January 7, 2016, was the exact day the book of my destiny began to unfold—the day I plunged into a profound distress that I fear I may never escape from for the rest of my life. I was sitting inside a commercial tricycle (Adaidaita Sahu), on my way back to the Brigade quarters from my elder sister's house located in the Hotoro neighborhood. My entire attention was completely absorbed by the phone call I was answering from my lover, with whom I had only two months left before our wedding day. "Young lady, please give me a moment to park here. I need to pick up a package for my boss," the tricycle driver's voice broke into my thoughts. I looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a laundry shop. "Okay," I replied. A fatal misfortune never bypasses its appointed day. If I had known what I was about to witness, what on earth would have driven me out of the house today? A sleek black car was attempting to park in front of the shop. Although I am no expert on the price of automobiles, I knew for a certainty that this particular ride was exceptionally high-end. He spent about three minutes after parking; he had unlocked the car door but remained inside. This caught my attention, causing me to focus all my awareness on catching a glimpse of this mysterious figure. Right before my eyes, he stepped out of the vehicle. My heart instantly skipped a beat from just a single glance at him! He was fair-skinned—spotlessly fair—with large, striking eyes so clear they looked as though they had never shed a tear in his life. He didn't have an overly long nose, but his perfectly proportioned lips harmonized beautifully with his round face. He wore a fitted black shirt paired with black three-quarter trousers that stopped at his calves, complemented by a black wristwatch that stood out elegantly against his fair wrist. He did nothing short of completely captivating my soul. Right then and there, a strange sensation washed through my heart and entire body. I let out a soft, heavy sigh, completely unable to tear my gaze away from him. I noticed him scowl slightly as he ran his hand through his glinting hair, which had clearly been meticulously groomed. He ran his fingers through his hair to purposefully dishevel it, an act that felt deliberately provocative because it somehow only enhanced his striking handsomeness. One would think he wasn’t even a Nigerian. By Allah, I never imagined that men of such breathtaking beauty existed within the city of Kano. He turned back toward the car, but instead of stepping fully inside, he simply reached his hand in, pulled out a red facing cap, and put it on. This coincided exactly with the return of my tricycle driver, whose hands were now occupied with a package. I watched intently as the young man walked into the laundry shop, his face still wearing a dark, brooding expression. "I am deeply sorry, Hajiya, for delaying you," the driver apologized as he climbed back in. I flashed a brief, tight smile as we began to drive past the spot. "It's no problem at all," I replied. We had only traveled a short distance when the driver’s voice broke the silence. "His name is Salim. He is the owner of that laundry shop, and he also owns the Seven Thirty restaurant. He is incredibly rude and short-tempered, and he smokes cigarettes heavily. People say he owns a manufacturing company over in the Sharada industrial area which he manages personally, and their family house is located over there as well." I wasn't surprised by the driver's sudden gossip, because I knew it stemmed directly from the intense, unblinking stare he had caught me giving the man he called Salim. "Hmm," I exhaled softly before asking, "Do you know anything else about him apart from that?" "That is all I know," he replied. "You don't happen to have his phone number, do you?" I inquired, my heart hammering against my ribs. He let out a scoffing laugh. "Good grief! Who am I to have his number?" Eager and restless, I pleaded, "Please, turn back and take me back to that spot. If he comes out, I want you to follow his car for me." The tricycle driver swiveled his head around violently, his eyes bulging in sheer shock. "Please protect my safety! I am not ready to die yet, young lady. I have a family depending on me!" I let out a small chuckle. "Just because you follow his car, you'll die?" "Why on earth wouldn't I?" he countered. "Even if I don't lose my life, I know I will face severe consequences. In fact, you might just ensure I spend the remainder of my days rotting in a maximum-security prison." I simply laughed it off. "Fair enough." "Um... you mentioned he smokes cigarettes? How exactly did you find out about that?" I asked, completely desperate to hear his response. The driver replied, "Yes, I have personally seen him at that exact spot on two different occasions puffing away at a cigarette. It seems to have fully consumed his body because he smokes openly in front of absolutely anyone." I nodded thoughtfully. "May Allah guide him." We eventually arrived at our neighborhood, and I didn't utter another word, completely lost in a deep trance of thoughts about Salim.
Part 2: The Toxic Household
Uttering my formal Islamic greetings, I walked into the house, only to find Mama Saude meticulously sorting through a basin of rice. The firewood stove she had lit was producing an unbearable amount of thick smoke, filling the entire compound with a suffocating, burnt odor. Mama Saude is my father’s second wife. He married her not too long ago following his bitter divorce from my biological mother—a separation for which I was the direct cause. Every single time my mind wanders back to that reality, I am plunged into deep distress, and on some days, it drives me to bitter tears. Mama Saude is a thoroughly unpleasant woman. She harbors an absolute hatred for me and is constantly looking for any malicious opportunity to instigate conflict between my father and me. To make matters worse, my father blindly believes absolutely every lie she feeds him, taking her words as gospel before unleashing a torrent of furious abuse upon me. Even so, I rarely blame him entirely, since my own rebellious nature carries the heavier weight; I am incredibly stubborn and hard-headed. That is exactly why everyone is desperately rushing to see me married off, just so the entire household can finally find peace. Hmm! As this story progresses, you will eventually find out exactly who I am. Completely ignoring Mama's presence, I marched straight into my bedroom, which was quite bare and devoid of fancy furniture. I carelessly tossed my bag aside and collapsed heavily onto my mattress. The afternoon (Asr) call to prayer woke me up from the short slumber I had drifted into. I went straight to the bathroom to take a shower, stepped out, and performed my ablutions. Just as I was about to re-enter my room, I heard Mama’s greeting as she walked back into the compound. I refused to answer her, merely drawing a sharp, irritated hiss (tsaki). I wondered what on earth was wrong with Mama Saude; she knew perfectly well that I was fast asleep inside, yet she walked out of the house without even bothering to lock the main entrance door behind her. What if an intruder had walked in and robbed me blind? "May Allah guide us," I muttered to myself, turning to step into my room. Before I could cross the threshold, her piercing voice barked from behind, "You! Whose father are you directing that reckless comment at?!" I gave her the absolute silent treatment, refusing to acknowledge her presence, and shut myself inside the room. If I dared to engage her in a verbal match, we would continue trading insults right until the evening (Maghrib) prayers. She simply never looked past my actions or let things slide, and she never grew weary of endless nagging. Thank God my rebellious streaks weren't acting up today; otherwise, I would have matched her toxicity blow for blow. This toxic back-and-forth had become a daily routine; we lived together like bitter co-wives or fierce rivals. This was the exact reason I despised staying at home, preferring to wander the streets all day, even though it meant facing my father's explosive wrath whenever I returned. Meet Zinatu—a young, fiercely proud, and independent young lady. She was exactly twenty years old. She had completed her secondary school education three years prior. As for Islamic school (Islamiyya), she had long since abandoned it. Her father had tried everything within his power to get her to behave so he could allow her to further her education and perhaps acquire a university degree, but he ultimately declared it an absolute impossibility. Given her highly rebellious nature, he saw absolutely no reason to send her to a higher institution; he lived in constant terror of her mixing with untrustworthy men and street-smart, corrupt women, because Zinatu simply never listened to authority. Yet, Allah had blessed Zinatu with an irresistible charm that drew suitors to her effortlessly; wherever she set foot, men would instantly fall over themselves trying to catch her attention. She, however, gave men the absolute cold shoulder and completely refused to entertain their advances. She didn't believe in the concept of love at all, viewing relationships as nothing but a vehicle for unnecessary suffering. This was precisely why she had delayed settling down with a suitor for so long. She did not possess a single female friend. Instead, her male friends were far too numerous to count. To her, every male was a potential companion, a lifestyle that caused the public to view her as a loose, wayward girl, with some even suspecting her of harboring dark, immoral habits. My obsession with Salim had nowhere near cooled down by the time night fell and I retired to bed. For the first time in my life, despite how quickly I usually drifted off to sleep, slumber completely eluded me. Salim’s face kept flashing vividly across my mind like a stubborn phantom. Was I truly losing my mind over a complete stranger? Left with no choice, I stood up from my bed, picked up the Holy Qur'an, and began to recite verses until drowsiness finally overcame me. The dawn (Fajr) call to prayer woke me up. I stood up, performed my prayers, and immediately went back to sleep because I hadn't had nearly enough rest. Suddenly, Shuuu! The loud blare of Baba turning on his radio shattered the morning silence, completely ruining my morning sleep. I hissed in frustration and was about to roll over when his booming voice rang out: "Zinatu! You, Zinatu!" "Oh great! Trouble is brewing already. Daybreak brings nothing but chaos," I muttered aloud, reluctantly standing up to wrap myself in a hijab before stepping out into the courtyard. I found him sitting right at the entrance of his room, while Mama was busy setting up her morning business spot, as she specialized in selling rice cakes (Waina) and peanut cakes (Kuli-Kuli) every single morning. I offered her my mornings greetings, which she accepted with a cold, clipped tone. I then looked at Baba, who was gesturing firmly toward the space beside him, signaling me to sit down. "Oh, poor Zinatu! May Allah deliver me from this," I prayed silently. Whenever Baba called me in that specific, serious tone and offered me a seat, it meant a heavy confrontation was imminent—it was either a harsh lecture or a stern moral warning. Before I could even finish reviewing my recent misdeeds in my head, his voice cut through the air: "Now, Zinatu, do you honestly believe this reckless lifestyle you have chosen for yourself will ever lead you to a path of salvation?" "Subhanallah! Baba, what on earth have I done now? Or has someone fed you lies about me again?" I asked, casting a sharp, sideways glance at Mama. Baba’s face instantly hardened into a fierce scowl as he bellowed, "Just now at the mosque, I was informed by reliable neighbors that you were spotted yesterday in public with men teaching you how to ride a bicycle! For heaven's sake, Zinatu! Why on earth do you never fear public scandal and societal humiliation? Is your ultimate goal in life to constantly drag my name through the mud so that the entire town can point fingers at me as an irresponsible father? For the love of God, protect my integrity and let me marry you off in peace! None of your older sisters ever behaved in this shameful manner!" The sudden, vulnerable crack in his voice at the end of his lecture instantly pierced my heart with deep guilt. Deep down, I truly felt a profound pity for my father and the exhausting struggles he went through just to see me reform. "I am deeply sorry, Baba. I promise I will stop, In sha Allah. Please just keep me in your prayers," I said softly. I stood up and walked straight back to my room without waiting to hear another word from him. "Don't you dare stop! As for me, I am absolutely desperate for you to pack your bags and leave this house so I can finally have some peace and be rid of your miserable sight!" Mama Saude barked after me, drawing a sharp hiss. I fell onto my mattress with a wide smile, suddenly remembering Anas teasing me yesterday, telling me that since I had fallen off the bicycle three times, I would never master the art of riding. "May Allah guide these gossiping neighbors," I muttered, closing my eyes as sleep swiftly swept me away again.
Part 3: The Obsession with Salim
THE WAYWARD WIFE...! (She commands no respect) BY SADIYA ABDUL (Maizafafa) FIRST CLASS WRITERS ASSOCIATION PAGE 2 The persistent ringing of my phone woke me up from my slumber. I woke up to the loud, chaotic chatter of customers purchasing morning rice cakes outside. Before any other thought could register in my mind, Salim’s striking image instantly took over my consciousness. I squeezed my eyes shut, vividly replaying the exact manner in which I had seen him yesterday. I lay there for a considerable time, completely lost in wild fantasies, before finally forcing myself to stand up. I didn't even glance at the phone screen to see who was calling; I simply threw on a small hijab and stepped out to take a shower. Missing breakfast didn't bother me in the slightest—after all, did I even have the luxury of someone caring enough to feed me in this house? My biological mother was the only person who ever forced me to eat. Nowadays, even for lunch, I cooked my own separate meals; I had long since established my independence from Mama’s degrading behavior regarding food. Whenever I had leftovers, I would willingly hand them over to her, and she would accept and eat them without an ounce of shame, for she was undeniably greedy. After dressing up in a beautiful cotton long gown (Atamfa), I wrapped a large, decent shawl around myself, slid into my shoes, picked up my bag, and prepared to head out. Just as I reached the door, my phone began to ring persistently again. "You absolute bringer of misery, I almost forgot about you," I muttered, pulling the device out of my bag. Just as I suspected, it was Habib calling. "May misery marry you instead, since you have stubbornly refused to let me go," I whispered maliciously before finally answering the call. "Hmm," he let out a heavy, exhausted sigh before speaking. "My heart is on the absolute verge of shattering into pieces, Zinatu." "It might as well completely disintegrate," I muttered under my breath. "What did you say?" he asked. I let out a tight smile and countered, "What on earth stopped you from coming over yesterday...?" "Who am I to disobey your strict commands? I called you repeatedly but you refused to answer, and you had already explicitly warned me never to show up at your house unless I informed you beforehand." I smiled to myself. "Ah, that's very true! So, how are you doing?" "Well, I am hanging in there, but I am far from fine. By Allah, Zinatu, I don't think my soul will ever find true peace until I fully possess you as my wife. These remaining two months feel like an agonizing two years, and..." I quickly cut him off mid-sentence. "Hey! Hold on a minute. You are clearly settling in for a very long chat, but I have an incredibly urgent errand to run right now and you are delaying me. Just come over tonight so we can discuss everything properly, okay?" Without waiting for his response, I abruptly ended the call, tossed the phone back into my bag, locked my bedroom door securely, and pocketed the key. "And where do you think you are off to now?" Mama questioned sharply from beneath the small makeshift canopy where she fried her cakes. "Wherever Allah directs my steps," I shot back over my shoulder as I walked out of the compound. I headed straight to my mother’s family house. I found her inside her room swept away in chores, and I immediately sat down, greeted her, took the broom from her hand, and finished the sweeping for her. "Zinatu," she called my name in a calm, measured voice. "Yes, Ummi," I responded, turning my full attention toward her. She looked at me intently. "Are you truly, honestly ready to go through with this marriage?" I let out a brief smile. "What makes you ask that, Ummi?" "I notice you don't seem to be making any spiritual or mental preparations whatsoever, even though the wedding date is fast approaching," she explained, standing up to hand me a plastic bag containing several newly purchased cooking pots. She explained she had bought them to add to my bridal trousseau (Kayan Lefe). I smiled warmly. "Thank you so much, Ummi. May Allah reward you abundantly." She didn't offer a direct reply but instead stood up to brew a hot cup of tea for me. I drank just over half the cup before standing up to bid her farewell. "Aren't you going to greet your grandmother before you leave?" Ummi inquired. My face instantly tightened in annoyance. The truth was, my grandmother and I were on completely terrible terms. To be completely frank, apart from my biological mother, I harbored a deep grudge against absolutely anyone who dared to tell me the bitter truth about my behavior. I lifted the curtain of her room without uttering a single greeting. Seeing her seated inside folding clothes, and despite our eyes meeting in a direct clash, I simply dropped the curtain, turned around, and raised my voice to falsely tell Ummi that grandmother was fast asleep. I stood by the roadside for a considerable time. It wasn't that I lacked a vehicle to transport me; rather, my mind was locked in a fierce battle against the reckless directions my heart was commanding me to take. Ultimately, I surrendered to my desires, hailed a tricycle, climbed inside, and gave the driver the exact address. I alighted at the exact spot where I had witnessed Salim park his luxury car the previous day and began looking around frantically, but there was absolutely no sign of any vehicle resembling his. Summoning every ounce of audacity within me, I marched into the laundry shop with a fierce, intimidating scowl to prevent anyone from looking down on me. I approached the very first employee I ran into and demanded, "Excuse me, has Salim arrived yet?" The worker’s eyes widened in surprise. "Who on earth told you that he comes here every single day?" I deepened my scowl and lied smoothly, "We explicitly agreed to meet up here today, so I am incredibly shocked by his absence." I began aggressively tapping on my phone screen, placed it against my ear, and let out a dramatic hiss. "Can you believe this? I have been calling his line for ages and it's completely switched off, yet he was desperately insisting on seeing me today. Honestly, Salim is nothing but a walking problem!" "Let me see the phone number you are calling," the employee offered. My heart hammered in sudden panic, but I completely masked it, maintaining my composure. "Why don't you show me the number you have on your phone instead?" Without a single suspicion, he unlocked his phone, retrieved the contact, and handed it over to me. A surge of intense triumph washed through my veins as I looked at the digits. "Ah, you see? This is completely different from the number I have saved on my phone. Honestly, I don't even know how many secret lines that man operates; he behaves just like a kidnapper." I quickly copied the phone number down onto my device, handed his phone back, and offered him a brief word of gratitude. I walked out of the establishment overflowing with joy, looking like someone who had just received tidings of their absolute greatest life ambition being fulfilled. I saved the contact under the name Salim, dropped the phone into my bag, and walked away with a wide smirk. I headed straight to the market and purchased all the food items and groceries I lacked, including a whole chicken, solely because my heart was brimming with happiness today. Upon returning home, I found Mama in the middle of the courtyard sorting through rice. Despite the loud, clear greetings I belted out, she refused to cast a single glance in my direction, let alone answer. It was glaringly obvious she was in a thoroughly foul mood today. I simply smiled to myself and marched straight into my room without uttering another word. Throughout the entire time I spent preparing my meal, Mama completely ignored me, focusing entirely on struggling to ignite her firewood stove. Her mouth, however, refused to remain shut as she unleashed a non-stop stream of bitter complaints, lamenting that she was thoroughly sick and tired of the sheer misery of cooking with firewood. I finished my preparations and retreated to my room, because I kept my kerosene stove locked inside to prevent Mama from constantly stealing my fuel. Just as I was about to finish frying my stew, I heard Mama screaming my name at the top of her lungs: "Zinatu! Zinatu!" "What is it?" I called back from inside. Suddenly, she barged into my room holding a plastic bowl, saying smoothly, "Well, I noticed you headed out this morning without eating a single bite... so I decided to set aside some rice cakes for you." She placed a plate of stiff, cold rice cakes before me while instinctively sticking her neck out to spy on the pot of stew simmering on my stove. I let out a mocking, sarcastic laugh. "Oh, come on, Mama... since when do you care about the state of my stomach? Is today the first time I've ever gone out without eating anything?" She quickly adjusted her head tie with the frantic, nervous movements typical of guilty people. "Well, I only mentioned it because I realized you are about to get married very soon..." "So if I don't eat your breakfast, the wedding won't hold, right?" I interrupted her sharply. Her face instantly contorted into a furious glare. "Listen to me, girl, I will absolutely not tolerate your blatant disrespect! I only approached you out of sheer kindness, so you can go ahead and starve for all I care!" I smiled knowingly, picked up a clean bowl, served her a generous portion of my freshly cooked food, and handed it over. "You smelled the rich aroma of my stew from outside, Mama. You could have just asked for it directly instead of playing games." She snatched the bowl from my hand and stormed out of the room without uttering a single word. After finishing my meal, I performed my prayers, lay down on my bed, and pulled out my phone. The device suddenly felt incredibly intimidating solely due to the dangerous presence of Salim’s newly acquired phone number. I stared at the digits for a very long time before finally gathering the courage to hit the dial button. The line rang all the way to the end, but he refused to answer. This prompted me to dial a second time, but the outcome remained exactly the same. At that point, a stubborn determination took over my mind. I began dialing his number repeatedly in rapid succession without a care in the world, treating it like a high-stakes video game where I was desperately trying to achieve a high score. I dialed his line exactly nine times! Just as I was about to initiate the tenth attempt, a text message from him flashed across my screen. I opened it with frantic haste, desperate to see what excuse he would offer for his refusal to answer my calls. "Who is this?" That was the only phrase written in the text message. I quickly sent a reply, typing as though he already knew me: "It's Zinatu." "Who on earth is that? And where are you calling from?" he shot back instantly. I hissed in frustration and decided to call the line once more to see if he would answer. Fortunately for me, he picked up. I immediately softened my voice into a seductive, high-pitched tone—even though, frankly, I did not naturally possess a sweet, melodious voice—and murmured, "Assalamu alaikum." I heard him draw a sharp, irritated hiss on the other end. Instead of returning the Islamic greeting, he snapped aggressively, "Listen to me, young lady, get straight to the point! I don't have time for this nonsense!" "Subhanallah!" I gasped silently. It was glaringly obvious he was a thoroughly rude and arrogant man. I cleared my throat thoroughly before speaking. "It's Zinatu." He let out yet another sharp hiss. "Did you call me repeatedly just to teach me your name? Fine, I have memorized it. Now, what on earth do you want?!" My heart sank into my stomach in sudden panic, and my mind raced to find a plausible explanation. Deep down, I knew I lacked a single logical reason for my actions. Summoning my courage, I blurted out, "Um... I saw you yesterday as you were about to walk into the laundry shop, and I found you incredibly attractive. I desperately wanted to strike up a conversation with you but I didn't get the opportunity. And then last night..." Click! The line went completely dead before I could even finish my sentence. He had abruptly hung up on me. I frantically tried to redial the line, but the call refused to go through. I immediately suspected he had tossed my number into his blacklist. I sat there in dead silence, reviewing my next move like someone acting under a powerful, irresistible command. I began drafting a text message to him: "If my words offended or upset you in any way, please forgive me for the sake of Allah. I promise, In sha Allah, I will never bother you with such comments ever again." I sat waiting anxiously for his response, but absolute silence ensued. I remained seated in deep thought until the afternoon (Asr) call to prayer rang out. I stood up, performed my prayers, took a shower, wrapped myself in a large hijab that flowed all the way to my ankles, and headed outside. I went straight to Hamza’s family house, stood at the entrance, and called him out. We sat on the concrete bench right outside his house, chatting away freely like old childhood friends. I finally headed back home at dusk, because Habib had already informed me he would be coming over right after the evening (Isha) prayers.
Part 4: The Shadow of the Past and the Unwanted Suitor
THE WAYWARD WIFE...! (She commands no respect) BY SADIYA ABDUL (Maizafafa) FIRST CLASS WRITERS ASSOCIATION PAGE 3 Habib was my first cousin; his biological father and my father were brothers from the same mother and father. His family residence was located in the Tudun Wada quarters, and he was the eldest child of his household. He had younger sisters, some of whom were my agemates, but I maintained absolutely no personal relationship with them; we only traded casual pleasantries whenever we crossed paths during extended family functions. Habib had harbored a deep passion for me ever since we were children. The sheer, overwhelming intensity of his love for me was the sole reason I eventually began to pity him, leading me to accept his advances. To claim that I was truly in love with Habib would be an absolute lie; the most I could say was that I found him highly admirable and felt a deep, biological affection for him as family. He worked as an optometrist at the Nasarawa Hospital. He had endured unspeakable hardships and agonizing struggles just to convince me to accept his marriage proposal. Furthermore, he strictly abided by every single rule and condition I laid down for him as though he were dealing with his own mother. Every single month, without fail, he would count out ten thousand naira and hand it over to me, stating it was for my minor personal expenses—all because he was terrified of any wealthy man enticing me with money. He never spared any opportunity to offer moral advice whenever he visited. Ever since the exact date our wedding was officially finalized by our families, Habib had personally confronted my closest male friends, Anas and Hamza—with whom I shared the deepest bonds among all my companions. He issued a stern, menacing warning to them, declaring that they must cut off all ties with me completely and that he must never catch them interacting with me again. Anas was the one who marched straight to my house to inform me of the confrontation. The moment the words left his mouth, I immediately placed an emergency call to Habib. He faced a terrifying storm of pure wrath from me that day. I explicitly made him understand the immense value and importance of my male friends, warning him fiercely that if he ever cast a malicious glance at any of them again, he could consider our marriage engagement completely void—because, by Allah, I would hand back his bride price that very same day. He completely panicked, trembling as he begged for my forgiveness, thoroughly intimidated until I almost pitied him. He finally relented, vowing he would never interfere in their business again. He arrived right after the evening (Isha) prayers, and we sat together chatting for a considerable time. He excitedly informed me that his family would be bringing over the bridal gifts (Kayan Lefe) the following week, his entire demeanor brimming with restless anticipation and pure joy. As for me, I was trapped in a confusing void, unable to decipher whether I was experiencing happiness or absolute dread. At exactly 10:00 PM, I attempted to dial Salim’s number once more, but the call still refused to connect. It was only then that I realized my own foolishness; I had completely failed to ask for the exact location of the other businesses he reportedly managed. I decided to compose another text message and sent it to his line: "May the peace of Allah be upon you. I wish you nothing but the absolute best in life, and I pray that everlasting joy fills your heart. May a beautiful smile grace your handsome face forever." "From Zinatu." I smiled to himself, acting as though I had absolute certainty that he would read it, offered a quick prayer, and lay down to sleep with his thoughts filling my mind. Salim was quietly relaxing and chatting on his phone when the text message alert chimed. He curled his lips in complete disdain after reading through the contents, shaking his head at the utter madness and desperation of some women. The following morning, the very first thing I did was send him another warm morning text message. I tried calling his line again, but it was still blocked. Driven by sheer desperation, I headed out to a local vendor, purchased a brand new SIM card, and registered it. Without wasting a single microsecond, I slotted the card into my phone, loaded it with call credit, and placed a direct call to Salim. The time was exactly 10:30 AM. The phone rang all the way to the end without him picking up. This prompted me to immediately press the redial button. This time around, he answered the call with a formal Islamic greeting: "Assalamu alaikum." I sat up instantly on my bed, my chest heaving and my heart hammering wildly against my ribs. I was completely unprepared for what to say to him, having never anticipated that he would actually answer a strange number. Summoning my courage, I swallowed hard and returned his greeting, following it up by asking how he was doing. He answered my greeting coldly before demanding bluntly, "To whom am I speaking, please?" "It's Zinatu. Please, for the love of God, just hear me out," I pleaded, my voice trembling with the terrifying fear that he would cut me off or hang up the phone immediately. He let out a sharp, irritated hiss before barking, "What on earth do you want?! You are seriously harassing me now, and you are about to completely infringe upon my personal rights!" He spoke with an explosive, aggressive fury, and that—
Part 1: The Opened Ledger of Destiny
January 7, 2016, was the exact day the book of my destiny began to unfold—the day I plunged into a profound distress that I fear I may never escape from for the rest of my life.
I was sitting inside a commercial tricycle (Adaidaita Sahu), on my way back to the Brigade quarters from my elder sister's house located in the Hotoro neighborhood. My entire attention was completely absorbed by the phone call I was answering from my lover, with whom I had only two months left before our wedding day.
"Young lady, please give me a moment to park here. I need to pick up a package for my boss," the tricycle driver's voice broke into my thoughts.
I looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a laundry shop. "Okay," I replied.
A fatal misfortune never bypasses its appointed day. If I had known what I was about to witness, what on earth would have driven me out of the house today? A sleek black car was attempting to park in front of the shop. Although I am no expert on the price of automobiles, I knew for a certainty that this particular ride was exceptionally high-end. He spent about three minutes after parking; he had unlocked the car door but remained inside. This caught my attention, causing me to focus all my awareness on catching a glimpse of this mysterious figure.
Right before my eyes, he stepped out of the vehicle. My heart instantly skipped a beat from just a single glance at him!
He was fair-skinned—spotlessly fair—with large, striking eyes so clear they looked as though they had never shed a tear in his life. He didn't have an overly long nose, but his perfectly proportioned lips harmonized beautifully with his round face. He wore a fitted black shirt paired with black three-quarter trousers that stopped at his calves, complemented by a black wristwatch that stood out elegantly against his fair wrist.
He did nothing short of completely captivating my soul. Right then and there, a strange sensation washed through my heart and entire body. I let out a soft, heavy sigh, completely unable to tear my gaze away from him.
I noticed him scowl slightly as he ran his hand through his glinting hair, which had clearly been meticulously groomed. He ran his fingers through his hair to purposefully dishevel it, an act that felt deliberately provocative because it somehow only enhanced his striking handsomeness. One would think he wasn’t even a Nigerian. By Allah, I never imagined that men of such breathtaking beauty existed within the city of Kano.
He turned back toward the car, but instead of stepping fully inside, he simply reached his hand in, pulled out a red facing cap, and put it on.
This coincided exactly with the return of my tricycle driver, whose hands were now occupied with a package.
I watched intently as the young man walked into the laundry shop, his face still wearing a dark, brooding expression.
"I am deeply sorry, Hajiya, for delaying you," the driver apologized as he climbed back in.
I flashed a brief, tight smile as we began to drive past the spot. "It's no problem at all," I replied.
We had only traveled a short distance when the driver’s voice broke the silence. "His name is Salim. He is the owner of that laundry shop, and he also owns the Seven Thirty restaurant. He is incredibly rude and short-tempered, and he smokes cigarettes heavily. People say he owns a manufacturing company over in the Sharada industrial area which he manages personally, and their family house is located over there as well."
I wasn't surprised by the driver's sudden gossip, because I knew it stemmed directly from the intense, unblinking stare he had caught me giving the man he called Salim.
"Hmm," I exhaled softly before asking, "Do you know anything else about him apart from that?"
"That is all I know," he replied.
"You don't happen to have his phone number, do you?" I inquired, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He let out a scoffing laugh. "Good grief! Who am I to have his number?"
Eager and restless, I pleaded, "Please, turn back and take me back to that spot. If he comes out, I want you to follow his car for me."
The tricycle driver swiveled his head around violently, his eyes bulging in sheer shock. "Please protect my safety! I am not ready to die yet, young lady. I have a family depending on me!"
I let out a small chuckle. "Just because you follow his car, you'll die?"
"Why on earth wouldn't I?" he countered. "Even if I don't lose my life, I know I will face severe consequences. In fact, you might just ensure I spend the remainder of my days rotting in a maximum-security prison."
I simply laughed it off. "Fair enough."
"Um... you mentioned he smokes cigarettes? How exactly did you find out about that?" I asked, completely desperate to hear his response.
The driver replied, "Yes, I have personally seen him at that exact spot on two different occasions puffing away at a cigarette. It seems to have fully consumed his body because he smokes openly in front of absolutely anyone."
I nodded thoughtfully. "May Allah guide him."
We eventually arrived at our neighborhood, and I didn't utter another word, completely lost in a deep trance of thoughts about Salim.
Part 2: The Toxic Household
Uttering my formal Islamic greetings, I walked into the house, only to find Mama Saude meticulously sorting through a basin of rice. The firewood stove she had lit was producing an unbearable amount of thick smoke, filling the entire compound with a suffocating, burnt odor.
Mama Saude is my father’s second wife. He married her not too long ago following his bitter divorce from my biological mother—a separation for which I was the direct cause. Every single time my mind wanders back to that reality, I am plunged into deep distress, and on some days, it drives me to bitter tears.
Mama Saude is a thoroughly unpleasant woman. She harbors an absolute hatred for me and is constantly looking for any malicious opportunity to instigate conflict between my father and me. To make matters worse, my father blindly believes absolutely every lie she feeds him, taking her words as gospel before unleashing a torrent of furious abuse upon me. Even so, I rarely blame him entirely, since my own rebellious nature carries the heavier weight; I am incredibly stubborn and hard-headed. That is exactly why everyone is desperately rushing to see me married off, just so the entire household can finally find peace.
Hmm! As this story progresses, you will eventually find out exactly who I am.
Completely ignoring Mama's presence, I marched straight into my bedroom, which was quite bare and devoid of fancy furniture. I carelessly tossed my bag aside and collapsed heavily onto my mattress.
The afternoon (Asr) call to prayer woke me up from the short slumber I had drifted into. I went straight to the bathroom to take a shower, stepped out, and performed my ablutions. Just as I was about to re-enter my room, I heard Mama’s greeting as she walked back into the compound. I refused to answer her, merely drawing a sharp, irritated hiss (tsaki). I wondered what on earth was wrong with Mama Saude; she knew perfectly well that I was fast asleep inside, yet she walked out of the house without even bothering to lock the main entrance door behind her. What if an intruder had walked in and robbed me blind?
"May Allah guide us," I muttered to myself, turning to step into my room.
Before I could cross the threshold, her piercing voice barked from behind, "You! Whose father are you directing that reckless comment at?!"
I gave her the absolute silent treatment, refusing to acknowledge her presence, and shut myself inside the room. If I dared to engage her in a verbal match, we would continue trading insults right until the evening (Maghrib) prayers. She simply never looked past my actions or let things slide, and she never grew weary of endless nagging. Thank God my rebellious streaks weren't acting up today; otherwise, I would have matched her toxicity blow for blow. This toxic back-and-forth had become a daily routine; we lived together like bitter co-wives or fierce rivals. This was the exact reason I despised staying at home, preferring to wander the streets all day, even though it meant facing my father's explosive wrath whenever I returned.
Meet Zinatu—a young, fiercely proud, and independent young lady. She was exactly twenty years old. She had completed her secondary school education three years prior. As for Islamic school (Islamiyya), she had long since abandoned it. Her father had tried everything within his power to get her to behave so he could allow her to further her education and perhaps acquire a university degree, but he ultimately declared it an absolute impossibility. Given her highly rebellious nature, he saw absolutely no reason to send her to a higher institution; he lived in constant terror of her mixing with untrustworthy men and street-smart, corrupt women, because Zinatu simply never listened to authority.
Yet, Allah had blessed Zinatu with an irresistible charm that drew suitors to her effortlessly; wherever she set foot, men would instantly fall over themselves trying to catch her attention. She, however, gave men the absolute cold shoulder and completely refused to entertain their advances. She didn't believe in the concept of love at all, viewing relationships as nothing but a vehicle for unnecessary suffering. This was precisely why she had delayed settling down with a suitor for so long.
She did not possess a single female friend. Instead, her male friends were far too numerous to count. To her, every male was a potential companion, a lifestyle that caused the public to view her as a loose, wayward girl, with some even suspecting her of harboring dark, immoral habits.
My obsession with Salim had nowhere near cooled down by the time night fell and I retired to bed. For the first time in my life, despite how quickly I usually drifted off to sleep, slumber completely eluded me. Salim’s face kept flashing vividly across my mind like a stubborn phantom. Was I truly losing my mind over a complete stranger? Left with no choice, I stood up from my bed, picked up the Holy Qur'an, and began to recite verses until drowsiness finally overcame me.
The dawn (Fajr) call to prayer woke me up. I stood up, performed my prayers, and immediately went back to sleep because I hadn't had nearly enough rest. Suddenly, Shuuu! The loud blare of Baba turning on his radio shattered the morning silence, completely ruining my morning sleep. I hissed in frustration and was about to roll over when his booming voice rang out:
"Zinatu! You, Zinatu!"
"Oh great! Trouble is brewing already. Daybreak brings nothing but chaos," I muttered aloud, reluctantly standing up to wrap myself in a hijab before stepping out into the courtyard.
I found him sitting right at the entrance of his room, while Mama was busy setting up her morning business spot, as she specialized in selling rice cakes (Waina) and peanut cakes (Kuli-Kuli) every single morning. I offered her my mornings greetings, which she accepted with a cold, clipped tone. I then looked at Baba, who was gesturing firmly toward the space beside him, signaling me to sit down.
"Oh, poor Zinatu! May Allah deliver me from this," I prayed silently. Whenever Baba called me in that specific, serious tone and offered me a seat, it meant a heavy confrontation was imminent—it was either a harsh lecture or a stern moral warning. Before I could even finish reviewing my recent misdeeds in my head, his voice cut through the air:
"Now, Zinatu, do you honestly believe this reckless lifestyle you have chosen for yourself will ever lead you to a path of salvation?"
"Subhanallah! Baba, what on earth have I done now? Or has someone fed you lies about me again?" I asked, casting a sharp, sideways glance at Mama.
Baba’s face instantly hardened into a fierce scowl as he bellowed, "Just now at the mosque, I was informed by reliable neighbors that you were spotted yesterday in public with men teaching you how to ride a bicycle! For heaven's sake, Zinatu! Why on earth do you never fear public scandal and societal humiliation? Is your ultimate goal in life to constantly drag my name through the mud so that the entire town can point fingers at me as an irresponsible father? For the love of God, protect my integrity and let me marry you off in peace! None of your older sisters ever behaved in this shameful manner!"
The sudden, vulnerable crack in his voice at the end of his lecture instantly pierced my heart with deep guilt. Deep down, I truly felt a profound pity for my father and the exhausting struggles he went through just to see me reform.
"I am deeply sorry, Baba. I promise I will stop, In sha Allah. Please just keep me in your prayers," I said softly. I stood up and walked straight back to my room without waiting to hear another word from him.
"Don't you dare stop! As for me, I am absolutely desperate for you to pack your bags and leave this house so I can finally have some peace and be rid of your miserable sight!" Mama Saude barked after me, drawing a sharp hiss.
I fell onto my mattress with a wide smile, suddenly remembering Anas teasing me yesterday, telling me that since I had fallen off the bicycle three times, I would never master the art of riding.
"May Allah guide these gossiping neighbors," I muttered, closing my eyes as sleep swiftly swept me away again.
Part 3: The Obsession with Salim
THE WAYWARD WIFE...!
(She commands no respect)
BY SADIYA ABDUL
(Maizafafa)
FIRST CLASS WRITERS ASSOCIATION
PAGE 2
The persistent ringing of my phone woke me up from my slumber. I woke up to the loud, chaotic chatter of customers purchasing morning rice cakes outside. Before any other thought could register in my mind, Salim’s striking image instantly took over my consciousness. I squeezed my eyes shut, vividly replaying the exact manner in which I had seen him yesterday. I lay there for a considerable time, completely lost in wild fantasies, before finally forcing myself to stand up. I didn't even glance at the phone screen to see who was calling; I simply threw on a small hijab and stepped out to take a shower.
Missing breakfast didn't bother me in the slightest—after all, did I even have the luxury of someone caring enough to feed me in this house? My biological mother was the only person who ever forced me to eat. Nowadays, even for lunch, I cooked my own separate meals; I had long since established my independence from Mama’s degrading behavior regarding food. Whenever I had leftovers, I would willingly hand them over to her, and she would accept and eat them without an ounce of shame, for she was undeniably greedy.
After dressing up in a beautiful cotton long gown (Atamfa), I wrapped a large, decent shawl around myself, slid into my shoes, picked up my bag, and prepared to head out. Just as I reached the door, my phone began to ring persistently again.
"You absolute bringer of misery, I almost forgot about you," I muttered, pulling the device out of my bag. Just as I suspected, it was Habib calling.
"May misery marry you instead, since you have stubbornly refused to let me go," I whispered maliciously before finally answering the call.
"Hmm," he let out a heavy, exhausted sigh before speaking. "My heart is on the absolute verge of shattering into pieces, Zinatu."
"It might as well completely disintegrate," I muttered under my breath.
"What did you say?" he asked.
I let out a tight smile and countered, "What on earth stopped you from coming over yesterday...?"
"Who am I to disobey your strict commands? I called you repeatedly but you refused to answer, and you had already explicitly warned me never to show up at your house unless I informed you beforehand."
I smiled to myself. "Ah, that's very true! So, how are you doing?"
"Well, I am hanging in there, but I am far from fine. By Allah, Zinatu, I don't think my soul will ever find true peace until I fully possess you as my wife. These remaining two months feel like an agonizing two years, and..."
I quickly cut him off mid-sentence. "Hey! Hold on a minute. You are clearly settling in for a very long chat, but I have an incredibly urgent errand to run right now and you are delaying me. Just come over tonight so we can discuss everything properly, okay?" Without waiting for his response, I abruptly ended the call, tossed the phone back into my bag, locked my bedroom door securely, and pocketed the key.
"And where do you think you are off to now?" Mama questioned sharply from beneath the small makeshift canopy where she fried her cakes.
"Wherever Allah directs my steps," I shot back over my shoulder as I walked out of the compound.
I headed straight to my mother’s family house. I found her inside her room swept away in chores, and I immediately sat down, greeted her, took the broom from her hand, and finished the sweeping for her.
"Zinatu," she called my name in a calm, measured voice.
"Yes, Ummi," I responded, turning my full attention toward her.
She looked at me intently. "Are you truly, honestly ready to go through with this marriage?"
I let out a brief smile. "What makes you ask that, Ummi?"
"I notice you don't seem to be making any spiritual or mental preparations whatsoever, even though the wedding date is fast approaching," she explained, standing up to hand me a plastic bag containing several newly purchased cooking pots. She explained she had bought them to add to my bridal trousseau (Kayan Lefe).
I smiled warmly. "Thank you so much, Ummi. May Allah reward you abundantly."
She didn't offer a direct reply but instead stood up to brew a hot cup of tea for me. I drank just over half the cup before standing up to bid her farewell.
"Aren't you going to greet your grandmother before you leave?" Ummi inquired.
My face instantly tightened in annoyance. The truth was, my grandmother and I were on completely terrible terms. To be completely frank, apart from my biological mother, I harbored a deep grudge against absolutely anyone who dared to tell me the bitter truth about my behavior. I lifted the curtain of her room without uttering a single greeting. Seeing her seated inside folding clothes, and despite our eyes meeting in a direct clash, I simply dropped the curtain, turned around, and raised my voice to falsely tell Ummi that grandmother was fast asleep.
I stood by the roadside for a considerable time. It wasn't that I lacked a vehicle to transport me; rather, my mind was locked in a fierce battle against the reckless directions my heart was commanding me to take. Ultimately, I surrendered to my desires, hailed a tricycle, climbed inside, and gave the driver the exact address.
I alighted at the exact spot where I had witnessed Salim park his luxury car the previous day and began looking around frantically, but there was absolutely no sign of any vehicle resembling his. Summoning every ounce of audacity within me, I marched into the laundry shop with a fierce, intimidating scowl to prevent anyone from looking down on me. I approached the very first employee I ran into and demanded, "Excuse me, has Salim arrived yet?"
The worker’s eyes widened in surprise. "Who on earth told you that he comes here every single day?"
I deepened my scowl and lied smoothly, "We explicitly agreed to meet up here today, so I am incredibly shocked by his absence." I began aggressively tapping on my phone screen, placed it against my ear, and let out a dramatic hiss. "Can you believe this? I have been calling his line for ages and it's completely switched off, yet he was desperately insisting on seeing me today. Honestly, Salim is nothing but a walking problem!"
"Let me see the phone number you are calling," the employee offered.
My heart hammered in sudden panic, but I completely masked it, maintaining my composure. "Why don't you show me the number you have on your phone instead?"
Without a single suspicion, he unlocked his phone, retrieved the contact, and handed it over to me. A surge of intense triumph washed through my veins as I looked at the digits. "Ah, you see? This is completely different from the number I have saved on my phone. Honestly, I don't even know how many secret lines that man operates; he behaves just like a kidnapper."
I quickly copied the phone number down onto my device, handed his phone back, and offered him a brief word of gratitude. I walked out of the establishment overflowing with joy, looking like someone who had just received tidings of their absolute greatest life ambition being fulfilled.
I saved the contact under the name Salim, dropped the phone into my bag, and walked away with a wide smirk.
I headed straight to the market and purchased all the food items and groceries I lacked, including a whole chicken, solely because my heart was brimming with happiness today. Upon returning home, I found Mama in the middle of the courtyard sorting through rice. Despite the loud, clear greetings I belted out, she refused to cast a single glance in my direction, let alone answer. It was glaringly obvious she was in a thoroughly foul mood today. I simply smiled to myself and marched straight into my room without uttering another word.
Throughout the entire time I spent preparing my meal, Mama completely ignored me, focusing entirely on struggling to ignite her firewood stove. Her mouth, however, refused to remain shut as she unleashed a non-stop stream of bitter complaints, lamenting that she was thoroughly sick and tired of the sheer misery of cooking with firewood. I finished my preparations and retreated to my room, because I kept my kerosene stove locked inside to prevent Mama from constantly stealing my fuel. Just as I was about to finish frying my stew, I heard Mama screaming my name at the top of her lungs:
"Zinatu! Zinatu!"
"What is it?" I called back from inside.
Suddenly, she barged into my room holding a plastic bowl, saying smoothly, "Well, I noticed you headed out this morning without eating a single bite... so I decided to set aside some rice cakes for you." She placed a plate of stiff, cold rice cakes before me while instinctively sticking her neck out to spy on the pot of stew simmering on my stove.
I let out a mocking, sarcastic laugh. "Oh, come on, Mama... since when do you care about the state of my stomach? Is today the first time I've ever gone out without eating anything?"
She quickly adjusted her head tie with the frantic, nervous movements typical of guilty people. "Well, I only mentioned it because I realized you are about to get married very soon..."
"So if I don't eat your breakfast, the wedding won't hold, right?" I interrupted her sharply.
Her face instantly contorted into a furious glare. "Listen to me, girl, I will absolutely not tolerate your blatant disrespect! I only approached you out of sheer kindness, so you can go ahead and starve for all I care!"
I smiled knowingly, picked up a clean bowl, served her a generous portion of my freshly cooked food, and handed it over. "You smelled the rich aroma of my stew from outside, Mama. You could have just asked for it directly instead of playing games."
She snatched the bowl from my hand and stormed out of the room without uttering a single word.
After finishing my meal, I performed my prayers, lay down on my bed, and pulled out my phone. The device suddenly felt incredibly intimidating solely due to the dangerous presence of Salim’s newly acquired phone number. I stared at the digits for a very long time before finally gathering the courage to hit the dial button.
The line rang all the way to the end, but he refused to answer. This prompted me to dial a second time, but the outcome remained exactly the same. At that point, a stubborn determination took over my mind. I began dialing his number repeatedly in rapid succession without a care in the world, treating it like a high-stakes video game where I was desperately trying to achieve a high score.
I dialed his line exactly nine times! Just as I was about to initiate the tenth attempt, a text message from him flashed across my screen.
I opened it with frantic haste, desperate to see what excuse he would offer for his refusal to answer my calls.
"Who is this?" That was the only phrase written in the text message.
I quickly sent a reply, typing as though he already knew me: "It's Zinatu."
"Who on earth is that? And where are you calling from?" he shot back instantly.
I hissed in frustration and decided to call the line once more to see if he would answer. Fortunately for me, he picked up. I immediately softened my voice into a seductive, high-pitched tone—even though, frankly, I did not naturally possess a sweet, melodious voice—and murmured, "Assalamu alaikum."
I heard him draw a sharp, irritated hiss on the other end. Instead of returning the Islamic greeting, he snapped aggressively, "Listen to me, young lady, get straight to the point! I don't have time for this nonsense!"
"Subhanallah!" I gasped silently. It was glaringly obvious he was a thoroughly rude and arrogant man.
I cleared my throat thoroughly before speaking. "It's Zinatu."
He let out yet another sharp hiss. "Did you call me repeatedly just to teach me your name? Fine, I have memorized it. Now, what on earth do you want?!"
My heart sank into my stomach in sudden panic, and my mind raced to find a plausible explanation. Deep down, I knew I lacked a single logical reason for my actions. Summoning my courage, I blurted out, "Um... I saw you yesterday as you were about to walk into the laundry shop, and I found you incredibly attractive. I desperately wanted to strike up a conversation with you but I didn't get the opportunity. And then last night..."
Click! The line went completely dead before I could even finish my sentence. He had abruptly hung up on me. I frantically tried to redial the line, but the call refused to go through. I immediately suspected he had tossed my number into his blacklist.
I sat there in dead silence, reviewing my next move like someone acting under a powerful, irresistible command. I began drafting a text message to him:
"If my words offended or upset you in any way, please forgive me for the sake of Allah. I promise, In sha Allah, I will never bother you with such comments ever again."
I sat waiting anxiously for his response, but absolute silence ensued. I remained seated in deep thought until the afternoon (Asr) call to prayer rang out. I stood up, performed my prayers, took a shower, wrapped myself in a large hijab that flowed all the way to my ankles, and headed outside. I went straight to Hamza’s family house, stood at the entrance, and called him out. We sat on the concrete bench right outside his house, chatting away freely like old childhood friends. I finally headed back home at dusk, because Habib had already informed me he would be coming over right after the evening (Isha) prayers.
Part 4: The Shadow of the Past and the Unwanted Suitor
THE WAYWARD WIFE...!
(She commands no respect)
BY SADIYA ABDUL
(Maizafafa)
FIRST CLASS WRITERS ASSOCIATION
PAGE 3
Habib was my first cousin; his biological father and my father were brothers from the same mother and father. His family residence was located in the Tudun Wada quarters, and he was the eldest child of his household. He had younger sisters, some of whom were my agemates, but I maintained absolutely no personal relationship with them; we only traded casual pleasantries whenever we crossed paths during extended family functions. Habib had harbored a deep passion for me ever since we were children. The sheer, overwhelming intensity of his love for me was the sole reason I eventually began to pity him, leading me to accept his advances. To claim that I was truly in love with Habib would be an absolute lie; the most I could say was that I found him highly admirable and felt a deep, biological affection for him as family. He worked as an optometrist at the Nasarawa Hospital. He had endured unspeakable hardships and agonizing struggles just to convince me to accept his marriage proposal. Furthermore, he strictly abided by every single rule and condition I laid down for him as though he were dealing with his own mother. Every single month, without fail, he would count out ten thousand naira and hand it over to me, stating it was for my minor personal expenses—all because he was terrified of any wealthy man enticing me with money. He never spared any opportunity to offer moral advice whenever he visited.
Ever since the exact date our wedding was officially finalized by our families, Habib had personally confronted my closest male friends, Anas and Hamza—with whom I shared the deepest bonds among all my companions. He issued a stern, menacing warning to them, declaring that they must cut off all ties with me completely and that he must never catch them interacting with me again.
Anas was the one who marched straight to my house to inform me of the confrontation. The moment the words left his mouth, I immediately placed an emergency call to Habib. He faced a terrifying storm of pure wrath from me that day. I explicitly made him understand the immense value and importance of my male friends, warning him fiercely that if he ever cast a malicious glance at any of them again, he could consider our marriage engagement completely void—because, by Allah, I would hand back his bride price that very same day. He completely panicked, trembling as he begged for my forgiveness, thoroughly intimidated until I almost pitied him. He finally relented, vowing he would never interfere in their business again.
He arrived right after the evening (Isha) prayers, and we sat together chatting for a considerable time. He excitedly informed me that his family would be bringing over the bridal gifts (Kayan Lefe) the following week, his entire demeanor brimming with restless anticipation and pure joy. As for me, I was trapped in a confusing void, unable to decipher whether I was experiencing happiness or absolute dread.
At exactly 10:00 PM, I attempted to dial Salim’s number once more, but the call still refused to connect. It was only then that I realized my own foolishness; I had completely failed to ask for the exact location of the other businesses he reportedly managed. I decided to compose another text message and sent it to his line:
"May the peace of Allah be upon you. I wish you nothing but the absolute best in life, and I pray that everlasting joy fills your heart. May a beautiful smile grace your handsome face forever."
"From Zinatu."
I smiled to himself, acting as though I had absolute certainty that he would read it, offered a quick prayer, and lay down to sleep with his thoughts filling my mind.
Salim was quietly relaxing and chatting on his phone when the text message alert chimed. He curled his lips in complete disdain after reading through the contents, shaking his head at the utter madness and desperation of some women.
The following morning, the very first thing I did was send him another warm morning text message. I tried calling his line again, but it was still blocked. Driven by sheer desperation, I headed out to a local vendor, purchased a brand new SIM card, and registered it. Without wasting a single microsecond, I slotted the card into my phone, loaded it with call credit, and placed a direct call to Salim. The time was exactly 10:30 AM.
The phone rang all the way to the end without him picking up. This prompted me to immediately press the redial button. This time around, he answered the call with a formal Islamic greeting: "Assalamu alaikum."
I sat up instantly on my bed, my chest heaving and my heart hammering wildly against my ribs. I was completely unprepared for what to say to him, having never anticipated that he would actually answer a strange number. Summoning my courage, I swallowed hard and returned his greeting, following it up by asking how he was doing.
He answered my greeting coldly before demanding bluntly, "To whom am I speaking, please?"
"It's Zinatu. Please, for the love of God, just hear me out," I pleaded, my voice trembling with the terrifying fear that he would cut me off or hang up the phone immediately.
He let out a sharp, irritated hiss before barking, "What on earth do you want?! You are seriously harassing me now, and you are about to completely infringe upon my personal rights!"
He spoke with an explosive, aggressive fury, and that—