Where should I begin? Should I start with how I met Ibrahim, or with how I met Sultan? Or should I begin by giving you my own background?
My name is Maimuna Muhammad Dikko. I was born and raised in Abuja, Nigeria. My father, Alhaji Muhammad Dikko, is a Fulani man from the town of Yalleman in Jigawa State. Yalleman is a Fulani town, very beautiful, and Allah has blessed its people greatly with wealth, to the extent that many of them are scattered all over Nigeria, especially in Lagos and Port Harcourt, since most of their wealth comes from money exchange businesses.
My father did not follow the family tradition because he was formally educated. He attended primary school in Yalleman like his relatives, but because of his brilliance, his headmaster advised his father, Alhaji Lawan Dikko, that if he had the means, he should send him abroad to get a better education.
Since my grandfather was wealthy even then, he gathered a lot of money, took the boy to Lagos, and with the help of their relatives there, Muhammad obtained a visa to England. He gained admission into Gifted International College, where he began his secondary school education. Every year, during school holidays, Muhammad would return to Nigeria to see his parents and siblings. Each time he was returning to England, Alhaji Lawan would give him large sums of money for registration and daily needs.
Muhammad’s mother, Hajiya Adama, was not left out either. She also did her best; she would secretly sell her inherited cattle without her husband’s knowledge, gather the money, and give it to Muhammad.
With time, by Allah’s grace, he completed his secondary school and immediately got a scholarship to Oxford University, where he studied Business Administration, because his dream was to complete his education and return home to assist his father in his business. From that point, he told his parents that there would be no need to pay school fees since he was now on scholarship. Even so, Alhaji Lawan continued to send him money for his upkeep.
After completing his first degree, he returned home with the intention of fulfilling his dream of taking over his father’s business, but this did not materialize due to a family conflict. His stepmother, Hajja, strongly opposed it. She protested, saying it was impossible—“not over my dead body.” According to her, after all the suffering and the huge amount of money spent on his education, he would now return and say he wanted to take over the family wealth? She added:
> “We said he was intelligent so that he would study, not do business. After all the money spent on his education, he now wants to come back and take over the business? That is not acceptable, wallahi. The other children of the house are also children.”
Because of this, Muhammad returned to England and continued his Master’s degree, then proceeded to a PhD. After completing his studies, he took up a lecturing job at the university. After five years of lecturing at Oxford, he was awarded a professorship.
That same year, his parents insisted that he must return to Nigeria and settle down like his peers. Due to his expertise in business education and his international exposure, upon returning to Nigeria, the government of that time appointed him an ambassador. The first country he was posted to was our neighboring country, Niger.
That brings me to my mother.
My mother, Hajiya Fatima, popularly known as Bintou, is originally Buzaye (from the Buzu ethnic group), a native of Niger Republic. Her father died when she was still very young, and she was the only child her parents had. Her mother, Maimoon—whom I was named after—raised her and supported her education until she completed secondary school.
They initially tried to send her to Nigeria for university education, but due to lack of opportunity and financial constraints, it did not work out. That was when Allah brought her together with my father, who was then Nigeria’s ambassador to Niger. At first, he felt pity for her and admired her love for education; later, love grew between them, even though he was much older than her.
At that time, Inna (Hajiya Adama) was already pressuring him about marriage, so there was no difficulty. They got married, and he brought her to Nigeria and settled her in our house in Abuja, Aso Drive—where we still live today.
---
Episode Two: Meet My Family
Our house is very large because when Daddy built it, he intended to bring his parents to live with him in Abuja. But Baffa (Alhaji Lawan) refused outright, saying he would never leave Yalleman. This made Daddy build them a magnificent house there—despite the amount of money people heard was spent on it, the house became a tourist attraction. He also employed staff for them, from cleaners to cooks, because he said it was time for them to rest.
Whatever he did for Inna, he also did for Hajja. Truly, they lived comfortably—eating well, sleeping well, and every year they went for Hajj. Daddy also had a habit: whenever he was posted to another country as ambassador, he would take us along for at least one month, including Baffa and Inna. He wanted us to experience modern exposure, but he insisted we could not live abroad permanently because of moral upbringing.
Allah blessed our parents with five children: three boys—Lawan, Habeeb, and Faruk—and two girls—Hafsat and me. Lawan is the eldest, followed by Habeeb, then Hafsat, then me, and Faruk is the youngest. Since Mommy gave birth closely, there is little age difference between us; she gave birth to all of us within seven years, after which childbirth stopped. Daddy said we were enough and prayed Allah would bless us.
Our home is beautiful—a blend of Fulani and Buzu cultures. Because of this mix, people often find it hard to identify our ethnicity, even from our looks and those of our women. Inna often sends us herbal mixtures, saying they are for beauty.
I am Maimunatu, also called Maimoon, after my maternal grandmother. I am the fourth child and the youngest among the girls. I am very fair-skinned, with glowing Fulani–Buzu skin. I am tall, but not too tall. My face is oval-shaped, with big, calm eyes and long eyelashes. My eyebrows look perfectly drawn. My nose is moderate, my lips are thin with a light pink color. My hair is thick and long, reaching my shoulders. I have dimples on both cheeks that show clearly whenever I talk, not to mention when I smile.
At home, we speak Fulfulde with Daddy, Buzanci with Mommy, and English among ourselves. At school, it was English as well, so we barely spoke Hausa except with neighbors or Hausa domestic workers.
Among my siblings, I am the most talkative. Brother Walid used to call me “parrot” since I was little because he disliked talking, while I talked endlessly. I asked questions about everything, and if I wasn’t answered, I kept asking until I got a response—then moved on to another question.
From kindergarten, Daddy noticed that I was the most inquisitive among his children, though the others were also intelligent. He encouraged my questions and answered them patiently, which made us bond more than I did with Mommy. Mommy, who is now a lawyer, often said I would inherit her profession because of my endless questions.
When I entered basic school, I became a star—beautiful, hardworking, and charmingly talkative. Everyone knew me. I hated fights and was very timid; even if I offended juniors by mistake, I would apologize immediately. I earned the nickname “Moon” because of my face shape, bright dimpled smile, and my name Maimoon. Eventually, “Moon” almost replaced my real name at school.
Because Mommy was the only child of her mother (Daada), she brought her to live with us in Nigeria. Daada lived close to Inna’s section of the house. She adored us greatly since she had no many children of her own. She took care of us daily—oiling our hair and braiding it for Hafsat and me constantly, despite our already beautiful hair.
---
Episode Three: Loved by All
Hafsat is one year older than me, so she was a class ahead. But anyone seeing us would think she was much older because I was small-bodied—neither tall nor chubby, just noisy. Hafsat was quiet but very observant and a reporter. Whatever I did, she noticed and reported to Mommy or Daada, which often earned me scolding from Mommy. Mommy’s strictness caused frequent conflicts between Hafsat and me.
My best friend was Brother Habeeb; we shared the same love for reading and chatting. Whenever we returned from school, I stayed in his room. He helped me with homework and sometimes read novels to me while I lay on his lap. Faruk, the youngest, stayed mostly with Daada.
In Basic 4, Hafsat was in Basic 5. We wrote the Common Entrance Examination together and both passed. Mommy tried hard to convince Daddy to send us abroad for schooling, but he refused, saying moral upbringing was difficult abroad, especially for girls. He believed Nigerian schools were good enough.
We were enrolled in the same secondary school. Hafsat was deeply upset and even cried, while Daddy teased her about being in the same set as her younger sister. I apologized and promised her I would intentionally fail promotion exams so she could move ahead.
Our school was a boarding school, and Mommy was devastated. On departure day, I saw her crying in the kitchen while cooking groundnut soup for us. She ignored my questions until she suddenly pulled me into a hug, crying harder.
On the day of departure, Mommy said she wouldn’t escort us, but when it was time to leave, Daddy and Daada struggled to separate us from her as she insisted we abandon schooling. Daddy laughed gently at her. I, on the other hand, was excited. I was ten years old, though I looked seven.
At school, Daddy requested that Hafsat and I share the same room and class so she could look after me. We shared a bunk bed—me on top, Hafsat below. Our seats were initially aligned, but Hafsat moved away to avoid being associated with me. Still, teachers always noticed our resemblance and asked if we were sisters, which annoyed her. Eventually, she even wore a veil to hide our similarity.
The school had staff for everything—cleaning, laundry, ironing, toilets—our only duty was to study. I devoted myself fully to books, spending most of my time in the library. At night, I slept deeply. From Isha’i to Fajr, I slept without waking. After Fajr prayers, we attended Islamiyya until 7 a.m., then breakfast, classes, breaks, lunch, and library sessions again until evening.
Hafsat lost weight due to homesickness, but I thrived. As long as there were books, I was happy. Every month, Mommy and Daddy visited with drinks and snacks—no food or money, as per school rules. Mommy worried about Hafsat, who cried and begged to return home. I couldn’t understand her sadness; school felt like paradise to me.
Daddy noticed my happiness and encouraged me, giving me study tips. Soon, teachers recognized my brilliance and encouraged me. I became popular—staff and students loved me. I helped classmates with homework and never hoarded knowledge.
After the first term, I realized I missed home. I ran into Mommy’s arms crying, then rushed to Habeeb, who hugged me tightly. We later traveled to Russia to visit Daddy and enjoyed the holiday greatly.
When it was time to return to school, both Hafsat and I protested. Mommy supported us, forcing Daddy to take leave and return us personally. As expected, I came first in class; Hafsat came second. Daddy was proud and blessed us before leaving.
---
Episode Four: Moon’s Sister
By the time we finished J.S.1, I remembered my promise to Hafsat. During exams, I deliberately answered wrongly, left some questions blank, and stopped studying entirely. One evening, Hafsat woke me from sleep, concerned about my strange behavior. She asked if I was sick. I assured her I was fine.
No one knew what I had done until the holidays. The principal called Daddy, reporting that I had intentionally failed. Daddy confronted me gently at home. Eventually, I confessed:
> “I did it for Hafsat. I promised her I would repeat J.S.1 so she could move ahead. She doesn’t like being in the same class as me. I just want her to be happy.”
The room fell silent. Mommy arrived, furious, scolding both of us. Daddy later admitted he had hoped boarding school would unite us, but it had only deepened Hafsat’s resentment.
Episode One: The Beginning of the Beginning
Where should I begin? Should I start with how I met Ibrahim, or with how I met Sultan? Or should I begin by giving you my own background?
My name is Maimuna Muhammad Dikko. I was born and raised in Abuja, Nigeria. My father, Alhaji Muhammad Dikko, is a Fulani man from the town of Yalleman in Jigawa State. Yalleman is a Fulani town, very beautiful, and Allah has blessed its people greatly with wealth, to the extent that many of them are scattered all over Nigeria, especially in Lagos and Port Harcourt, since most of their wealth comes from money exchange businesses.
My father did not follow the family tradition because he was formally educated. He attended primary school in Yalleman like his relatives, but because of his brilliance, his headmaster advised his father, Alhaji Lawan Dikko, that if he had the means, he should send him abroad to get a better education.
Since my grandfather was wealthy even then, he gathered a lot of money, took the boy to Lagos, and with the help of their relatives there, Muhammad obtained a visa to England. He gained admission into Gifted International College, where he began his secondary school education. Every year, during school holidays, Muhammad would return to Nigeria to see his parents and siblings. Each time he was returning to England, Alhaji Lawan would give him large sums of money for registration and daily needs.
Muhammad’s mother, Hajiya Adama, was not left out either. She also did her best; she would secretly sell her inherited cattle without her husband’s knowledge, gather the money, and give it to Muhammad.
With time, by Allah’s grace, he completed his secondary school and immediately got a scholarship to Oxford University, where he studied Business Administration, because his dream was to complete his education and return home to assist his father in his business. From that point, he told his parents that there would be no need to pay school fees since he was now on scholarship. Even so, Alhaji Lawan continued to send him money for his upkeep.
After completing his first degree, he returned home with the intention of fulfilling his dream of taking over his father’s business, but this did not materialize due to a family conflict. His stepmother, Hajja, strongly opposed it. She protested, saying it was impossible—“not over my dead body.” According to her, after all the suffering and the huge amount of money spent on his education, he would now return and say he wanted to take over the family wealth? She added:
> “We said he was intelligent so that he would study, not do business. After all the money spent on his education, he now wants to come back and take over the business? That is not acceptable, wallahi. The other children of the house are also children.”
Because of this, Muhammad returned to England and continued his Master’s degree, then proceeded to a PhD. After completing his studies, he took up a lecturing job at the university. After five years of lecturing at Oxford, he was awarded a professorship.
That same year, his parents insisted that he must return to Nigeria and settle down like his peers. Due to his expertise in business education and his international exposure, upon returning to Nigeria, the government of that time appointed him an ambassador. The first country he was posted to was our neighboring country, Niger.
That brings me to my mother.
My mother, Hajiya Fatima, popularly known as Bintou, is originally Buzaye (from the Buzu ethnic group), a native of Niger Republic. Her father died when she was still very young, and she was the only child her parents had. Her mother, Maimoon—whom I was named after—raised her and supported her education until she completed secondary school.
They initially tried to send her to Nigeria for university education, but due to lack of opportunity and financial constraints, it did not work out. That was when Allah brought her together with my father, who was then Nigeria’s ambassador to Niger. At first, he felt pity for her and admired her love for education; later, love grew between them, even though he was much older than her.
At that time, Inna (Hajiya Adama) was already pressuring him about marriage, so there was no difficulty. They got married, and he brought her to Nigeria and settled her in our house in Abuja, Aso Drive—where we still live today.
---
Episode Two: Meet My Family
Our house is very large because when Daddy built it, he intended to bring his parents to live with him in Abuja. But Baffa (Alhaji Lawan) refused outright, saying he would never leave Yalleman. This made Daddy build them a magnificent house there—despite the amount of money people heard was spent on it, the house became a tourist attraction. He also employed staff for them, from cleaners to cooks, because he said it was time for them to rest.
Whatever he did for Inna, he also did for Hajja. Truly, they lived comfortably—eating well, sleeping well, and every year they went for Hajj. Daddy also had a habit: whenever he was posted to another country as ambassador, he would take us along for at least one month, including Baffa and Inna. He wanted us to experience modern exposure, but he insisted we could not live abroad permanently because of moral upbringing.
Allah blessed our parents with five children: three boys—Lawan, Habeeb, and Faruk—and two girls—Hafsat and me. Lawan is the eldest, followed by Habeeb, then Hafsat, then me, and Faruk is the youngest. Since Mommy gave birth closely, there is little age difference between us; she gave birth to all of us within seven years, after which childbirth stopped. Daddy said we were enough and prayed Allah would bless us.
Our home is beautiful—a blend of Fulani and Buzu cultures. Because of this mix, people often find it hard to identify our ethnicity, even from our looks and those of our women. Inna often sends us herbal mixtures, saying they are for beauty.
I am Maimunatu, also called Maimoon, after my maternal grandmother. I am the fourth child and the youngest among the girls. I am very fair-skinned, with glowing Fulani–Buzu skin. I am tall, but not too tall. My face is oval-shaped, with big, calm eyes and long eyelashes. My eyebrows look perfectly drawn. My nose is moderate, my lips are thin with a light pink color. My hair is thick and long, reaching my shoulders. I have dimples on both cheeks that show clearly whenever I talk, not to mention when I smile.
At home, we speak Fulfulde with Daddy, Buzanci with Mommy, and English among ourselves. At school, it was English as well, so we barely spoke Hausa except with neighbors or Hausa domestic workers.
Among my siblings, I am the most talkative. Brother Walid used to call me “parrot” since I was little because he disliked talking, while I talked endlessly. I asked questions about everything, and if I wasn’t answered, I kept asking until I got a response—then moved on to another question.
From kindergarten, Daddy noticed that I was the most inquisitive among his children, though the others were also intelligent. He encouraged my questions and answered them patiently, which made us bond more than I did with Mommy. Mommy, who is now a lawyer, often said I would inherit her profession because of my endless questions.
When I entered basic school, I became a star—beautiful, hardworking, and charmingly talkative. Everyone knew me. I hated fights and was very timid; even if I offended juniors by mistake, I would apologize immediately. I earned the nickname “Moon” because of my face shape, bright dimpled smile, and my name Maimoon. Eventually, “Moon” almost replaced my real name at school.
Because Mommy was the only child of her mother (Daada), she brought her to live with us in Nigeria. Daada lived close to Inna’s section of the house. She adored us greatly since she had no many children of her own. She took care of us daily—oiling our hair and braiding it for Hafsat and me constantly, despite our already beautiful hair.
---
Episode Three: Loved by All
Hafsat is one year older than me, so she was a class ahead. But anyone seeing us would think she was much older because I was small-bodied—neither tall nor chubby, just noisy. Hafsat was quiet but very observant and a reporter. Whatever I did, she noticed and reported to Mommy or Daada, which often earned me scolding from Mommy. Mommy’s strictness caused frequent conflicts between Hafsat and me.
My best friend was Brother Habeeb; we shared the same love for reading and chatting. Whenever we returned from school, I stayed in his room. He helped me with homework and sometimes read novels to me while I lay on his lap. Faruk, the youngest, stayed mostly with Daada.
In Basic 4, Hafsat was in Basic 5. We wrote the Common Entrance Examination together and both passed. Mommy tried hard to convince Daddy to send us abroad for schooling, but he refused, saying moral upbringing was difficult abroad, especially for girls. He believed Nigerian schools were good enough.
We were enrolled in the same secondary school. Hafsat was deeply upset and even cried, while Daddy teased her about being in the same set as her younger sister. I apologized and promised her I would intentionally fail promotion exams so she could move ahead.
Our school was a boarding school, and Mommy was devastated. On departure day, I saw her crying in the kitchen while cooking groundnut soup for us. She ignored my questions until she suddenly pulled me into a hug, crying harder.
On the day of departure, Mommy said she wouldn’t escort us, but when it was time to leave, Daddy and Daada struggled to separate us from her as she insisted we abandon schooling. Daddy laughed gently at her. I, on the other hand, was excited. I was ten years old, though I looked seven.
At school, Daddy requested that Hafsat and I share the same room and class so she could look after me. We shared a bunk bed—me on top, Hafsat below. Our seats were initially aligned, but Hafsat moved away to avoid being associated with me. Still, teachers always noticed our resemblance and asked if we were sisters, which annoyed her. Eventually, she even wore a veil to hide our similarity.
The school had staff for everything—cleaning, laundry, ironing, toilets—our only duty was to study. I devoted myself fully to books, spending most of my time in the library. At night, I slept deeply. From Isha’i to Fajr, I slept without waking. After Fajr prayers, we attended Islamiyya until 7 a.m., then breakfast, classes, breaks, lunch, and library sessions again until evening.
Hafsat lost weight due to homesickness, but I thrived. As long as there were books, I was happy. Every month, Mommy and Daddy visited with drinks and snacks—no food or money, as per school rules. Mommy worried about Hafsat, who cried and begged to return home. I couldn’t understand her sadness; school felt like paradise to me.
Daddy noticed my happiness and encouraged me, giving me study tips. Soon, teachers recognized my brilliance and encouraged me. I became popular—staff and students loved me. I helped classmates with homework and never hoarded knowledge.
After the first term, I realized I missed home. I ran into Mommy’s arms crying, then rushed to Habeeb, who hugged me tightly. We later traveled to Russia to visit Daddy and enjoyed the holiday greatly.
When it was time to return to school, both Hafsat and I protested. Mommy supported us, forcing Daddy to take leave and return us personally. As expected, I came first in class; Hafsat came second. Daddy was proud and blessed us before leaving.
---
Episode Four: Moon’s Sister
By the time we finished J.S.1, I remembered my promise to Hafsat. During exams, I deliberately answered wrongly, left some questions blank, and stopped studying entirely. One evening, Hafsat woke me from sleep, concerned about my strange behavior. She asked if I was sick. I assured her I was fine.
No one knew what I had done until the holidays. The principal called Daddy, reporting that I had intentionally failed. Daddy confronted me gently at home. Eventually, I confessed:
> “I did it for Hafsat. I promised her I would repeat J.S.1 so she could move ahead. She doesn’t like being in the same class as me. I just want her to be happy.”
The room fell silent. Mommy arrived, furious, scolding both of us. Daddy later admitted he had hoped boarding school would unite us, but it had only deepened Hafsat’s resentment.