hurt my loved ones made me start eating again, since I know I cannot change what is written in destiny. With the little strength I had regained, I knew I could confront him even if it meant my last breath—but I would start with the man who brought my food today. Still, my heart warned me against acting rashly, so I planned a new strategy, praying for success, though I would first try the initial plan.
As usual, I gathered my courage, took a warm bath, dressed, and returned to lie on the mattress because I felt dizzy and needed to rest. While lying there as if asleep, I heard someone trying to open the door. I quickly lay flat. He entered and locked the door behind him, then stood in the middle of the room. I slightly opened my eyes downward so I could see him clearly. He was staring at the bathroom door—I knew why, because I had left the shower head loose and water was dripping. I saw him crouch, touch the water on the floor with two fingers, then hurriedly set down the food bag and head to the toilet to deal with the water.
“Is everything okay, what happened?” I asked softly.
He didn’t answer and didn’t stop. I smiled and sat up, following him. I found him crouched, trying to block the water outlet with one hand, while pressing the shower pipe with the other and stuffing his thumb inside to stop the flow—though it was still leaking slightly. I used the opportunity to come closer and said, “I’ve been calling you since morning to come and check this, but you didn’t answer.”
He briefly turned to look at me, then focused back on what he was doing. I crouched as if to pull out the bucket where I soaked clothes, and successfully slipped his phone out. Quickly, I hid it inside my clothes, pulled the bucket away, and left. I returned to the mattress and lay down, though my heart was pounding furiously in my chest. I prayed desperately that he would leave before realizing his phone was missing. He didn’t leave until almost ten minutes later. Without looking back, he headed for the exit. Trembling, I heard him lock the door from outside—meaning he had gone.
I pulled out the phone. I was relieved to see it had no password. With shaking hands, I dialed Yaya Musaddiq’s number. It rang until it cut off—no answer. My panic grew; my body trembled. I tried again, watching the door anxiously. It rang again, nearly cutting off, when he finally answered. The way he greeted me, sounding worried, made my eyes fill with tears. With a trembling voice on the verge of crying, I said, “Yaya Musaddiq, it’s me. It’s your younger sister. Please, for Allah’s sake, come and rescue me before I die. Yaya, I’m not well—this sickness will kill me. They brought me here and hid me; all they do is give me food…”
Suddenly, the phone was snatched from my hand. A hand was raised to slap me, but whatever crossed his mind made him stop abruptly. I had already curled up tightly, eyes shut, fearing the blow. When I didn’t feel the slap, I opened my eyes and saw him trying to leave the room. I jumped up and ran toward the door, but just as I was about to reach it, he slammed it shut. I collapsed there, crying pitifully, a heartbreaking cry. I lay there for almost two minutes; he hadn’t gone far before he returned in a rush. I felt a handkerchief pressed against my face. Like that other day, I tried to struggle, but whatever they had drugged me with overpowered me. In the blink of an eye, I slumped to the floor—and after that, I knew nothing.
---
✨●●)(●●)(●●)(●●✨
Yaya Musaddiq and Mansoor were completely shaken; they didn’t even realize the call had ended, because they were together in the car when Samraah called. At first, Mansoor wasn’t watching Musaddiq closely—until he suddenly jolted, shouting Samraah’s name, his whole body trembling violently. Mansoor grabbed his own phone too, shaking as he tried to call her. Musaddiq called again. Both were frantic and confused, until the silence dragged on and they slowly came back to their senses. Only then did they realize the call had cut off.
Hot tears poured from Musaddiq’s eyes—he loved his sister deeply. Mansoor’s eyes were also full of tears, but he forced himself to open the car door and step out. Suddenly, Musaddiq grabbed his phone again just as Mansoor got out, remembering they needed to call the D.C.O. He called, but there was no answer. Panicking, he kept calling—three missed calls. He jumped out of the car and found Mansoor leaning against it, eyes shut. Quickly he said, “I called the D.C.O. but he didn’t answer. I think we should go to the police station and inform him.”
Mansoor nodded, suddenly energized. “That’s right, Yaya. Honestly, my head is spinning—I don’t know what to do. Let me call Yaya Attahir to reach him, since they’re friends.”
Musaddiq agreed. In no time, Mansoor updated his brother on the situation, and they headed for the police station. Mansoor drove fast, and they arrived quickly. The D.C.O. wasn’t there, but Yaya Attahir called to say he had spoken to him on the phone and that he was on his way. They waited anxiously. About fifteen minutes later, he arrived. Seeing their distress, he attended to them immediately. They explained everything as Attahir had already briefed him, which was why he had rushed back. He took Musaddiq’s phone and ordered his officer to extract the number immediately and begin tracing it. The officer complied and hurried out.
---
Beloved readers, I remind you not to miss the ZAFAFA BIYAR 2024 tour. This time, everything is special—new year, new format like never before.
ONE: 400
TWO: 700
THREE: 900
FOUR: 1200
BANK NAME: KEYSTONE
ACC NO: 6019473875
ACC NAME: MUSAA ABDULLAH SAFIYAH
Send proof to: 09166221261
If paying via MTN/VTU card, send proof to: 09134848107
For Niger Republic readers, use this number:
09033181070
Don’t let ZAFAFA BIYAR happen without you!
Welcome and thank you to ZAFAFA BIYAR fans 💖💯💖 May Allah increase our provision… ZAFAFA BIYAR is yours 💃
Oh Allah, forgive our parents 😭🙏
Typing… 📲
*🐛TSUTSAR NAMA…!!🐛*
(It too is flesh)
Bilyn Abdull ce 🤙🏻
Page thirty-five
---
…In extreme haste and panic, he followed his boss’s orders. He drugged her again and carried her to the car. He returned and packed everything that belonged to her— even the clothes soaking for laundry—leaving only the mattress behind. In less than ten minutes, he left the house with her and all her belongings, speeding toward the location his boss had ordered.
While driving, a message came in. Knowing the phone was linked to only one person, he slammed the brakes and pulled over on a quiet roadside in a new outskirts neighborhood. His eyes widened when he read the message from his boss. In a rush, he removed the phone cover, pulled out the battery, removed the SIM card, broke it into four pieces, and threw it away. He slumped over the steering wheel, releasing a heavy breath. After nearly two minutes, he looked back at Samraah lying motionless like a doll. Biting his lip, he turned away.
As he tried to start the car again, someone knocked on the window. He glanced over nervously—the car had tinted windows. He knew the person couldn’t see him clearly, but he could see them. Seeing no sign of being security, he slowly lowered the window. A young man about his age leaned slightly and said, “Good evening, sir. Is everything okay? No problem, I hope?”
He forced a smile. “Good evening. No problem at all, I just stopped to answer a call. I’m done now.”
“Alright, mashallah. I was worried there might be an issue. May Allah protect your journey.”
He thanked him and tried to raise the window when suddenly the door was opened from his side and someone entered. He turned sharply. It was a huge man dressed in black like him. Even in a dream, he knew he could never overpower him. Still, he asked, “Sir, what’s wrong?”
“She’s the reason,” the man said coldly, pulling the car key and ordering, “Get out and move to the back.”
“What do you mean? You enter my car without explanation and tell me to get out—who are you?”
The man didn’t answer. He simply pulled out a gun and pressed it against his stomach. The young man stared at it, trying to hide his terror. “Sir, why a gun?”
No reply. The finger moved toward the trigger. He quickly opened the door and stepped out, heart pounding. He froze when he saw two black SUVs and Samraah being moved into one, surrounded by armed men. With no weapon and outnumbered, he was forced into the back of a vehicle. Soon, he was drugged as well and fell asleep instantly.
He woke later in a place he didn’t recognize—alone in a room. Panic rose. He realized they weren’t police. Had his boss set him up? Why? (Maybe to destroy him completely?) His head throbbed; his body felt heavy. Dizzy, he lay back down and closed his eyes.
---
On Yaya Musaddiq’s side, the traced number revealed their location. The D.C.O. immediately mobilized his men. Despite insisting Mansoor and Musaddiq stay behind, they begged to follow. Knowing they might follow secretly anyway—which was dangerous—he allowed them along. After about three minutes of driving, the line went dead. The officer informed the D.C.O.
“Sir, there’s a problem. It seems they noticed us; the line stopped working. That means the SIM was removed. If it were still in the phone—even if destroyed—we would find them.”
The D.C.O. stayed firm. “Proceed to where the signal stopped.”
They arrived in about thirty minutes at a remote edge of town. Only a car was there—no people. Police surrounded it with guns. The leader called the D.C.O. to report they had found the car but weren’t sure if anyone was inside. They searched carefully—no one, only Samraah’s belongings, including the soaked laundry. They found the broken SIM card by the roadside. Hot tears streamed down Musaddiq’s face. Mansoor leaned against the police car, clearly crying too. It was obvious—the kidnappers had escaped again with Samraah.
They towed the car to the station. Other officers searched the nearby bush and village, suspecting the kidnappers had fled there. At the station, officers tried to console Musaddiq. Phone company records were requested to track everything done with the line since purchase. The D.C.O. assured them that, God willing, she would be found. Though not satisfied, they had no choice but to wait for the next day’s information.
---
When I woke from the deep sleep whose beginning I couldn’t recall, all I could see was the ceiling above me—proof I wasn’t in a small house. The paint and structure alone showed that. I lay there for a long time before moving weakly. I was on a mattress, not a bed—one of those thick floor mattresses. Slowly, everything returned to me in detail: calling Yaya Musaddiq, the phone being snatched, the drug… So they moved me here to avoid exposure. That meant there was no hope of returning to my family. Hot tears rolled down my face. My wedding was only eight days away. I knew none of my loved ones had peace of mind—especially Yaya Musaddiq, Mansoor, Hafizzullah.
Sudden pain twisted my abdomen—it was my period. Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. This was a problem. Who would take care of me here? I suffer badly during it and need injections; sometimes even those don’t work. That’s why I secretly take medication to delay it. No mother to notice, no one knows my condition. I’ve lived with it for a long time—almost five months now without menstruation because I never miss the medication when I sense the time approaching. If I had it now, I could just take the medicine and it wouldn’t come. When the pain eased slightly, I opened my eyes and struggled to sit up.
The room was large but empty except for the mattress. I staggered to the windows but could see nothing—only faint voices outside. I went to what I thought was the door and began pounding and crying. I beat on it desperately, certain it would disturb them—but those villains acted deaf. The pain intensified; my strength faded until I slid down the door to the floor. I was drenched in sweat, shaking, crying uncontrollably, calling on Allah and praying that Yaya Musaddiq would come and rescue me… ✍️
“…Oh oh, Baba, what is all this long talk? Isn’t your mouth tired? Please forgive me, I respect your old age in my heart even though I am not seeing you face to face. But I have a message for you. Go and tell the one who sent you: is he afraid of Samraah Abdul-wahab Gwarzo? Or is he not man enough and hiding behind your old age to threaten me? If he is close to you, let him open his ears wide and listen carefully; if he is not, record this message for him. I, Samraah Abdul-wahab Gwarzo, did not make that video to issue threats. If what he wants is for us to meet, then let us meet before the authorities. And if he thinks he is strong, let him come and face me directly. But let him know this: if he so much as lays a finger on anyone from my family, that video will be released to the world. So the choice is his. Wake up from this deep sleep of yours. I leave you in peace.”
With that, I ended the call before he could. The man who brought me the phone stared at me angrily, but I ignored him and turned away. The phone rang again; he quickly answered and put it to his ear. I didn’t know what was said, but I saw him glare at me again before turning and walking out. I followed him with my eyes, smacking my lips in irritation. Then I lay down, my heart boiling with rage. Still, on one side I felt a little relieved—at least I had gotten a thread of information about who was behind bringing me here. Many suspicions crossed my mind, especially people from my own household.
I slept heavily that afternoon. I had nothing else to do now except eat and lie down. Sometimes, when I got tired of staying in one place, I would walk around the room or do a bit of exercise, because I noticed I had started gaining a little weight—unlike when I was first brought here, when I barely ate and only cried. Realizing that destroying myself would only hurt my loved ones made me start eating again, since I know I cannot change what is written in destiny. With the little strength I had regained, I knew I could confront him even if it meant my last breath—but I would start with the man who brought my food today. Still, my heart warned me against acting rashly, so I planned a new strategy, praying for success, though I would first try the initial plan.
As usual, I gathered my courage, took a warm bath, dressed, and returned to lie on the mattress because I felt dizzy and needed to rest. While lying there as if asleep, I heard someone trying to open the door. I quickly lay flat. He entered and locked the door behind him, then stood in the middle of the room. I slightly opened my eyes downward so I could see him clearly. He was staring at the bathroom door—I knew why, because I had left the shower head loose and water was dripping. I saw him crouch, touch the water on the floor with two fingers, then hurriedly set down the food bag and head to the toilet to deal with the water.
“Is everything okay, what happened?” I asked softly.
He didn’t answer and didn’t stop. I smiled and sat up, following him. I found him crouched, trying to block the water outlet with one hand, while pressing the shower pipe with the other and stuffing his thumb inside to stop the flow—though it was still leaking slightly. I used the opportunity to come closer and said, “I’ve been calling you since morning to come and check this, but you didn’t answer.”
He briefly turned to look at me, then focused back on what he was doing. I crouched as if to pull out the bucket where I soaked clothes, and successfully slipped his phone out. Quickly, I hid it inside my clothes, pulled the bucket away, and left. I returned to the mattress and lay down, though my heart was pounding furiously in my chest. I prayed desperately that he would leave before realizing his phone was missing. He didn’t leave until almost ten minutes later. Without looking back, he headed for the exit. Trembling, I heard him lock the door from outside—meaning he had gone.
I pulled out the phone. I was relieved to see it had no password. With shaking hands, I dialed Yaya Musaddiq’s number. It rang until it cut off—no answer. My panic grew; my body trembled. I tried again, watching the door anxiously. It rang again, nearly cutting off, when he finally answered. The way he greeted me, sounding worried, made my eyes fill with tears. With a trembling voice on the verge of crying, I said, “Yaya Musaddiq, it’s me. It’s your younger sister. Please, for Allah’s sake, come and rescue me before I die. Yaya, I’m not well—this sickness will kill me. They brought me here and hid me; all they do is give me food…”
Suddenly, the phone was snatched from my hand. A hand was raised to slap me, but whatever crossed his mind made him stop abruptly. I had already curled up tightly, eyes shut, fearing the blow. When I didn’t feel the slap, I opened my eyes and saw him trying to leave the room. I jumped up and ran toward the door, but just as I was about to reach it, he slammed it shut. I collapsed there, crying pitifully, a heartbreaking cry. I lay there for almost two minutes; he hadn’t gone far before he returned in a rush. I felt a handkerchief pressed against my face. Like that other day, I tried to struggle, but whatever they had drugged me with overpowered me. In the blink of an eye, I slumped to the floor—and after that, I knew nothing.
---
✨●●)(●●)(●●)(●●✨
Yaya Musaddiq and Mansoor were completely shaken; they didn’t even realize the call had ended, because they were together in the car when Samraah called. At first, Mansoor wasn’t watching Musaddiq closely—until he suddenly jolted, shouting Samraah’s name, his whole body trembling violently. Mansoor grabbed his own phone too, shaking as he tried to call her. Musaddiq called again. Both were frantic and confused, until the silence dragged on and they slowly came back to their senses. Only then did they realize the call had cut off.
Hot tears poured from Musaddiq’s eyes—he loved his sister deeply. Mansoor’s eyes were also full of tears, but he forced himself to open the car door and step out. Suddenly, Musaddiq grabbed his phone again just as Mansoor got out, remembering they needed to call the D.C.O. He called, but there was no answer. Panicking, he kept calling—three missed calls. He jumped out of the car and found Mansoor leaning against it, eyes shut. Quickly he said, “I called the D.C.O. but he didn’t answer. I think we should go to the police station and inform him.”
Mansoor nodded, suddenly energized. “That’s right, Yaya. Honestly, my head is spinning—I don’t know what to do. Let me call Yaya Attahir to reach him, since they’re friends.”
Musaddiq agreed. In no time, Mansoor updated his brother on the situation, and they headed for the police station. Mansoor drove fast, and they arrived quickly. The D.C.O. wasn’t there, but Yaya Attahir called to say he had spoken to him on the phone and that he was on his way. They waited anxiously. About fifteen minutes later, he arrived. Seeing their distress, he attended to them immediately. They explained everything as Attahir had already briefed him, which was why he had rushed back. He took Musaddiq’s phone and ordered his officer to extract the number immediately and begin tracing it. The officer complied and hurried out.
---
Beloved readers, I remind you not to miss the ZAFAFA BIYAR 2024 tour. This time, everything is special—new year, new format like never before.
ONE: 400
TWO: 700
THREE: 900
FOUR: 1200
BANK NAME: KEYSTONE
ACC NO: 6019473875
ACC NAME: MUSAA ABDULLAH SAFIYAH
Send proof to: 09166221261
If paying via MTN/VTU card, send proof to: 09134848107
For Niger Republic readers, use this number:
09033181070
Don’t let ZAFAFA BIYAR happen without you!
Welcome and thank you to ZAFAFA BIYAR fans 💖💯💖 May Allah increase our provision… ZAFAFA BIYAR is yours 💃
Oh Allah, forgive our parents 😭🙏
Typing… 📲
*🐛TSUTSAR NAMA…!!🐛*
(It too is flesh)
Bilyn Abdull ce 🤙🏻
Page thirty-five
---
…In extreme haste and panic, he followed his boss’s orders. He drugged her again and carried her to the car. He returned and packed everything that belonged to her— even the clothes soaking for laundry—leaving only the mattress behind. In less than ten minutes, he left the house with her and all her belongings, speeding toward the location his boss had ordered.
While driving, a message came in. Knowing the phone was linked to only one person, he slammed the brakes and pulled over on a quiet roadside in a new outskirts neighborhood. His eyes widened when he read the message from his boss. In a rush, he removed the phone cover, pulled out the battery, removed the SIM card, broke it into four pieces, and threw it away. He slumped over the steering wheel, releasing a heavy breath. After nearly two minutes, he looked back at Samraah lying motionless like a doll. Biting his lip, he turned away.
As he tried to start the car again, someone knocked on the window. He glanced over nervously—the car had tinted windows. He knew the person couldn’t see him clearly, but he could see them. Seeing no sign of being security, he slowly lowered the window. A young man about his age leaned slightly and said, “Good evening, sir. Is everything okay? No problem, I hope?”
He forced a smile. “Good evening. No problem at all, I just stopped to answer a call. I’m done now.”
“Alright, mashallah. I was worried there might be an issue. May Allah protect your journey.”
He thanked him and tried to raise the window when suddenly the door was opened from his side and someone entered. He turned sharply. It was a huge man dressed in black like him. Even in a dream, he knew he could never overpower him. Still, he asked, “Sir, what’s wrong?”
“She’s the reason,” the man said coldly, pulling the car key and ordering, “Get out and move to the back.”
“What do you mean? You enter my car without explanation and tell me to get out—who are you?”
The man didn’t answer. He simply pulled out a gun and pressed it against his stomach. The young man stared at it, trying to hide his terror. “Sir, why a gun?”
No reply. The finger moved toward the trigger. He quickly opened the door and stepped out, heart pounding. He froze when he saw two black SUVs and Samraah being moved into one, surrounded by armed men. With no weapon and outnumbered, he was forced into the back of a vehicle. Soon, he was drugged as well and fell asleep instantly.
He woke later in a place he didn’t recognize—alone in a room. Panic rose. He realized they weren’t police. Had his boss set him up? Why? (Maybe to destroy him completely?) His head throbbed; his body felt heavy. Dizzy, he lay back down and closed his eyes.
---
On Yaya Musaddiq’s side, the traced number revealed their location. The D.C.O. immediately mobilized his men. Despite insisting Mansoor and Musaddiq stay behind, they begged to follow. Knowing they might follow secretly anyway—which was dangerous—he allowed them along. After about three minutes of driving, the line went dead. The officer informed the D.C.O.
“Sir, there’s a problem. It seems they noticed us; the line stopped working. That means the SIM was removed. If it were still in the phone—even if destroyed—we would find them.”
The D.C.O. stayed firm. “Proceed to where the signal stopped.”
They arrived in about thirty minutes at a remote edge of town. Only a car was there—no people. Police surrounded it with guns. The leader called the D.C.O. to report they had found the car but weren’t sure if anyone was inside. They searched carefully—no one, only Samraah’s belongings, including the soaked laundry. They found the broken SIM card by the roadside. Hot tears streamed down Musaddiq’s face. Mansoor leaned against the police car, clearly crying too. It was obvious—the kidnappers had escaped again with Samraah.
They towed the car to the station. Other officers searched the nearby bush and village, suspecting the kidnappers had fled there. At the station, officers tried to console Musaddiq. Phone company records were requested to track everything done with the line since purchase. The D.C.O. assured them that, God willing, she would be found. Though not satisfied, they had no choice but to wait for the next day’s information.
---
When I woke from the deep sleep whose beginning I couldn’t recall, all I could see was the ceiling above me—proof I wasn’t in a small house. The paint and structure alone showed that. I lay there for a long time before moving weakly. I was on a mattress, not a bed—one of those thick floor mattresses. Slowly, everything returned to me in detail: calling Yaya Musaddiq, the phone being snatched, the drug… So they moved me here to avoid exposure. That meant there was no hope of returning to my family. Hot tears rolled down my face. My wedding was only eight days away. I knew none of my loved ones had peace of mind—especially Yaya Musaddiq, Mansoor, Hafizzullah.
Sudden pain twisted my abdomen—it was my period. Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. This was a problem. Who would take care of me here? I suffer badly during it and need injections; sometimes even those don’t work. That’s why I secretly take medication to delay it. No mother to notice, no one knows my condition. I’ve lived with it for a long time—almost five months now without menstruation because I never miss the medication when I sense the time approaching. If I had it now, I could just take the medicine and it wouldn’t come. When the pain eased slightly, I opened my eyes and struggled to sit up.
The room was large but empty except for the mattress. I staggered to the windows but could see nothing—only faint voices outside. I went to what I thought was the door and began pounding and crying. I beat on it desperately, certain it would disturb them—but those villains acted deaf. The pain intensified; my strength faded until I slid down the door to the floor. I was drenched in sweat, shaking, crying uncontrollably, calling on Allah and praying that Yaya Musaddiq would come and rescue me… ✍️