Around exactly 3 o'clock in the midnight—a time that Westerners call the "witching hour" or "spiritual awakening," when the distance between the spiritual world of the dead and the living is very narrow—this is the peak trading hour for every kind of witchcraft and major secret societies. It is the time when black phantoms, black jinn, and all kinds of supernatural spirits roam the night all over the world. Deep within an intensely dark forest, where you could hardly even see the palm of your hand, absolutely nothing moved at that moment except the sound of footsteps. An imposing, tall, and heavily built woman with prominent curves suddenly emerged from a thick, dark patch of grass, her body draped in a pure white cloth resembling a burial shroud (likkafani). In her hand, she dragged a massive black ram with great force, its mouth bound with a red rag patterned with diagonal white chalk lines. From head to toe, she was entirely white with no other color on her body, save for a strip of red cloth tied across her forehead. Her feet were bare, yet she resolutely forged ahead through the dark forest, clearly in a rush to reach a certain plateau on time. Following closely behind her was a young woman who looked no older than 28. She wore no shoes, no clothes, and no headscarf, save for a clean white cloth draped nicely across her chest. Her face was bare except for red paint markings across her forehead as well. With her head bowed down, she hurried along, trailing behind the woman guiding her through the forest in haste. After walking for no more than ten minutes, they burst out into a vast open clearing right in the middle of nowhere. The ground was covered in a smooth, gleaming white earth. The clearing itself seemed to materialize right in the center of the deep forest; while everywhere else was pitch black, this single clearing radiated a blinding white light. They both threw themselves flat onto the ground before the clearing, their entire bodies trembling and shivering violently—kar-kar-kar—as if pierced by a strange, freezing wind. The elderly woman quickly pulled out a small bell and began ringing it while chanting incomprehensible words. Suddenly, a massive boulder appeared before them shaped like a golden throne, emitting an intensely blinding white light. Atop it materialized a fierce sorceress, also clad entirely in white. Immediately, the two women prostrated flat before her as if she were their supreme deity. "Almighty Goddess of Fire and Revenge." For a long time, with their heads bowed to the ground, they paid homage while she stared off into the distance. Finally, she extended her long, slender fingers and slowly stroked their backs one by one. Wherever her fingers touched, blood welled up to the surface. She brought the blood to her tongue and licked it, signaling that she had accepted their visitation and would now listen to them. She raised her hand to grant them permission to speak. Immediately, the elderly woman began addressing her in their native Yoruba tongue, in a tone of extreme reverence and submissiveness. With a trembling voice, prostrated on the ground, she recited: "Gbogbo oriṣa yinyin ti ina Ati iku" (Meaning: All hail, Goddess of Fire and Revenge). She continued, "I have come seeking urgent help from you, my sovereign." She touched her daughter's shoulders, trembling like someone about to weep, and said, "Almighty Goddess of Fire and Revenge, tonight I offer my daughter to the arrow of your fire and revenge..." Interrupting her breath, with a voice projecting in a terrifying, booming resonance, the Goddess asked, "My child, what do you want?" The woman lowered her head even further and said, "I want justice for my daughter, Goddess... We demand justice." Their Goddess remained silent for a long moment. Then, she looked at the ram they had brought, signaling for them to drag it to the center of the clearing and slaughter it, spilling its blood there. She instructed the young woman to draw large round circles on the ground around them, and to light a fire along the lines to encircle them. A black calabash appeared, which the Goddess handed to them. The older woman dragged the black ram to the center of the clearing, while her daughter drew the large circle with earth and set fire to its perimeter, standing safely inside with her mother. They pinned the ram down in the center, its face directed toward the east as the Goddess had commanded. As the blood began to pour from the slaughter, the young woman held the black calabash underneath to catch it, letting the excess spill onto the ground within the circle. The older woman slit the ram's throat but held onto it until its blood completely filled the calabash in her daughter's hands. Once finished, they brought the blood-filled calabash before their Goddess, offering it with deep reverence and submission. She accepted it, raised the calabash high into the air, and a burst of light struck the top. She lowered it, blew her breath into it—whereupon a white light entered the entire pool of blood—and handed it back down, commanding them both to take a single sip. Afterward, she flung the remaining blood onto the young woman's body, who instantly collapsed to the ground in a dead faint due to a spiritual electric shock. Once that happened, she slowly turned her gaze to the older woman, who stood with her head bowed, awaiting judgment. Speaking in their native tongue, she asked for the young man's name. With her eyes fixed on the ground, the older woman replied, "His name is Ahmed Damilare Bello, son of Bello Ayodeji Jimada." The Goddess nodded and asked, "And the girl in question?" She replied, "An Efik girl, born by an Igbo woman." The Goddess stared upward, muttered some words fluently in her language, and burst into loud, echoing laughter. She abruptly stopped laughing, turned, and looked the woman straight in the eyes. "You can go now, my child. Your work of revenge is done," she said. "I, your deity, give you the assurance that Ahmed, son of Bello Jimada, and his wife, the daughter of Effiong, will never bear a child... NEVER." Speaking in their native tongue, she added, "This childlessness will be the root of their eternal marital unhappiness. Furthermore, your daughter shall remain a thorn in their throat; therefore, I grant you permission to take her into their midst." With those final words, the Goddess burst into a chilling laugh. The older woman fell prostrate, expressing her deepest gratitude. Suddenly, the Goddess, the clearing, the fire, and everything vanished. They found themselves standing beneath the shade of a massive, cursed, pitch-dark mango tree. A huge owl with large, glowing eyes stared intently right at them from the front. Grabbing her staggering daughter, they fled the dangerous forest in frantic haste. After running for about 20 minutes, they reached the roadside, quickly jumped into their car, threw off their cloaks, and drove off toward home. Upon reaching their house, the older woman tenderly supported her staggering daughter to her room, laying her down to rest so she could sleep. The young girl cried softly, whispering Ahmed's name even as sleep finally overtook her. The older woman sat beside her for a long time, watching her daughter look helpless and heartbroken. She stood up abruptly, exhaling a hot breath, and whispered to herself: "Family of Bello Jimada, get ready, because I, Fatihat Adetunji Balogun, am coming for you..."
#Kishiyar Ƙabila (Co-Wife of Tribe)
By Surayyahms (Any resemblance of story or lifestyle should be considered a coincidence.)
Episode 1
He slowly brought the dessert before him to his mouth, his head bowed, wearing that handsome, signature smile that made his dimples deeply visible. With absolute composure and dignity, he sat dressed in a petite Cambridge grey Zegna French suit that fit his physique impeccably. The soft voice of his mother broke through his thoughts. He gently shook his head, raised his lidded eyes, and looked at the elderly woman sitting on the chair opposite him. Her face was stern, fixing an unwavering gaze on him. "Oh, am I becoming a joke to you today, Ahmed? I am talking to you about that girl Kafayat, but you are busy smiling at me like someone who did something great. Aren't you ashamed?" The way she finished with anger made him smile even wider, further infuriating her. With a voice full of outrage, she continued, "Oh, so you think I made a fool of myself by yelling, is that it? Ahmed, are you out of your mind?!" Without missing a beat, he put on a playful, pleading expression, laid down his fork, and with his soft, soothing voice, said softly, "Please calm down. I am really sorry, ma'am. Wallahi, it's not like that, Mamee. How could I ever make a fool of you? I heard what you said about her. But wallahi, I didn't even know her feelings were hurt until you brought it up now. Besides, why is she even getting angry just because I didn't stay at her birthday party? Am I her boyfriend?" A wave of frustration choked her throat as he uttered those words. Stiffening up, she chose not to reply, knowing it would only worsen her temper to argue further. She stared at him with wide eyes in sheer disbelief at his nonchalance—how could he cause so much disrespect and pain to that girl in this house and claim total ignorance? Twisting her lips, she tapped her foot, nursing a deep sense of frustration as she recalled the severe emotional distress Kafayat had suffered in their house over the past few days. A heavy, enchanted sigh escaped her. Kafayat would have been the perfect daughter-in-law and a responsible wife for her son, Ahmed, because Kafayat had known him since childhood when they were innocent kids playing together. Ever since her NYSC days, Kafayat had practically lived with them because she dedicated herself to caring for them out of her deep love for Ahmed—her first love. Even his father strongly approved of Kafayat’s hard work and virtuous character. She was a stunning black beauty, a Yoruba lady with full feminine curves, impeccably clean, hardworking, an expert at cleaning, washing, ironing, cooking, and above all, possessing deep humility and obedience. She had poured herself into serving the household for his sake, yet he acted completely blind to it all. Softening his tone into a gentle, coaxing whisper while watching her expression, he said, "Iyami... my Mamee." She shot him a sharp glare before he could even start with his sweet talk. He continued, "Please, just forgive me, my mother. Isn't it Kafayat Buraimo we are talking about? I promise I will apologize for your sake! You said because I didn't attend the birthday party you guys organized, she got angry and left the house, right?" He blinked his eyes lazily, still astonishing her with his total obliviousness to his wrongdoings. He raised an eyebrow slowly, almost about to say, "She is so silly," but caught himself, swallowed the words, and fell silent. Seeing her turn her head away in a huff, he rubbed his head, a hint of worry coloring his voice: "Mamee, please now, stop being angry. I know your real concern is my relationship status with Kafayat. I told you I need time... and you know everything takes time. I will get married when the time is right. Dad and the rest just don't understand, and you joined their side. They refuse to understand my perspective on marriage. I swear I am still searching for a good and decent wife just for you, and I know when my time for marriage comes, I will bring home a wife—whether it's Kafayat or not. I'm just bored of all this match-making you guys keep doing. Won't you guys give me some breathing room, uhmm, Iyami?" She continued staring at him in anger, not uttering a single word. He rubbed his head again, still troubled by her displeasure because he genuinely hated seeing her upset. Yet, he couldn't fathom why they were so fixated on pushing Kafayat on him. A knock at the door drew their attention to the entrance, and they both answered the greetings together. She stood up to see her husband's relatives walk in: Aunt Temi (Ramotu), Aunt (Muslimat) Mojushola, and a beautiful young lady named Maryam, whose appearance immediately gave away that she was from the North. With a welcoming smile, she greeted them with "welcome," but they barely acknowledged her as they strode into the parlor, exchanging only brief, superficial greetings because their minds and focus were entirely fixed on the young man. With calm poise, he bowed to greet them, then stood up, looking at his mother. Hurriedly, he said, "Mamee, I'm heading out. See you later or by tomorrow." Before she could answer, Aunt Temi quickly hijacked the conversation in her booming, giant-woman voice. With a stern, unsmiling face, she snapped, "Oshey Damilare, what do you mean by that statement? Ahhh Dami, iwọ ko si oju iberu ti o ni ibanujẹ?" (Ahhh Dami, you don't even fear faces?) "You just arrived and you're already talking about leaving tomorrow? That's not fair, oo." Looking over at the other elders who remained silent, she grumbled further, "Ah, see children of nowadays! Just come back later this evening and don't stay out too late, because we aren't done talking with you." As she spoke, she locked eyes with him, then glanced significantly at the young lady who kept her gaze lowered, signaling to him what they had in mind. Softly, he smiled and said, "It's okay, Insha Allah, I'll be back, Aunt Rahama." She fell silent, displeased because she loved when they addressed each other using native names, whereas he refused to do so. That was why she never called him "Ahmed," viewing it as a Hausa name belonging to his mother. On his father's side, they only called him "Damilare," "Dami," or "Lanre," because his name was a tribute to his mother's father, a name they deeply respected. Throughout this exchange, Aunt Mojushola did not utter a word, only puffing air, flaring her nostrils, and rolling her eyes at them in disdain. She carried herself with great seniority, being the first female child of his father, followed by Uncle Bakare, while Aunt Temi (Ramotu) was the lastborn. With that, he bade them farewell and walked out of the parlor. As he checked his watch, he could hear his aunts throwing passive-aggressive jabs at his mother, remarking that since he refused to marry a woman from their own tribe, here they had brought him a northern lady from his mother's tribe. His father's family was notoriously difficult; they simply loved being in control of everything. In fact, it was originally they who had planted the idea in Kafayat's head to stay around his parents' house to serve them, so that during her NYSC session, she could easily catch his attention and secure a marriage. His paternal relatives desperately wanted Kafayat to marry Ahmed simply because she was also Yoruba. He walked quickly toward his car, checked his watch, unlocked the door, hopped in, and sped out of the compound. As he drove smoothly, his mind raced with thoughts of how to end this mounting pressure from his family, especially their obsession with forcing him into marriage.
After a Few Hours...
National Communicable Disease Control (NCDC) Theatre Hall, Maitama, Abuja 5:56 PM Senior doctors, public health professors, and elite medical minds specializing in disease control bustled in and out of the massive NCDC hall in Abuja, cheerful expressions lighting up their faces. Today's lecture had been exceptionally engaging. Only now did they fully grasp what the Minister of Health had meant when he told them that their youngest professor, AHMED BELLO JIMADA, was the best and leading young epidemiologist they had hired for this year's CCD project. He was exceptionally hardworking, meticulous, and brilliant, ensuring he brought everyone along with his expertise. Furthermore, he made brilliant references to international practices, breaking them down into simple, digestible terms that even the most inexperienced person could easily grasp. Today, he had delivered an electronic lecture on major pandemics and prevalent cross-border infectious diseases, such as COVID-19 (coronavirus), Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome (AIDS), Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS), and other viral flus. Once again, everyone was reminded of his profound composure and intellect; everything he did was calm and calculated. He was very gentle, completely devoid of rowdiness, yet one glance at him told you he possessed an intense, unshakeable self-assurance and burning self-confidence, especially when delivering expert scientific insights. It was past five o'clock when the lecture concluded, and he stepped out with a poised stride, dressed in his exquisite petite Cambridge grey suit that highlighted his youthful distinction. At just 32 to 33 years old, he stood as one of the youngest leading professors and doctors of epidemiological science in Abuja. Prof. Dr. Ahmed Bello Jimada was fair-complexioned—not overly pale, placing him in the category of light-skinned Yoruba men—with a sharp, slender nose and facial features inherited from his mother, a pure Fulani woman from Ilorin. At the same time, he possessed the physical build and robust structure typical of his father’s Yoruba heritage from Oyo State, combined with a striking, well-groomed beard and the refined, handsome features of northern men inherited through his maternal lineage. As a young man intoxicated by modern education, civilization, and elite status, he had very little time for making new friends, let alone chasing women. From secondary school through university, he had made virtually no new friends; all his associates dated back to his childhood. His work and studies were his absolute priorities, as he firmly believed that serious girlfriends and new acquaintances were a distraction to his career and success. Consequently, he had never engaged in a genuine, long-term romantic relationship in his life, settling only for brief, casual flings. Keeping a woman around for a few days or dating someone for a week meant nothing to him; once his work schedule picked up, the romance ended. He had never truly claimed to love any woman deeply. Anyone who approached him and threw herself at him might enjoy his attention for a couple of days or a week, after which, once his attention shifted, she would never see him again. Many women had tried, given up, and stopped pinning their hopes on him, knowing that once Ahmed was done with a woman, he acted as if she had never existed. His attitude only made women desire him even more as a husband because he was the ultimate "hard-to-get" catch with high standards for romantic partners. He was the kind of man women died to be with—generous with money, indifferent to wealth, yet completely emotionally detached, uncompromising, and radiating a magnetic, effortless charm that made you feel completely insignificant once he was done with you. Countless women from Nigeria and abroad had sent messages hoping for a chance at romance or marriage, but to this day, he had never spared the time. Many had tried since his twenties, and now, at 33, he lacked nothing in life: education, wealth, good looks, elite pedigree, and being the apple of his mother's eye, Hajiya Khadijatu Muhammad Gidado, a proud Fulani woman from Kwara State, Ilorin. Ahmed had completed his education in record time, thanks to the exceptional care he received. He had three older half-siblings who were much older than him and took great care of him. His father, Alhaji Bello Ayodeji Jimada, was a Yoruba man from Oyo, Ibadan, who had migrated peacefully and settled among the Fulanis of Ilorin. Following the death of his first wife, Alaja Simiat Laide, he married his second wife, the Fulani woman Hajiya Khadijatu Muhammad Gidado, who raised the rest of his children. His eldest brother was Kazeem (known as Aremu / Qasimou), followed by Hamzat Dimeji (Hamusé), and a sister.
Summary
The narrative opens during the "witching hour" in a pitch-black forest, where an older woman and a younger woman perform a dark occult ritual before a towering demonic entity known as the "Goddess of Fire and Revenge." Seeking vengeance, the mother sacrifices a black ram and offers her daughter's future to the goddess. The goddess seals a dark pact, cursing a man named Ahmed Damilare Bello (son of Bello Jimada) and his future Efik/Igbo wife, decreeing that they will never bear children, and that the young woman accompanying them will be a lifelong thorn in their side. The story then shifts to modern Abuja, introducing Prof. Dr. Ahmed Bello Jimada, a brilliant, wealthy, and emotionally detached 33-year-old epidemiologist. Despite his mother and powerful family's relentless pressure to marry a traditional Yoruba choice named Kafayat—whom his patriarchal relatives aggressively push upon him—Ahmed remains entirely focused on his prestigious medical career, brushing off romantic entanglements with cold indifference.
Description
The Occult Backdrop: The narrative establishes a chilling atmosphere of traditional witchcraft (maita) and dark spiritual pacts, highlighting how deep-seated malice and generational vendettas seek supernatural shortcuts to destroy human lives.
The Elite Medical Prodigy: In sharp contrast to the primitive darkness of the forest, the story introduces Ahmed Jimada as the epitome of modern Nigerian excellence—young, highly educated, affluent, and holding an elite professorship in epidemiology at the NCDC in Abuja.
Family Control vs. Personal Autonomy: The domestic tension revolves around Ahmed's extended family (particularly his aunts and mother), who operate with a tight-knit, tribalistic mindset, attempting to dictate his matrimonial choices (championing Kafayat) while he maintains an unyielding, independent boundary.
Analytics
Analytical Dimension
Detailed Breakdown & Key Insights
Character Profiles
• Ahmed Damilare Bello: Driven by career ambition, intellect, and emotional detachment. He is a high-status professional who views romance as a distraction, making him an unwitting target for external spiritual attacks.
• The Vengeful Mother & Daughter: Motivated by deep-seated malice and a desire for destructive retribution, willing to trade their spiritual and moral standing with dark entities to ruin target families.
• The Jimada/Balogun Extended Family: Embodies traditional collectivism and tribal loyalty, contrasting sharply with Ahmed's modern, individualistic detachment.
Central Themes
• Destiny vs. Malevolent Interference: The intersection of high-society modern life with ancient, dark occult practices.
• Family Pressure and Tribalism: The cultural expectation in Nigerian families regarding marriage, tribal alignment (kabila), and parental control over adult children.
• Emotional Detachment as Shield and Flaw: Ahmed’s clinical approach to human relationships leaves him isolated, making him vulnerable to hidden machinations.
Literary Style & Pacing
The text masterfully utilizes a dual-narrative structure: starting with a high-stakes, gothic horror atmosphere ("witching hour" ritual) and cutting sharply into a grounded, sophisticated contemporary drama set in elite Abuja circles.
#Witching Hour
Around exactly 3 o'clock in the midnight—a time that Westerners call the "witching hour" or "spiritual awakening," when the distance between the spiritual world of the dead and the living is very narrow—this is the peak trading hour for every kind of witchcraft and major secret societies. It is the time when black phantoms, black jinn, and all kinds of supernatural spirits roam the night all over the world.
Deep within an intensely dark forest, where you could hardly even see the palm of your hand, absolutely nothing moved at that moment except the sound of footsteps.
An imposing, tall, and heavily built woman with prominent curves suddenly emerged from a thick, dark patch of grass, her body draped in a pure white cloth resembling a burial shroud (likkafani).
In her hand, she dragged a massive black ram with great force, its mouth bound with a red rag patterned with diagonal white chalk lines.
From head to toe, she was entirely white with no other color on her body, save for a strip of red cloth tied across her forehead. Her feet were bare, yet she resolutely forged ahead through the dark forest, clearly in a rush to reach a certain plateau on time.
Following closely behind her was a young woman who looked no older than 28. She wore no shoes, no clothes, and no headscarf, save for a clean white cloth draped nicely across her chest. Her face was bare except for red paint markings across her forehead as well.
With her head bowed down, she hurried along, trailing behind the woman guiding her through the forest in haste.
After walking for no more than ten minutes, they burst out into a vast open clearing right in the middle of nowhere. The ground was covered in a smooth, gleaming white earth.
The clearing itself seemed to materialize right in the center of the deep forest; while everywhere else was pitch black, this single clearing radiated a blinding white light.
They both threw themselves flat onto the ground before the clearing, their entire bodies trembling and shivering violently—kar-kar-kar—as if pierced by a strange, freezing wind.
The elderly woman quickly pulled out a small bell and began ringing it while chanting incomprehensible words. Suddenly, a massive boulder appeared before them shaped like a golden throne, emitting an intensely blinding white light. Atop it materialized a fierce sorceress, also clad entirely in white. Immediately, the two women prostrated flat before her as if she were their supreme deity.
"Almighty Goddess of Fire and Revenge."
For a long time, with their heads bowed to the ground, they paid homage while she stared off into the distance. Finally, she extended her long, slender fingers and slowly stroked their backs one by one. Wherever her fingers touched, blood welled up to the surface. She brought the blood to her tongue and licked it, signaling that she had accepted their visitation and would now listen to them.
She raised her hand to grant them permission to speak. Immediately, the elderly woman began addressing her in their native Yoruba tongue, in a tone of extreme reverence and submissiveness.
With a trembling voice, prostrated on the ground, she recited: "Gbogbo oriṣa yinyin ti ina Ati iku" (Meaning: All hail, Goddess of Fire and Revenge). She continued, "I have come seeking urgent help from you, my sovereign." She touched her daughter's shoulders, trembling like someone about to weep, and said, "Almighty Goddess of Fire and Revenge, tonight I offer my daughter to the arrow of your fire and revenge..."
Interrupting her breath, with a voice projecting in a terrifying, booming resonance, the Goddess asked, "My child, what do you want?"
The woman lowered her head even further and said, "I want justice for my daughter, Goddess... We demand justice."
Their Goddess remained silent for a long moment. Then, she looked at the ram they had brought, signaling for them to drag it to the center of the clearing and slaughter it, spilling its blood there.
She instructed the young woman to draw large round circles on the ground around them, and to light a fire along the lines to encircle them.
A black calabash appeared, which the Goddess handed to them. The older woman dragged the black ram to the center of the clearing, while her daughter drew the large circle with earth and set fire to its perimeter, standing safely inside with her mother.
They pinned the ram down in the center, its face directed toward the east as the Goddess had commanded. As the blood began to pour from the slaughter, the young woman held the black calabash underneath to catch it, letting the excess spill onto the ground within the circle.
The older woman slit the ram's throat but held onto it until its blood completely filled the calabash in her daughter's hands.
Once finished, they brought the blood-filled calabash before their Goddess, offering it with deep reverence and submission. She accepted it, raised the calabash high into the air, and a burst of light struck the top. She lowered it, blew her breath into it—whereupon a white light entered the entire pool of blood—and handed it back down, commanding them both to take a single sip. Afterward, she flung the remaining blood onto the young woman's body, who instantly collapsed to the ground in a dead faint due to a spiritual electric shock.
Once that happened, she slowly turned her gaze to the older woman, who stood with her head bowed, awaiting judgment. Speaking in their native tongue, she asked for the young man's name.
With her eyes fixed on the ground, the older woman replied, "His name is Ahmed Damilare Bello, son of Bello Ayodeji Jimada."
The Goddess nodded and asked, "And the girl in question?"
She replied, "An Efik girl, born by an Igbo woman."
The Goddess stared upward, muttered some words fluently in her language, and burst into loud, echoing laughter.
She abruptly stopped laughing, turned, and looked the woman straight in the eyes.
"You can go now, my child. Your work of revenge is done," she said.
"I, your deity, give you the assurance that Ahmed, son of Bello Jimada, and his wife, the daughter of Effiong, will never bear a child... NEVER."
Speaking in their native tongue, she added, "This childlessness will be the root of their eternal marital unhappiness. Furthermore, your daughter shall remain a thorn in their throat; therefore, I grant you permission to take her into their midst."
With those final words, the Goddess burst into a chilling laugh. The older woman fell prostrate, expressing her deepest gratitude.
Suddenly, the Goddess, the clearing, the fire, and everything vanished. They found themselves standing beneath the shade of a massive, cursed, pitch-dark mango tree. A huge owl with large, glowing eyes stared intently right at them from the front.
Grabbing her staggering daughter, they fled the dangerous forest in frantic haste. After running for about 20 minutes, they reached the roadside, quickly jumped into their car, threw off their cloaks, and drove off toward home.
Upon reaching their house, the older woman tenderly supported her staggering daughter to her room, laying her down to rest so she could sleep.
The young girl cried softly, whispering Ahmed's name even as sleep finally overtook her.
The older woman sat beside her for a long time, watching her daughter look helpless and heartbroken. She stood up abruptly, exhaling a hot breath, and whispered to herself: "Family of Bello Jimada, get ready, because I, Fatihat Adetunji Balogun, am coming for you..."
#Kishiyar Ƙabila (Co-Wife of Tribe)
By Surayyahms
(Any resemblance of story or lifestyle should be considered a coincidence.)
Episode 1
He slowly brought the dessert before him to his mouth, his head bowed, wearing that handsome, signature smile that made his dimples deeply visible.
With absolute composure and dignity, he sat dressed in a petite Cambridge grey Zegna French suit that fit his physique impeccably.
The soft voice of his mother broke through his thoughts. He gently shook his head, raised his lidded eyes, and looked at the elderly woman sitting on the chair opposite him. Her face was stern, fixing an unwavering gaze on him.
"Oh, am I becoming a joke to you today, Ahmed? I am talking to you about that girl Kafayat, but you are busy smiling at me like someone who did something great. Aren't you ashamed?"
The way she finished with anger made him smile even wider, further infuriating her.
With a voice full of outrage, she continued, "Oh, so you think I made a fool of myself by yelling, is that it? Ahmed, are you out of your mind?!"
Without missing a beat, he put on a playful, pleading expression, laid down his fork, and with his soft, soothing voice, said softly, "Please calm down. I am really sorry, ma'am. Wallahi, it's not like that, Mamee. How could I ever make a fool of you? I heard what you said about her. But wallahi, I didn't even know her feelings were hurt until you brought it up now. Besides, why is she even getting angry just because I didn't stay at her birthday party? Am I her boyfriend?"
A wave of frustration choked her throat as he uttered those words.
Stiffening up, she chose not to reply, knowing it would only worsen her temper to argue further. She stared at him with wide eyes in sheer disbelief at his nonchalance—how could he cause so much disrespect and pain to that girl in this house and claim total ignorance?
Twisting her lips, she tapped her foot, nursing a deep sense of frustration as she recalled the severe emotional distress Kafayat had suffered in their house over the past few days. A heavy, enchanted sigh escaped her. Kafayat would have been the perfect daughter-in-law and a responsible wife for her son, Ahmed, because Kafayat had known him since childhood when they were innocent kids playing together.
Ever since her NYSC days, Kafayat had practically lived with them because she dedicated herself to caring for them out of her deep love for Ahmed—her first love. Even his father strongly approved of Kafayat’s hard work and virtuous character. She was a stunning black beauty, a Yoruba lady with full feminine curves, impeccably clean, hardworking, an expert at cleaning, washing, ironing, cooking, and above all, possessing deep humility and obedience. She had poured herself into serving the household for his sake, yet he acted completely blind to it all.
Softening his tone into a gentle, coaxing whisper while watching her expression, he said, "Iyami... my Mamee."
She shot him a sharp glare before he could even start with his sweet talk.
He continued, "Please, just forgive me, my mother. Isn't it Kafayat Buraimo we are talking about? I promise I will apologize for your sake! You said because I didn't attend the birthday party you guys organized, she got angry and left the house, right?"
He blinked his eyes lazily, still astonishing her with his total obliviousness to his wrongdoings.
He raised an eyebrow slowly, almost about to say, "She is so silly," but caught himself, swallowed the words, and fell silent. Seeing her turn her head away in a huff, he rubbed his head, a hint of worry coloring his voice: "Mamee, please now, stop being angry. I know your real concern is my relationship status with Kafayat. I told you I need time... and you know everything takes time. I will get married when the time is right. Dad and the rest just don't understand, and you joined their side. They refuse to understand my perspective on marriage. I swear I am still searching for a good and decent wife just for you, and I know when my time for marriage comes, I will bring home a wife—whether it's Kafayat or not. I'm just bored of all this match-making you guys keep doing. Won't you guys give me some breathing room, uhmm, Iyami?"
She continued staring at him in anger, not uttering a single word. He rubbed his head again, still troubled by her displeasure because he genuinely hated seeing her upset. Yet, he couldn't fathom why they were so fixated on pushing Kafayat on him.
A knock at the door drew their attention to the entrance, and they both answered the greetings together.
She stood up to see her husband's relatives walk in: Aunt Temi (Ramotu), Aunt (Muslimat) Mojushola, and a beautiful young lady named Maryam, whose appearance immediately gave away that she was from the North. With a welcoming smile, she greeted them with "welcome," but they barely acknowledged her as they strode into the parlor, exchanging only brief, superficial greetings because their minds and focus were entirely fixed on the young man.
With calm poise, he bowed to greet them, then stood up, looking at his mother. Hurriedly, he said, "Mamee, I'm heading out. See you later or by tomorrow."
Before she could answer, Aunt Temi quickly hijacked the conversation in her booming, giant-woman voice. With a stern, unsmiling face, she snapped, "Oshey Damilare, what do you mean by that statement? Ahhh Dami, iwọ ko si oju iberu ti o ni ibanujẹ?" (Ahhh Dami, you don't even fear faces?) "You just arrived and you're already talking about leaving tomorrow? That's not fair, oo." Looking over at the other elders who remained silent, she grumbled further, "Ah, see children of nowadays! Just come back later this evening and don't stay out too late, because we aren't done talking with you."
As she spoke, she locked eyes with him, then glanced significantly at the young lady who kept her gaze lowered, signaling to him what they had in mind.
Softly, he smiled and said, "It's okay, Insha Allah, I'll be back, Aunt Rahama."
She fell silent, displeased because she loved when they addressed each other using native names, whereas he refused to do so. That was why she never called him "Ahmed," viewing it as a Hausa name belonging to his mother. On his father's side, they only called him "Damilare," "Dami," or "Lanre," because his name was a tribute to his mother's father, a name they deeply respected.
Throughout this exchange, Aunt Mojushola did not utter a word, only puffing air, flaring her nostrils, and rolling her eyes at them in disdain. She carried herself with great seniority, being the first female child of his father, followed by Uncle Bakare, while Aunt Temi (Ramotu) was the lastborn.
With that, he bade them farewell and walked out of the parlor. As he checked his watch, he could hear his aunts throwing passive-aggressive jabs at his mother, remarking that since he refused to marry a woman from their own tribe, here they had brought him a northern lady from his mother's tribe. His father's family was notoriously difficult; they simply loved being in control of everything. In fact, it was originally they who had planted the idea in Kafayat's head to stay around his parents' house to serve them, so that during her NYSC session, she could easily catch his attention and secure a marriage. His paternal relatives desperately wanted Kafayat to marry Ahmed simply because she was also Yoruba.
He walked quickly toward his car, checked his watch, unlocked the door, hopped in, and sped out of the compound.
As he drove smoothly, his mind raced with thoughts of how to end this mounting pressure from his family, especially their obsession with forcing him into marriage.
After a Few Hours...
National Communicable Disease Control (NCDC) Theatre Hall, Maitama, Abuja
5:56 PM
Senior doctors, public health professors, and elite medical minds specializing in disease control bustled in and out of the massive NCDC hall in Abuja, cheerful expressions lighting up their faces.
Today's lecture had been exceptionally engaging. Only now did they fully grasp what the Minister of Health had meant when he told them that their youngest professor, AHMED BELLO JIMADA, was the best and leading young epidemiologist they had hired for this year's CCD project. He was exceptionally hardworking, meticulous, and brilliant, ensuring he brought everyone along with his expertise. Furthermore, he made brilliant references to international practices, breaking them down into simple, digestible terms that even the most inexperienced person could easily grasp.
Today, he had delivered an electronic lecture on major pandemics and prevalent cross-border infectious diseases, such as COVID-19 (coronavirus), Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome (AIDS), Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS), and other viral flus.
Once again, everyone was reminded of his profound composure and intellect; everything he did was calm and calculated. He was very gentle, completely devoid of rowdiness, yet one glance at him told you he possessed an intense, unshakeable self-assurance and burning self-confidence, especially when delivering expert scientific insights.
It was past five o'clock when the lecture concluded, and he stepped out with a poised stride, dressed in his exquisite petite Cambridge grey suit that highlighted his youthful distinction. At just 32 to 33 years old, he stood as one of the youngest leading professors and doctors of epidemiological science in Abuja.
Prof. Dr. Ahmed Bello Jimada was fair-complexioned—not overly pale, placing him in the category of light-skinned Yoruba men—with a sharp, slender nose and facial features inherited from his mother, a pure Fulani woman from Ilorin.
At the same time, he possessed the physical build and robust structure typical of his father’s Yoruba heritage from Oyo State, combined with a striking, well-groomed beard and the refined, handsome features of northern men inherited through his maternal lineage.
As a young man intoxicated by modern education, civilization, and elite status, he had very little time for making new friends, let alone chasing women. From secondary school through university, he had made virtually no new friends; all his associates dated back to his childhood.
His work and studies were his absolute priorities, as he firmly believed that serious girlfriends and new acquaintances were a distraction to his career and success. Consequently, he had never engaged in a genuine, long-term romantic relationship in his life, settling only for brief, casual flings.
Keeping a woman around for a few days or dating someone for a week meant nothing to him; once his work schedule picked up, the romance ended. He had never truly claimed to love any woman deeply. Anyone who approached him and threw herself at him might enjoy his attention for a couple of days or a week, after which, once his attention shifted, she would never see him again.
Many women had tried, given up, and stopped pinning their hopes on him, knowing that once Ahmed was done with a woman, he acted as if she had never existed. His attitude only made women desire him even more as a husband because he was the ultimate "hard-to-get" catch with high standards for romantic partners. He was the kind of man women died to be with—generous with money, indifferent to wealth, yet completely emotionally detached, uncompromising, and radiating a magnetic, effortless charm that made you feel completely insignificant once he was done with you.
Countless women from Nigeria and abroad had sent messages hoping for a chance at romance or marriage, but to this day, he had never spared the time. Many had tried since his twenties, and now, at 33, he lacked nothing in life: education, wealth, good looks, elite pedigree, and being the apple of his mother's eye, Hajiya Khadijatu Muhammad Gidado, a proud Fulani woman from Kwara State, Ilorin.
Ahmed had completed his education in record time, thanks to the exceptional care he received. He had three older half-siblings who were much older than him and took great care of him.
His father, Alhaji Bello Ayodeji Jimada, was a Yoruba man from Oyo, Ibadan, who had migrated peacefully and settled among the Fulanis of Ilorin. Following the death of his first wife, Alaja Simiat Laide, he married his second wife, the Fulani woman Hajiya Khadijatu Muhammad Gidado, who raised the rest of his children.
His eldest brother was Kazeem (known as Aremu / Qasimou), followed by Hamzat Dimeji (Hamusé), and a sister.
Summary
The narrative opens during the "witching hour" in a pitch-black forest, where an older woman and a younger woman perform a dark occult ritual before a towering demonic entity known as the "Goddess of Fire and Revenge." Seeking vengeance, the mother sacrifices a black ram and offers her daughter's future to the goddess. The goddess seals a dark pact, cursing a man named Ahmed Damilare Bello (son of Bello Jimada) and his future Efik/Igbo wife, decreeing that they will never bear children, and that the young woman accompanying them will be a lifelong thorn in their side.
The story then shifts to modern Abuja, introducing Prof. Dr. Ahmed Bello Jimada, a brilliant, wealthy, and emotionally detached 33-year-old epidemiologist. Despite his mother and powerful family's relentless pressure to marry a traditional Yoruba choice named Kafayat—whom his patriarchal relatives aggressively push upon him—Ahmed remains entirely focused on his prestigious medical career, brushing off romantic entanglements with cold indifference.
Description
Family Control vs. Personal Autonomy: The domestic tension revolves around Ahmed's extended family (particularly his aunts and mother), who operate with a tight-knit, tribalistic mindset, attempting to dictate his matrimonial choices (championing Kafayat) while he maintains an unyielding, independent boundary.
Analytics