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As usual, Mansoor was the one who took me home again today. When I entered, I found the house completely quiet. I didn’t meet anyone, so I went straight into the room. I found my younger sibling asleep, his books scattered beside him—clearly homework had overtaken him while he slept. I lifted him and placed him properly on the mattress. Then I gathered his books and set them aside after checking what he had been working on. The boy is intelligent. If not for me, there’d be no one to bother about teaching him homework—except Abba. Sometimes he even does it himself before I return; I only need to make a few corrections.
I tried to take my bath, but the bathroom was messed up. I knew it was Bibaa’s doing—no one else. I don’t know what my issue is with that girl, but I’ll teach her sense. She has her own room, but out of pure mischief she claims she’s afraid to sleep there, so Abba said she should come and stay here until she grows up. At first, I thought it was genuine, but later I realized Mom was the one who instructed her so she could report all my movements to them. I understood this clearly the day I heard her telling Mom about a phone call Mansoor and I had.
I cleaned the bathroom again and took my bath. Even after I came out and dressed, I still didn’t hear anyone. The living room wasn’t too dirty today, so I went into the kitchen. It was piled with dirty dishes—from morning cups to lunch plates. I shook my head in pity for Bibaa and Baby. Mom thinks she’s pampering them, not knowing she’s actually ruining their lives. This is how things are every day in the house. If I do the morning chores and leave, nothing gets cleaned until I return. If I hadn’t hardened my heart, I’d also have to cook lunch and keep it warm for them. It was only after I showed them I could be tough that they stopped expecting food. Now, there’s never lunch in the house—except noodles, couscous, macaroni, or Indomie. Only if there’s stew will you see white rice, and even that stew is usually cooked by me. Mom refuses to hire a house help out of jealousy, saying when I get married then my husband can bring one.
I started washing the dishes; my legs became sore from standing, but I endured and finished everything, putting things back in place and cleaning the kitchen. I cooked two small packs of Indomie, split them in half, ate my portion there, and served my younger sibling his on a plate. Still, no one had returned. I was surprised and wondered where they had gone.
Until Maghrib prayer, it was only the two of us in the house. After the prayer, Abba came in. My younger sibling and I went out to greet him. I brought him water and returned to my room, leaving them in the living room. They went for Isha’i prayer. I was about to start mine when I heard Mom and the others entering. I didn’t stop my prayer. I finished including Shaf’i and Witr, then came out to greet them. I found clothes scattered all over the living room—clothes, accessories, and snacks—clearly they had come from the market.
Seeing they weren’t paying attention to me (Mom barely responded to my greeting), I turned back in surprise. It was obvious they had used the money Yaya gave yesterday for this shopping. My heart burned with anger, so I walked past them. They were only shouting happily over their purchases.
I went to Yaya Musaddiq’s room. He was standing, looking like he had just returned from the mosque. Seeing my upset face, he asked, “Are you okay?”
I shook my head and sat down. Angrily, I said, “Honestly, Yaya, that necklace money issue was just a joke. Do you know that woman went shopping today with her children? They’ve spread goods all over the living room like they’re opening a shop. You know there’s no way this would happen without Mom wasting that necklace money. It’s true.”
Yaya Musaddiq smiled calmly and sat beside me. Holding my hand gently, he said, “Cool down, sweetheart. They’re downstairs. Didn’t I tell you to beware of people who dig pits of wickedness? I knew even if the necklace was taken, it wouldn’t cost as much as she claimed. But no problem—Allah will give us more. Abba just left this room.”
“What happened? Did he come here?” I asked, surprised.
He stood up, smacking his lips lightly, removed his jallabiya, and sat back down in trousers and a white T-shirt. “He came to tell me that since I have money, I should be the one handling everything about your marriage. He’s genuinely worried about money. That’s why he refused to fix a date when Mansoor’s parents came. But if he had known I had this money, everything would’ve been settled. So he plans to call them this weekend to fix the date. I also lent him 200k for some time; he’ll pay me back.”
“Ha! That man! What exactly is Abba’s problem? Even if he didn’t say it, who expects anything from him—useless effort. And you actually agreed to lend him money, Yaya?”
Yaya Musaddiq smiled and laughed softly, shaking his head. “This girl is something else, wallahi. People who don’t know you think you’re patient. Honestly, I’ve started pitying Mansoor—he’s gentle and soft-hearted.”
I pouted and said, “Yaya, am I the troublesome one?”
“She should be splashed on newspaper headlines. Sometimes when you talk, I feel like you’re my elder sister. That’s why Hafizzullah says if you were our mother, we’d be in serious trouble.”
We both burst into laughter. I said, “That boy is mischievous. Please, Yaya, this weekend let’s go see him since the last one passed. I miss him.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll go, in shaa Allah. I’ve already finished buying his things.”
Happily, I said, “Thank you, our big brother and father. So what did you tell Abba?”
Smiling, he said, “I told him the money I gave Mom yesterday was all I had, and what remained wasn’t more than forty thousand. I even removed some to buy Hafizzullah provisions. I had saved that money to give him and Mom to reduce wedding expenses. But now look at what happened. I told him that’s all. He got angry, saying he’d find money elsewhere because he has none for the wedding, and if not, they’d just send you to your husband like that. He goes out and comes back without bringing anything.”
I laughed uncontrollably, even lying down with tears. Yaya stared at me until he asked, “Samraah, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, wallahi. The show was just too entertaining. They wanted to eat for free. It didn’t work, so it ended in embarrassment. Who told him I care about going with furniture? They shouldn’t even buy a spoon—who’ll be ashamed?”
“Your talk is nonsense, Allah forgive you,” Yaya said, shaking his head.
I quickly replied, “But it’s true, Yaya. I don’t care about furniture or not. Don’t Mansoor and I love each other?”
“No shame—you’re saying that in front of me.”
I covered my face laughing, and he joined me.
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The next day, after finishing my chores, I dressed and came out to find Abba in the living room. I greeted him; he didn’t respond. I adjusted my clothes and left. Yaya drove me, and I told him everything, laughing. He just smiled and said, “May Allah make it easy.”
Life continued in Abba’s house—no sweetness, only patience with God. Work outside was hectic. As planned, we traveled to Katsina on Saturday to see Hafizzullah. Mom deliberately showed her displeasure and tried to incite Abba to stop us, but Yaya stood firm. We went anyway.
Hafizzullah was extremely happy to see us—he even cried with joy. He’d grown thin from school. I teased him as usual, and we spent the day together. When we were about to leave for the lodge, he insisted on spending the night with us. We chatted until midnight. Later, he went to Yaya’s room, while I stayed alone, talking on the phone with Mansoor, who told me everything was set and that the date would be fixed tomorrow, in shaa Allah. I felt mixed emotions, but deep down I was happy—at least I’d gain my freedom and help my siblings. Hafizzullah would live with me, in shaa Allah, and Yaya would continue pressing for marriage.
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The next day, as Mansoor said, on our way back home he sent me a message full of thanks to Allah, informing me that only one month had been fixed—thirty days, and I’d become his wife, in shaa Allah. I’d observe Ramadan in his house. Even though I was happy, I didn’t reply because I was in a bad mood over leaving Hafizzullah. He cried when we left him.
At home, we found the living room full of sweets, biscuits, drinks, kolanuts, and two suitcases. No one spoke to me about them, and I didn’t ask either. My younger sibling said Uncle Mansoor told him they were mine. Baby was sulking, obviously after crying. I ignored her.
On Monday, I went to work early. After returning, I met Gwaggo Gudidi, who had come from Dawanau. She’s our grandaunt. She doesn’t visit often due to Mom’s disrespect. Abba doesn’t let us visit her either, but Yaya does now that he’s independent. He invited her because Abba didn’t want to involve any of his relatives in my marriage.
I was very happy to see her and immediately started serving her, ignoring Mom’s glares. After Isha’i, Yaya bought her snacks and bread with fried eggs, and we chatted until midnight. Abba even joined briefly, but Mom and her children went to their rooms.
I gave my bed to Gwaggo and slept on the floor. We chatted late, then she slept. I woke up for prayers and chores, preparing food for her since I wouldn’t be around during the day.
She distributed all the items that day—to neighbors, relatives, everyone. Everyone received theirs. Mom ignored hers, leaving it in the living room even after Gwaggo left.
At work, everyone finally knew about my relationship with Mansoor. Some hadn’t believed it was serious. The MD was furious that day—clearly jealous. I laughed. Mansoor was pleased and told me so.
After work, he offered to take me to see the house renovations, but I postponed it to the weekend. He took me home. That day, I noticed a white car following us again. I was scared but kept quiet. When it passed our street, I relaxed.
He joked, “Why the sigh, like I’m about to kidnap you?”
I smiled and replied, “You won’t start unless someone hires you.”
He laughed and said, “True. But if you agreed to stay today, I’d be the happiest.”
I smiled, thanked him, and hurried inside. I watched him from the gate as he stared back smiling before driving off.
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Things kept getting worse at home. Mom and her children’s behavior escalated, and I faced more harassment because of the marriage. Baby openly showed interest in Mansoor, even pressuring him. I realized he knew a big secret about her but refused to tell me.
There was no real wedding preparation at home, but it didn’t bother me. Yaya was handling things behind the scenes. Gwaggo visited frequently. Mansoor had told Yaya he’d handle all household items, and I’d seen the house myself.
I kept noticing the same car following me—sometimes even a tricycle. I memorized the plate numbers. Instead of telling Yaya, foolishly, I decided to investigate myself. I stopped riding with Yaya and Mansoor at times, using public transport. I even involved local guards secretly. The car disappeared for days, then returned. I suspected everyone—MD, Abba, Mom, Baby—even Mansoor.
Finally, I confronted Mansoor angrily about surveillance. He was shocked. Later, he went to discuss it with Yaya Musaddiq. When Yaya returned from work, he called me into his room…
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