I got all the way back to class still thinking about what those words meant. Give me a chance: a chance to do what? A chance to prove what? Suddenly, I felt my head begin to ache. When I entered our class, I saw our teacher sitting on the teacher’s chair, resting his chin heavily on both hands in a sarcastic manner. I looked around and saw that the entire class was mimicking him. I didn’t even realize when I burst into laughter.
When he saw me, he stood up and said, “Ahh, she is finally back.” That was when I realized that the whole act had been waiting for me. He asked if I met him. I found myself lying and saying I didn’t see him, but that I gave his things to Mr. Victor to pass on to him—which was partly true. As I sat down, he asked again, “Are you really okay? You look pale and not as bright as the moon you are. Make sure you go to the clinic during your break.” I answered, “Yes, sir.” Since he was a humorous person, before break time came I had already forgotten everything that had happened between Ibrahim and me.
We were dismissed and I still hadn’t remembered anything, until I started packing my books to go to the hostel and saw my jotter with his writing on the front page. I quickly put it into my locker, locked it, and tossed the keys into my bag. Hafsat was already waiting for me so we could leave together. From the moment we left the class, Hafsat kept nagging me, insisting that I must tell her what happened in class. I told her I didn’t know, but she refused to let it go. We ate, prayed, I took my bath and dressed up, intending to go to the library, but she blocked my way and said I wasn’t going anywhere until I explained everything.
What Hafsat didn’t know was that I myself wanted to know what had happened more than she did—and I had no answers to any of her questions. I finally sat down, folded my hands on my thighs and asked, “What do you want to know?”
She said, “What is between you and the thin tall man?”
I replied, “Nothing more than what is between you and him.”
“But why was he staring at you like that, so much that when I spoke to him he didn’t hear? And how does he know your name when he never asked for our names?”
“Okay,” I said, raising my hand to stop her, and then I told her about our encounter in the library. I added, “I think that’s where he learned my name. Apart from that, there’s nothing between us.” She frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. “Okay, I believe you—for now. I just don’t want him looking at you like that.”
I smiled and said, “My dear sister, you once told me I could do whatever I wanted—nobody’s business.”
She stood up and said firmly, “I am your sister, and I don’t want any relationship between you and him.”
That evening after Maghrib, I was teasing Hafsat about a neighbor who had come asking for her and was told she wouldn’t come out. While I was teasing her and she was ignoring me, Amira arrived and informed us that the senior master had approved our night Islamic classes and that we would start that very night. Classes would be after Isha’i prayer until 9 p.m. She then looked at me teasingly and said, “Just don’t go and make us lose another teacher.”
I laughed and said, “Not a chance. We’ve made our peace—now we’re just friends.”
Amira replied, “So I noticed. Is friendship what caused that look earlier?”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start. You know if there was anything, you’d be the first to know.”
She said, “Insha Allah. Just be careful, my dear friend.”
Amira was a year ahead of Hafsat and two years ahead of me. She was the most calm and composed among us. From the very first time she met my mother, she approved of our friendship, and even their mothers became close. Amira was a beautiful dark-skinned Hausa girl—gentle, reserved, and well-mannered.
When we went for Islamic studies, I was amazed by Ibrahim’s recitation. I had never heard a recitation as beautiful as his. In his soft voice, he recited, and I felt it from my ears down to my toes. I wished he could continue forever. When he stopped, someone in class said, “Masha Allah.” I said it too—but only in my heart, because it was truly a great gift from Allah.
We recited together, then individually. To my surprise, when it was my turn, he didn’t show any sign that he knew me, nor did he call my name. When we were dismissed, he left first. We packed our books and came out. I stepped outside first because I was very sleepy. As I stood at the door waiting for Hafsat, yawning repeatedly, I sensed his scent. I turned around but saw no one, though I felt someone was watching me.
I heard him clear his throat. I quickly turned toward the sound and saw his silhouette against the wall. It was dark, but I knew it was him. His arms were folded across his chest. I turned as if to go back into the class when he said, “Are you afraid of me? Do you think I might steal you?”
I turned to face him but said nothing. He added, “I just wanted to say good night to you. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He turned to leave.
“Why?” I asked quickly.
He stopped and turned back, still in the darkness. “Why what?”
“Why do you feel the need to stay in the shadows, get me alone, and say good night to me?” I said, more forcefully than I intended.
Softly, he replied, “Your friend is here.” I turned quickly and saw Amira standing on the veranda, looking at me in surprise. “Moon, who are you talking to at this hour?”
I turned back to where he stood—he was gone. He had run away.
If he truly wanted friendship, why hide in the dark to talk to me? Why not come into the light where everyone could see him—or better still, talk to me openly in class?
We headed to the hostel, my mood ruined. This guy is playing games with me, I thought, and I’ll teach him a lesson. To make matters worse, we heard some SS3 girls chatting ahead of us. Hafsat, being curious, held our hands and we followed them quietly.
“Honestly, that guy is handsome.”
“You noticed too? He has looks, calmness, perfection—and both religious and Western education.”
“For me, it’s his voice. He looks like a gentleman—everything he does is calm.”
“Did you see his eyes? Oh my heart. When he looked at me during recitation, I forgot which surah we were on.” They burst into laughter.
“Well, if he likes someone, then all we can say is congratulations.”
I’d heard enough. I pulled my hand away from Hafsat and walked ahead quickly. In the room, I undressed and went to take a bath. When I returned, Hafsat was already animatedly telling Abigail and Naomi what happened, and they were laughing. Apparently, they were even planning how to talk to him about extra lessons to catch his attention. Hafsat tried to involve me in the conversation, but I refused to talk. I prayed and went to bed. I couldn’t describe what I was feeling—because I myself didn’t know.
The next day, Thursday, I didn’t see Ibrahim at all. We had no class with him, and there was no Islamic class. On Friday, I saw him at the assembly hall but avoided eye contact. He was in full NYSC uniform, and when I looked at him my heart skipped—I quickly looked away. We still had no class with him, and no Islamic studies.
During chemistry class, Ibrahim suddenly entered as if pushed in. He greeted the teacher and said, “I want to see one of your students, please.” The teacher agreed but asked him to be quick. The moment he said that, I knew it was me. When I looked up, he nodded at me and walked out. I had no choice but to follow him.
He stopped under a tree and I stood close to him. I didn’t greet him. He stayed silent for a while, looking uncomfortable and at a loss for words. His Adam’s apple moved, but he still couldn’t speak.
“Why am I here?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his hair. “You asked why I stayed to say good night that day, and today you asked why I wanted to see you. The answer to both questions is: I don’t know. I don’t seem to know anything anymore.”
I just stared at him. He noticed my look and swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry. I must sound like an idiot.”
“No,” I said quickly. “You don’t sound like an idiot—just confused.”
“Yes, I am confused. I’ve never been this confused in my entire life. Please tell me…” He leaned close, looking straight into my eyes. “What should I do?”
I looked into his eyes too—but whatever I saw made me quickly look away and say, “I don’t know.”
---
Episode Eleven: The Protector
“You’re a smart one—you must know something.” Before I could answer, Hafsat called my name loudly from the class. I turned and saw her standing at the door with our teacher.
“Good Lord,” Ibrahim muttered, stepping away from me. “Please meet me in the library after school. Please come.” He walked off, then realized he was heading toward the hostel, turned around again, and went toward the staff room.
I returned to class. At the door, the teacher asked what I did to the corper. I told him nothing.
“But he seems agitated. Are you sure you’re not in trouble with him?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I have no idea what he was talking about,” I replied honestly.
He looked at me for a long moment, saw I was telling the truth, and said, “Just be careful, Moon. If you ever feel he’s crossing the line, report to me or any senior staff.” I said, “Yes, sir.”
After school, I still hadn’t decided whether to go to the library. When the bell rang, I realized I still hadn’t made up my mind. Hafsat seemed to read my thoughts and sat beside me, her face serious.
“What did he say to you earlier?” she asked.
I ended up telling her everything that happened with Ibrahim. She nodded. “That’s what I expected. You’re not going anywhere today—not to class, not to the library. Green snake under green grass. Those quiet ones pretending to be saints—I don’t trust them.”
I knew she was trying to protect me, but her words about Ibrahim annoyed me. I stopped her. “He didn’t say anything bad, Hafsat. He just asked me to meet him in the library. It might not be what you’re thinking. Please let me go and hear him out.”
I pleaded, but she refused and practically dragged me back to the hostel. That day, my body and heart felt heavy. Deep down, I wanted to go—to know what he wanted and to clear my doubts—but Hafsat wouldn’t allow it.
The next morning at dawn, my heart was pounding because I knew we’d meet Ibrahim at Islamic class. Hafsat warned me sternly not to respond if he spoke to me. We prayed and went to class. As soon as he entered, I couldn’t lift my head. After greetings, he walked straight to my seat.
“Maimunatu.”
I slowly looked up. The anger in his eyes made me drop my gaze again without answering.
“Maimunatu, I am talking to you,” he said sharply.
My body started trembling. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry for what? I asked you to meet me yesterday, and you didn’t. Why?”
Tears began to fall and I started crying. He stared at me in shock. “Why are you crying? For God’s sake, I only asked a question.” His tone was harsh. I cried even harder—I hated being shouted at. Hafsat quickly said, “She was sick, sir. That’s why she couldn’t meet you.”
Even through my tears, I was shocked that Hafsat lied for me. I understood her motive—she wanted him to send me back to the hostel.
He bent down and asked softly, “Are you sick?” I shook my head.
“Do you want to go back to the hostel?” I shook my head again.
“Then stop crying, or I’ll have to send you back,” he said, raising his voice slightly—which only made me cry more.
He clicked his tongue. “That’s it. You’re going back to the hostel.” Hafsat stood up to escort me, but he stopped her and told her to stay since I said I was fine.
I left the class amid murmurs. After walking a short distance, I heard footsteps behind me. He grabbed my hand and pulled me quickly into an empty classroom, shutting the door and blocking it—all in seconds. I cried again, begging him to let me go. He folded his arms and said, “Do you want me to let you go?” I nodded. “Then stop crying like a baby. Why are you crying? What did I do to you?”
“You shouted at me,” I sobbed.
He laughed softly, shaking his head. That made me even angrier, so I covered my face and cried harder. He stepped closer, bent to my ear, and said softly, “I’m sorry for shouting. I promise I’ll never do it again.” I uncovered my face, pouting, wiping my tears. He handed me a handkerchief. I cleaned my face and looked up to see him smiling.
“Okay, cry-baby,” he said gently. “Tell me—why didn’t you come to the library?”
I looked out the window, saw it was getting bright, and remembered he had left his students waiting.
“We’ll talk about that later,” I said. “Your students are waiting. Time is running out.”
He frowned, then exclaimed, “Good Lord! I forgot them.” He rubbed his hair. “Just promise we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow, sir. Monday,” I replied.
“Why not tomorrow?”
“I don’t want to waste our Islamic class time. If you promise not to talk to me during class, we’ll talk on Monday.”
He paused, then said, “Okay, I promise.” I smiled and agreed.
He kept his promise and didn’t speak to me during Islamic class again. On Monday, during his lesson, he announced a discussion. He walked to my desk and sat on it, facing me and the class. He smiled at me; I dropped my gaze, feeling trapped. I couldn’t concentrate—his closeness and scent overwhelmed me.
“Maimunatu, are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied quickly.
Hafsat interrupted, “Sir, don’t you think you’re making her uncomfortable?”
The class fell silent.
“What makes you think so?” he asked. “She’s not complaining, is she?”
Hafsat looked him straight in the eye and said firmly, “I know she is uncomfortable—because she is my little sister.”
Episode Ten: I
I got all the way back to class still thinking about what those words meant. Give me a chance: a chance to do what? A chance to prove what? Suddenly, I felt my head begin to ache. When I entered our class, I saw our teacher sitting on the teacher’s chair, resting his chin heavily on both hands in a sarcastic manner. I looked around and saw that the entire class was mimicking him. I didn’t even realize when I burst into laughter.
When he saw me, he stood up and said, “Ahh, she is finally back.” That was when I realized that the whole act had been waiting for me. He asked if I met him. I found myself lying and saying I didn’t see him, but that I gave his things to Mr. Victor to pass on to him—which was partly true. As I sat down, he asked again, “Are you really okay? You look pale and not as bright as the moon you are. Make sure you go to the clinic during your break.” I answered, “Yes, sir.” Since he was a humorous person, before break time came I had already forgotten everything that had happened between Ibrahim and me.
We were dismissed and I still hadn’t remembered anything, until I started packing my books to go to the hostel and saw my jotter with his writing on the front page. I quickly put it into my locker, locked it, and tossed the keys into my bag. Hafsat was already waiting for me so we could leave together. From the moment we left the class, Hafsat kept nagging me, insisting that I must tell her what happened in class. I told her I didn’t know, but she refused to let it go. We ate, prayed, I took my bath and dressed up, intending to go to the library, but she blocked my way and said I wasn’t going anywhere until I explained everything.
What Hafsat didn’t know was that I myself wanted to know what had happened more than she did—and I had no answers to any of her questions. I finally sat down, folded my hands on my thighs and asked, “What do you want to know?”
She said, “What is between you and the thin tall man?”
I replied, “Nothing more than what is between you and him.”
“But why was he staring at you like that, so much that when I spoke to him he didn’t hear? And how does he know your name when he never asked for our names?”
“Okay,” I said, raising my hand to stop her, and then I told her about our encounter in the library. I added, “I think that’s where he learned my name. Apart from that, there’s nothing between us.” She frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. “Okay, I believe you—for now. I just don’t want him looking at you like that.”
I smiled and said, “My dear sister, you once told me I could do whatever I wanted—nobody’s business.”
She stood up and said firmly, “I am your sister, and I don’t want any relationship between you and him.”
That evening after Maghrib, I was teasing Hafsat about a neighbor who had come asking for her and was told she wouldn’t come out. While I was teasing her and she was ignoring me, Amira arrived and informed us that the senior master had approved our night Islamic classes and that we would start that very night. Classes would be after Isha’i prayer until 9 p.m. She then looked at me teasingly and said, “Just don’t go and make us lose another teacher.”
I laughed and said, “Not a chance. We’ve made our peace—now we’re just friends.”
Amira replied, “So I noticed. Is friendship what caused that look earlier?”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start. You know if there was anything, you’d be the first to know.”
She said, “Insha Allah. Just be careful, my dear friend.”
Amira was a year ahead of Hafsat and two years ahead of me. She was the most calm and composed among us. From the very first time she met my mother, she approved of our friendship, and even their mothers became close. Amira was a beautiful dark-skinned Hausa girl—gentle, reserved, and well-mannered.
When we went for Islamic studies, I was amazed by Ibrahim’s recitation. I had never heard a recitation as beautiful as his. In his soft voice, he recited, and I felt it from my ears down to my toes. I wished he could continue forever. When he stopped, someone in class said, “Masha Allah.” I said it too—but only in my heart, because it was truly a great gift from Allah.
We recited together, then individually. To my surprise, when it was my turn, he didn’t show any sign that he knew me, nor did he call my name. When we were dismissed, he left first. We packed our books and came out. I stepped outside first because I was very sleepy. As I stood at the door waiting for Hafsat, yawning repeatedly, I sensed his scent. I turned around but saw no one, though I felt someone was watching me.
I heard him clear his throat. I quickly turned toward the sound and saw his silhouette against the wall. It was dark, but I knew it was him. His arms were folded across his chest. I turned as if to go back into the class when he said, “Are you afraid of me? Do you think I might steal you?”
I turned to face him but said nothing. He added, “I just wanted to say good night to you. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He turned to leave.
“Why?” I asked quickly.
He stopped and turned back, still in the darkness. “Why what?”
“Why do you feel the need to stay in the shadows, get me alone, and say good night to me?” I said, more forcefully than I intended.
Softly, he replied, “Your friend is here.” I turned quickly and saw Amira standing on the veranda, looking at me in surprise. “Moon, who are you talking to at this hour?”
I turned back to where he stood—he was gone. He had run away.
If he truly wanted friendship, why hide in the dark to talk to me? Why not come into the light where everyone could see him—or better still, talk to me openly in class?
We headed to the hostel, my mood ruined. This guy is playing games with me, I thought, and I’ll teach him a lesson. To make matters worse, we heard some SS3 girls chatting ahead of us. Hafsat, being curious, held our hands and we followed them quietly.
“Honestly, that guy is handsome.”
“You noticed too? He has looks, calmness, perfection—and both religious and Western education.”
“For me, it’s his voice. He looks like a gentleman—everything he does is calm.”
“Did you see his eyes? Oh my heart. When he looked at me during recitation, I forgot which surah we were on.” They burst into laughter.
“Well, if he likes someone, then all we can say is congratulations.”
I’d heard enough. I pulled my hand away from Hafsat and walked ahead quickly. In the room, I undressed and went to take a bath. When I returned, Hafsat was already animatedly telling Abigail and Naomi what happened, and they were laughing. Apparently, they were even planning how to talk to him about extra lessons to catch his attention. Hafsat tried to involve me in the conversation, but I refused to talk. I prayed and went to bed. I couldn’t describe what I was feeling—because I myself didn’t know.
The next day, Thursday, I didn’t see Ibrahim at all. We had no class with him, and there was no Islamic class. On Friday, I saw him at the assembly hall but avoided eye contact. He was in full NYSC uniform, and when I looked at him my heart skipped—I quickly looked away. We still had no class with him, and no Islamic studies.
During chemistry class, Ibrahim suddenly entered as if pushed in. He greeted the teacher and said, “I want to see one of your students, please.” The teacher agreed but asked him to be quick. The moment he said that, I knew it was me. When I looked up, he nodded at me and walked out. I had no choice but to follow him.
He stopped under a tree and I stood close to him. I didn’t greet him. He stayed silent for a while, looking uncomfortable and at a loss for words. His Adam’s apple moved, but he still couldn’t speak.
“Why am I here?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his hair. “You asked why I stayed to say good night that day, and today you asked why I wanted to see you. The answer to both questions is: I don’t know. I don’t seem to know anything anymore.”
I just stared at him. He noticed my look and swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry. I must sound like an idiot.”
“No,” I said quickly. “You don’t sound like an idiot—just confused.”
“Yes, I am confused. I’ve never been this confused in my entire life. Please tell me…” He leaned close, looking straight into my eyes. “What should I do?”
I looked into his eyes too—but whatever I saw made me quickly look away and say, “I don’t know.”
---
Episode Eleven: The Protector
“You’re a smart one—you must know something.” Before I could answer, Hafsat called my name loudly from the class. I turned and saw her standing at the door with our teacher.
“Good Lord,” Ibrahim muttered, stepping away from me. “Please meet me in the library after school. Please come.” He walked off, then realized he was heading toward the hostel, turned around again, and went toward the staff room.
I returned to class. At the door, the teacher asked what I did to the corper. I told him nothing.
“But he seems agitated. Are you sure you’re not in trouble with him?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I have no idea what he was talking about,” I replied honestly.
He looked at me for a long moment, saw I was telling the truth, and said, “Just be careful, Moon. If you ever feel he’s crossing the line, report to me or any senior staff.” I said, “Yes, sir.”
After school, I still hadn’t decided whether to go to the library. When the bell rang, I realized I still hadn’t made up my mind. Hafsat seemed to read my thoughts and sat beside me, her face serious.
“What did he say to you earlier?” she asked.
I ended up telling her everything that happened with Ibrahim. She nodded. “That’s what I expected. You’re not going anywhere today—not to class, not to the library. Green snake under green grass. Those quiet ones pretending to be saints—I don’t trust them.”
I knew she was trying to protect me, but her words about Ibrahim annoyed me. I stopped her. “He didn’t say anything bad, Hafsat. He just asked me to meet him in the library. It might not be what you’re thinking. Please let me go and hear him out.”
I pleaded, but she refused and practically dragged me back to the hostel. That day, my body and heart felt heavy. Deep down, I wanted to go—to know what he wanted and to clear my doubts—but Hafsat wouldn’t allow it.
The next morning at dawn, my heart was pounding because I knew we’d meet Ibrahim at Islamic class. Hafsat warned me sternly not to respond if he spoke to me. We prayed and went to class. As soon as he entered, I couldn’t lift my head. After greetings, he walked straight to my seat.
“Maimunatu.”
I slowly looked up. The anger in his eyes made me drop my gaze again without answering.
“Maimunatu, I am talking to you,” he said sharply.
My body started trembling. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry for what? I asked you to meet me yesterday, and you didn’t. Why?”
Tears began to fall and I started crying. He stared at me in shock. “Why are you crying? For God’s sake, I only asked a question.” His tone was harsh. I cried even harder—I hated being shouted at. Hafsat quickly said, “She was sick, sir. That’s why she couldn’t meet you.”
Even through my tears, I was shocked that Hafsat lied for me. I understood her motive—she wanted him to send me back to the hostel.
He bent down and asked softly, “Are you sick?” I shook my head.
“Do you want to go back to the hostel?” I shook my head again.
“Then stop crying, or I’ll have to send you back,” he said, raising his voice slightly—which only made me cry more.
He clicked his tongue. “That’s it. You’re going back to the hostel.” Hafsat stood up to escort me, but he stopped her and told her to stay since I said I was fine.
I left the class amid murmurs. After walking a short distance, I heard footsteps behind me. He grabbed my hand and pulled me quickly into an empty classroom, shutting the door and blocking it—all in seconds. I cried again, begging him to let me go. He folded his arms and said, “Do you want me to let you go?” I nodded. “Then stop crying like a baby. Why are you crying? What did I do to you?”
“You shouted at me,” I sobbed.
He laughed softly, shaking his head. That made me even angrier, so I covered my face and cried harder. He stepped closer, bent to my ear, and said softly, “I’m sorry for shouting. I promise I’ll never do it again.” I uncovered my face, pouting, wiping my tears. He handed me a handkerchief. I cleaned my face and looked up to see him smiling.
“Okay, cry-baby,” he said gently. “Tell me—why didn’t you come to the library?”
I looked out the window, saw it was getting bright, and remembered he had left his students waiting.
“We’ll talk about that later,” I said. “Your students are waiting. Time is running out.”
He frowned, then exclaimed, “Good Lord! I forgot them.” He rubbed his hair. “Just promise we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow, sir. Monday,” I replied.
“Why not tomorrow?”
“I don’t want to waste our Islamic class time. If you promise not to talk to me during class, we’ll talk on Monday.”
He paused, then said, “Okay, I promise.” I smiled and agreed.
He kept his promise and didn’t speak to me during Islamic class again. On Monday, during his lesson, he announced a discussion. He walked to my desk and sat on it, facing me and the class. He smiled at me; I dropped my gaze, feeling trapped. I couldn’t concentrate—his closeness and scent overwhelmed me.
“Maimunatu, are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied quickly.
Hafsat interrupted, “Sir, don’t you think you’re making her uncomfortable?”
The class fell silent.
“What makes you think so?” he asked. “She’s not complaining, is she?”
Hafsat looked him straight in the eye and said firmly, “I know she is uncomfortable—because she is my little sister.”