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DIYAM 💖

By Maman Maama

To my daughter Haleema, May you forever be blessed.

Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim (In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful)

Praise be to Allah who has given me the grace to begin this writing. I pray to Him to grant me the ability to write what is good and forbid me from writing what is evil. May this writing benefit me and everyone whom Allah grants the grace to read it.

The book DIYAM is free; I hope it serves as ongoing charity (Sadaqatul Jariyah) even after my life. I dedicate this book to my lovers, both visible and hidden.

DIYAM is a total work of fiction. If it coincides with your story, it is purely a coincidence and not intentional.

DIYAM is my book, my property. Whoever translates or sells my book without my knowledge will answer to Allah.

Just follow my pen, for I assure you, you are going to fall in love with DIYAM.

Episode One

The moderate-sized lecture hall, containing 36 students, was silent—not a sound could be heard except for papers rustling and the very clear voice of the lecturer presenting a lecture to law students at the Blavatnik School within Oxford University. They were having a class on marital laws, where the lecturer was explaining in detail the laws governing marriage. Because the students came from different countries, the lecturer took countries one by one, reviewing their marriage laws with the intention that once finished, they would all meet to compare which ones were best and what changes needed to be made.

Today, the lecturer entered the countries of the African continent. She began with Nigeria, the Giant of Africa. Calmly, she started reading out to the students the laws that Nigeria has concerning marriage. In the middle of taking the lesson, they heard a snicker. The lecturer stopped her reading, raised her head, and simultaneously all the other students turned to look at the direction where the laughter came from.

At the extreme end of the classroom, sitting alone like an abandoned island, was a beautiful young woman. At first glance from a distance, you would say she is pretty; when you step closer to her, you see she is even more beautiful than you thought, as her beauty continues to reveal itself the longer you look at her. Many in the school took her for an Arab, but Nigerians upon seeing her understood that she is one of them—a Fulani, an ethnic group with ties to Arabs. Just looking at her, you could tell that even she did not realize she had laughed. The silence that fell over the class and the feeling of being watched made her raise her head quickly. Her large, wide-open eyes locked onto those of the lecturer standing in front of her desk. They stared at each other for a moment, then the lecturer said to her, "Why do you laugh? Are you finding this funny?"

She shook her head with a smile at the corner of her cheek. The lecturer walked over to stand near the podium, looking at her, and asked, "Where are you from?"

Still keeping her head down, she replied, "Nigeria."

The lecturer asked, "What is your view on these marriage laws in Nigeria? Do you think they are right, or do you have corrections?"

She was silent again for a moment, then let out a small laugh, shaking her head, her face showing that something was bothering her. Suddenly, she spoke: "I have no corrections, Ma'am. Because all those laws you are listing only exist on paper, maybe for the sake of the likes of you who look them up for educational purposes, but they are not actually practiced."

The lecturer looked interested and said, "So, can you tell us the situation of marriage in Nigeria?"

Instantly, the smile vanished from the young woman's face. She swallowed something down her throat, then lowered her head, looking at the notes in front of her.

"You have a very beautiful handwriting, my younger sister." She heard his voice in her ear, as clear as if he were telling her right now.

She raised her head and said, "In Nigeria, Ma'am, Northern Nigeria to be precise, marriage is just like a form of legal slavery."

The attention of the entire class shifted to her; even those who were previously busy writing turned to look at her. She continued in English with a Nigerian accent: "Indeed, before marriage there are words like 'I love you,' but mostly they stop at the lips and never reach the heart. Once marriage is contracted, the husband will have a feeling similar to the feeling a master has when he buys a slave. Like, since I pay your dowry, it means I own you; you belong to me. He forgets that both he and his wife belong to each other. Some men, before even the first year passes, turn out to become total strangers to their wives, as if she never knew them in her life."

"I know that almost more than 80% of our people in the North are Muslims, and I know that in the Qur'an it is said: 'Al-rijalu qawwamuna 'ala al-nisa'i'—the husband is superior over the woman. But when Almighty God went a little further in the Qur'an, He said He gave men this authority because He burdened them with the responsibility of providing food, drink, clothing, and shelter. Yet, at present, more than half of our men are unable to bear this responsibility that Allah has placed upon them. Many women are the ones feeding, providing drinks, and clothing themselves and their children, and sometimes even their husbands. A woman will go out to an office to earn money or go out to source goods for her business, then return to cook food she bought with her own money, sweep, wash dishes, wash her own clothes, her children's clothes, and her husband's clothes—clothes that she bought with her own money. She helps her children with the homework given by the school whose fees she pays. And then the husband expects her to bring him bathwater, get him dressed, give him a massage, and then submit to his desires in their marital bed."

"A woman is the one who gets pregnant, gives birth—sometimes even the ram for the naming ceremony and the naming clothes are bought by her—she breastfeeds her child, feeds him, and handles everything. But when divorce comes, the husband says, 'Leave my children for me.' While she watches, crying, and her children are crying, they are separated, and the husband takes every single child, leaving her with none. In the end, the one he takes them to is his new wife, who torments and enslaves them simply because she didn't give birth to them. Many children have lost their lives because of this; some are ruined, some become almajiris (street beggars), and some become thugs due to a lack of upbringing and parental love."

She wiped away the tears gathering in her eyes and continued: "That's why I'm here in Oxford; that's why I'm studying law. To ensure that no woman in Nigeria ever suffers again at the hands of a man."

"Oh, shut up, please!"

The entire class turned to look at the person who spoke. She knew him; she had seen him in class, but they had never spoken, so she didn't even know his name and had no interest in knowing it. He turned, looking at her, and said, "Just because you sat close to those who didn't enjoy marriage doesn't mean you should sit here saying unpleasant things about our country."

She raised one eyebrow up, looking at him, and asked, "Which country?"

He said, "The one you are talking about."

She said, "You don't look like a Nigerian, and definitely not a Northerner."

He said, "Oh, but I am."

She said, "Which part?"

He said, "Abuja."

She covered her mouth slightly, laughing, and said, "But Abuja is not in Northern Nigeria, so you shut up."

He scowled, especially seeing the laughter on the faces of all the students in the class. He knew that even though he was not a Northerner, he would not sit by and let the North be torn down like that—for his mother is from the North, his only sister now lives in the North, and his uncle too. Therefore, he felt it was his right right now to tell people that the girl had just cooked up lies, perhaps just to gain fame.

He said, "I may not be born in the North, but my mother is a Northerner, and..."

She said, "Was she born and raised in the North?"

His slight hesitation made her realize 'no' was his answer. She shrugged and said, "Then she too is not a Northerner."

Quickly he said, "Her father was."

She said again, "Born and raised?"

He stood up, frustrated, and said, "What does it matter?"

She said, "Everything. If you want to know the condition of a society, you need to live with them and study them."

He lunged forward again, intending to try to defend his country's dignity as he thought, but it turned out the period was over. He scoffed while the lecturer explained that they would pause there and continue in the next class.

DIYAM..........writing

If there are many comments, I will be happy, and I will understand that people want me to continue.

Episode Two

The next day, they did not have Madam Sally, the lecturer who taught them yesterday's lecture. In short, they only had a morning lecture, and then they were done. Because of this, as soon as they came out, everyone started trying to go home to attend to their daily activities. Yesterday's girl came out last, clutching papers to her chest with one hand while holding her phone with the other. She looked around like someone searching for someone, then began walking slowly like someone afraid to step on the ground.

From where he stood, he watched how the students came out one by one. He pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket along with a lighter, lit one, took a long drag, and closed his eyes. Deliberately, he was the last to come out because he wanted to see her exit; he wanted them to continue yesterday's conversation, and he wanted to warn her to watch what she said and where she said it. He let out a small hiss. Just like that, she was about to ruin his class standing among people, because all his friends knew he was a Nigerian, and they would think what she said was true.

Watching her, she came out, looked around, and walked directly toward the side where he was. She walked slowly, like someone counting her steps, which allowed him to scan her figure. Too beautiful, he decided, too beautiful for my taste. By the time she walked past him without even noticing him there, he gave her some distance, dropped his cigarette, hurried after her, and said, "Hey."

She got slightly startled, looked at him, turned her gaze away, and continued walking. He matched his pace to hers and said again, "Hi."

She stopped, locked eyes with him without any sign of fear, and said, "Assalamu alaikum."

He rubbed his head, feeling all his confidence draining away. Her eyes made him uncomfortable. Hearing that he didn't respond, she lowered her gaze and continued walking. He followed behind her, saying, "My name is Sadiq, Sadiq Abubakar Sadiq." He rubbed his head again and said, "My God, this is so awkward. I always feel like this whenever I'm introducing myself. I hate my name. I don't know why our parents love insisting on giving their children their parents' names. I mean, it makes the name only circle and remain in the family. I always wish I can change my name."

She stopped and stared at him. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face, even though he wasn't sweating; he obviously looked nervous. All his planning about the things he would tell her had flown out the window. In his heart, he thanked God that they were alone in that spot. He let out a sigh and said, "I am talking too much, aren't I?"

She just shook her head and quietly said, "In my religion, Islam, a person is given the permission to change their name if they don't like it. What you only need to do is buy a ram, slaughter it with the intention of changing your name, call people to witness it, and that's it. But I don't know if your religion allows that."

He was stunned—meaning she viewed him as a non-Muslim? How could she even think that? He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't utter a word until he swallowed something bitter down his throat, and finally said, "I am a Muslim also."

She turned her head away and said, "Sorry, my bad."

Feeling stung by her remark, he said, "Why did you think I am not a Muslim?"

She looked him up and down, from his brown wind-tossed hair, his cigarette-stained lips, the large headphones over his ears, his shirt bearing a giant picture of Lady Gaga, his ripped-at-the-knees trousers, down to his boots which looked more like military shoes. Then she raised one eyebrow and said, "First, you don't dress like a Muslim. Second, I greeted you with Salam and you didn't reply. Third, Muslims don't complain about their parents' choice of name; Abubakar Sadiq is a sweet and honorable name."

He was speechless. Never in his life had he been torn down like this today. What did this girl think? Who was she? There was nothing he wanted at that moment more than to paint her beautiful face with blood and snot. He clenched his fist, but his body betrayed him as she turned and walked away. Instead, he heard his own mouth uttering, "You didn't tell me your name."

She turned and said, "Why?"

He repeated, "Why? I just told you my name, that's why."

She said, "I didn't ask you for it."

With that, she said nothing more and only increased her pace.

He clenched his fist, punched the air, and banged his head in self-frustration, then rubbed the spot where he banged it as if it hurt. Truly, he was losing his touch; even a woman was doing this to him? Who is she?

Behind him, he saw another girl hurry past him, calling out, "Diyam!! Wait for me." He saw Diyam stop to wait for her to catch up, and then they continued walking together.

"Diyam," he repeated. "How can someone name his child water? What were her parents thinking?"

Then he moved to the side, found a place to sit, took out a cigarette, lit it, adjusted his headphones, took a puff, and closed his eyes while calculating ways to retaliate for what Diyam had done to him.

Diyam heard the call made to her, turned, and locked eyes with her friend Judith. Judith was her friend from Nigeria whom she met when they were preparing to travel to the UK. During registration, Diyam realized Judith was looking for accommodation, so she simply pulled her along to live together in her apartment, alongside Murjanatu.

She smiled when Judith caught up, and they lined up and continued walking together. Judith said, "If you don't mind me asking, were you talking to that guy?"

Diyam said, "Yes, I was. What about it?"

Judith laughed and said, "It is just that you never talk to anybody."

Diyam also laughed and said, "Believe me, it wasn't such a good talk. I'm sure that guy is never going to talk to me again."

They both laughed. Diyam tapped her forehead and said, "God, I am so boring. How do you guys manage living with me?"

Judith said, "It is never easy."

And so they continued walking while chatting about Diyam's personality.

They walked on foot to the estate where their house was, went to Block E, and took the lift to the fifth floor where their apartment was located. Judith took out her key and opened the door. As soon as they entered, they all collapsed on the parlor floor due to exhaustion.

Murjanatu came out of the kitchen with a spatula in her hand, looking at them. She was a dark beauty with a petite build, large eyes, and thick eyebrows. Just looking at her, she gave the impression of those pampered children who grew up surrounded by wealth. She said, "That's why I refused to go today. Just for one lecture, I won't suffer that stress."

Diyam looked at her and said, "You missed a lot."

Murjanatu tilted her head sideways and said, "At least I cooked for you guys, right? So what you should be saying is 'Thank you'."

Judith stood up, pecked Murjanatu on the cheek, and said, "Thank you."

While eating dinner—during which Diyam was just poking at her food like someone taking medicine, complaining about how much she missed home-cooked food—she said, "I can give anything, I mean anything, just to get tuwo (swallow) to eat."

Murjanatu rolled her eyes and said, "As for me, I don't even miss tuwo; I never really liked it anyway."

Diyam's phone rang. She just looked at it and looked away. Judith picked it up, looked at the caller's name until it stopped ringing, set it down, and said, "I have never seen someone as spineless as that guy. The disrespect you show him, Diyam, is enough."

Murjanatu raised a hand and said, "Hey, are you calling my older brother spineless?"

As she went quiet, her phone started ringing again. Pouting her head, she said, "Please, Diyam. Look, he's calling on my phone. Please, just for today."

Diyam glared at her and said nothing. Murjanatu picked up the call, greeted the caller, and looking at Diyam, said, "She's fine, wallahi we just got back from lecture, we are both tired, Yaya. Yes, she doesn't go with the car, she says walking to school is exercise. Yes, alright, for today. Here she is, eating. She didn't eat much, wallahi Yaya, she says she wants tuwo. Ah ah, I don't know, wallahi. Yaya, me wallahi I don't know how to make tuwo. Okay, see you later."

She dropped the phone, pouting her face as if she was about to cry, and said, "He says I should make tuwo for you tonight and say it's 'with love from him'."

They all burst out laughing. Diyam stood up, dancing and mocking Murjanatu, while Murjanatu grabbed a pillow and chased her down the corridor toward their bedrooms.

DIYAM..........writing

Episode Three

After Diyam and her friends left, he sat alone for a long time, thinking, unthinking, and inhaling smoke into his lungs. Only when he saw that the pack was finished did he throw it away, checked his wristwatch, hissed, and stood up.

He hailed a cab to the hotel where he was staying. Upon entering the room, he sat on the bed, scanning the room like he was seeing it for the first time. His eyes landed on a picture of a pretty young girl on his study table, smiling. He closed his eyes and opened them. She had been the reason for everything he was going through right now—for all his pain and his agony.

He picked up his phone and dialed her number for the hundredth time, but now, just like always, she didn't pick up. He wondered why she hadn't blocked him, because it was better for him to call and not get through than to call and have it ring unanswered—meaning she saw it, meaning she knew all that he was going through, but she just didn't care.

Her name was Fatima; they called her Khausar. He had been in love with her for as long as he can remember, maybe since he knew what love was, but he had failed to tell her. Later on, he simply heard the news that she was going to marry his brother. That had been the beginning of his agony—the original reason he started smoking. He did his utmost best at that time to get her out of his mind, and he succeeded a little. But then, the marriage with his brother didn't work out, and his brother ended up marrying another. This turn of events immensely pleased him; he saw it as another chance to marry the one he loved.

It had been a year since that happened. Within that year, he failed terribly in his course of study in Abuja, but he attributed it to the fact that he didn't like the course. He said he preferred to follow the footsteps of his maternal grandmother, who happened to be a lawyer. With great difficulty and maximum effort, he managed to get permission to travel to the UK for studies, even though his parents didn't want it—they preferred him to stay with them, but he went anyway with the backing of his grandmother. He did it for her, for Khausar, because she now lived in the UK with their aunt.

But then what? He realized after arriving that she was already dating his cousin too! This made him vow that whether heaven and earth collided, he would break up that relationship. This caused no small amount of friction between him and his cousin Ayan, and he failed miserably. In the end, Khausar looked into his eyes and said, "I will never marry you even if the men on earth run out." And that made him mad—so mad that when his aunt tried to resolve the issue, he looked into her eyes and said, "Go to hell."

It had been two weeks since that happened. Since that day, he had packed his bags and moved to live alone in this hotel. And since that day, no one in their entire family had checked up on him—not even his Mami.

But all of that wasn't his biggest problem. His problem was that a week after leaving his aunt's house, his parents blocked him out of their family bank account. The whole household had been using that account since his childhood; everyone had access to it, except that at the end of the month you had to explain what you did with the money you took. Now, there was none. And he had no job; therefore, being blocked from the family account left him almost penniless. He had nothing—even food items he lacked, and the money for his food had almost run out. By the end of this week, he knew he wouldn't even have money for food.

He knew this was all Mami's clever strategy; they wanted to flush him out so he would come forward and accept his fault. But he was afraid of what his punishment would be, as he wouldn't feel comfortable facing his daddy. And he knew he had lost Khausar for good. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place. What he needed right now was the courage to face his family...

Summary

The novel DIYAM by Maman Maama opens at Oxford University, where a brilliant and fiercely outspoken Nigerian law student named Diyam sharply critiques traditional and marital practices in Northern Nigeria during a lecture. Her bold commentary sparks friction with Sadiq Abubakar Sadiq, a fellow Nigerian student defending the region. Meanwhile, Sadiq is dealing with personal turmoil, including heartbreak over Khausar, familial estrangement after rebelling against his relatives, and financial cutoff by his parents. The narrative establishes Diyam's passionate drive for women's rights and personal independence alongside Sadiq's complicated background and budding, contentious dynamic with her.

Description

This text contains the introductory preliminary pages and the first three episodes of the contemporary Nigerian romance and drama novel DIYAM. Set across two distinct worlds—the academic halls of Oxford University in the UK and the complex social realities of Nigeria—the story contrasts Diyam's intellectual activism and trauma-fueled ambition with Sadiq's privileged yet crumbling personal life. The narrative blends sharp social commentary on gender roles, marriage expectations, and cultural realities in Northern Nigeria with intense emotional subplots and university-setting friction.

Analytics

• Genre: Contemporary Nigerian Fiction / Romance / Social Drama
• Narrative POV: Third-person omniscient
• Core Themes: Gender inequality in marriage, family expectations, rebellion, heartbreak, personal trauma, and cultural identity
• Character Dynamics:
  • Diyam: Intelligent, outspoken, resolute, and deeply scarred by marital injustices in her society; studies law at Oxford to enact change.
  • Sadiq Abubakar Sadiq: Rebellious, heartbroken, financially cut off, and initially defensive of Northern traditions out of familial pride, leading to a clash with Diyam.
  • Murjanatu & Judith: Diyam's supportive friends and roommates in the UK.

Comments

Maman Maama uses a compelling dual-setting approach to ground a deeply cultural Nigerian story within an international academic framework. Diyam’s classroom speech is a powerful narrative anchor, openly addressing systemic marital exploitation and shifting gender burdens in Northern Nigeria. Sadiq serves as an interesting foil—initially arrogant and defensive, yet unraveling under the weight of unrequited love and parental discipline. Their initial Oxford encounters set the stage for a classic enemies-to-lovers narrative arc driven by sharp dialogue and mutual intrigue.

Conclusions

DIYAM establishes an engaging narrative foundation by tackling heavy socio-cultural issues through compelling character work. Diyam's clear sense of purpose contrasts sharply with Sadiq's personal wreckage, creating immediate thematic tension. As Sadiq faces financial ruin and emotional isolation while crossing paths with Diyam, the story promises a transformative journey of personal growth, healing, and romance.

Keywords

• DIYAM
• Maman Maama
• Nigerian fiction
• Oxford University law students
• Northern Nigeria marriage laws
• Wattpad romance
• Sadiq Abubakar Sadiq

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