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Birgima lay curled up on the floor of their room, which had no carpet on the ground. Her hands were clasped over her stomach. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, her face flushed—especially the bridge of her nose, which was red against her fair skin, as though if you touched it, blood might come out.
But poverty and the hardship of life were clearly visible in her clothing. When you looked closely, the clothes clung tightly to her body because they were worn and torn from too much suffering. Though they had once been good fabric, they were now frayed, almost ripped—yet they were always washed clean. The only dirt on them was the dust she had picked up from lying on the cement floor of the room.
“How is your stomach now? Are you feeling any relief from the pain? Or should I go and see if the chemist over there is around so I can call him to come check on you and give you medicine?” Ummi asked.
“Don’t call anyone. I feel like my stomach is about to burst—oh my Hajiyata!” she cried.
Ummi wiped away her tears. She was already used to this turmoil—every month-end whenever Sa’adah was on her period.
“So you’re just going to sit there in pain, Sa’adah? I must go to the chemist so he can come and see you, since he’s the one who gives you medicine. Yesterday, the noise you made really frightened me. I was the only one shouting in this house, I swear. Umma even turned on the radio so they wouldn’t hear my cries,” Ummi said.
Sa’adatu bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut as they swelled even more. Her face reddened further, especially the bridge of her nose, now tomato-red against her fair skin.
She leaned against Ummi, breathing heavily, one hand pressed to her stomach, feeling the cramps tighten even more. She wished there were something she could drink that would ease the pain tormenting her at that moment. It wasn’t just the pain that made her cry—it was also the tears of poverty, of helplessness, of lacking what you think might save you, only to find it beyond your reach.
Sleep took her. Ummi gently laid her down and placed a small pillow under her head. Then Ummi went forward into Hajiyata’s room. Their Hajiyata was completely helpless, suffering from partial paralysis.
“Oh dear Hajiyata, forgive me for not coming earlier to clean you. Everything overwhelmed me,” Ummi said.
She lifted Hajiyata and propped her against the wall, removed her soiled wrapper, took it outside to the courtyard near the well, placed it in a basin, fetched water in a jug, then returned to wash Hajiyata. She poured water into a small bowl they usually used to bathe her. Today, they hadn’t been able to bathe her earlier because of Sa’adah’s pain—and there was no warm water. Sa’adah had even planned to braid Hajiyata’s hair, but the monthly pain struck, leaving everyone unsettled.
After finishing, Ummi carried the basin and jug back into the courtyard.
“Hey! Ummi, who told you to take our jug to wash filth? I swear I won’t touch it again!” Zainura shouted, coming out of Umma’s room, hands on her hips, eager for trouble.
Calmly, Ummi replied, “Please be patient. Ours broke, but God willing, when I go out I’ll buy you a new one. Besides, carrying filth is everyone’s burden when illness strikes.”
She bent down to wash the clothes. But Zainura was not satisfied. Ummi wasn’t acting out of fear—she simply knew Zainura was wrong, because Zainura herself had touched their jug.
As Ummi bent down, Zainura seized the chance to attack her from behind, choking her. Ummi began to gasp for breath, her eyes bulging in pain. She shoved Zainura away and climbed onto her stomach, beating her. Ummi was strong—hardened by extreme poverty—for she was the one fighting for their dignity in that house.
Zainura’s screams filled the house as she cried for help. Umma and Jamila rushed out; Umma’s wrapper was half-unwrapped from the hurry.
“Hey! Ummi, are you trying to kill my daughter? I swear I’ll have you locked up. You wicked people—nothing but cruelty! Who do you think you are to assault Zainura?” Umma shouted.
She pulled Ummi off Zainura. Ummi stood there panting, shaking, her eyes red. Zainura’s fingernail scratches showed clearly on Ummi’s neck against her fair skin. Ummi groaned, unable to speak, silently enduring the insults Umma hurled at her.
“Useless work, nonsense! Wait till my husband comes—I’m tired of this humiliation. You think you’re strong just because you’re poor? You beat my child out of sheer audacity? Wait, he’ll come and settle this, because no fool can oppress us in this house!”
Ummi bent down and continued tying Hajiyata’s clothes, her heart sinking. She had long harbored anger toward Zainura for how she mistreated Hajiyata. Whenever Ummi tried to speak or act, Sa’adah would stop her—and if she insisted, Sa’adah would burst into tears, making them all retreat.
She finished everything and hung the clothes. Umma, still sulking, washed up, performed ablution, and went back to her room.
By then, Sa’adah had sat up, clearly listening to Umma’s words.
“Ummi, why don’t you listen? Do you want Hajiyata’s illness to worsen? What do you care about the woman of this house? Why would you beat Zainura? Even I’m grown—how much more you? How do you expect me to live, Ummi? I hate trouble. Anything that brings conflict, I don’t want it,” Sa’adah said, her voice trembling, close to tears.
Ummi ignored her. If she engaged, the endless humiliation they endured in that house would never end.
“Ummi, you’re ignoring me now—has disrespect started between us?” Sa’adah asked.
Ummi suppressed a laugh, sat down, and teased, “Alright, Auntie Sa’a, I won’t do it again. So the pride of adulthood has begun today? But you know Hajiyata said she gave you one year.”
Laughing, Sa’adah lightly hit Ummi, and Ummi dodged, smiling.
Sa’adah stood up; her wrapper was stained. Ummi handed her a hijab by the door. As Sa’adah was about to go out, Ummi stopped her.
“Go wash yourself—your clothes are dirty,” Ummi said.
“I’m scared, Ummi. What if they attack me? Umma is still shouting,” Sa’adah replied.
Ummi clicked her tongue and entered Hajiyata’s room, saying, “Then you’ll dry up there from fear. One day you won’t even be able to relax in your own home. May God remove this fear from you…”
Sa’adah’s eyes welled with tears. She hated conflict and wasn’t capable of fighting. She waited by the door until Umma’s noise faded, then quietly stepped into the courtyard, took a deep breath, went to the well, filled their bucket, and entered the bathroom to wash.
Jamila pushed the bathroom door and found it locked. “Who’s in there? The call to prayer is about to start—you’re wasting our ablution time!”
Sa’adah blinked nervously. They often didn’t pray on time, listening to music instead—but now Jamila followed her, perhaps to catch her.
This time, Sa’adah gathered courage and said, “Ahem.”
She hurriedly finished and came out. Jamila slapped her immediately—something they were used to doing to Sa’adah. Sa’adah held her cheek silently and tried to leave.
“I’ll get back at Zainura through you, that’s why your father will suffer,” Jamila snapped.
She shoved Sa’adah so hard she nearly fell into the well. God helped her—Abbati, whom she was following, rushed in, caught her, and exclaimed, “What madness is this? You’ll fall into the well for nothing!”
Sa’adah said nothing, pulled away, and ran into the room, trembling, tears filling her eyes.
Abbati entered and stood over Ummi, scowling. “I came specifically to warn you. You won’t disgrace our family—especially you,” he said, pointing at Ummi.
“There’s no foolishness like going around rich people’s houses begging just to have us insulted. God sees what we endure because of you.”
Ummi raised her hand to stop him. He slapped it away painfully and continued, “Who are you to stop me when I’m talking?”
“Then what do you want me to do, Abbati? If we don’t stop you, what will we eat—cut our own flesh? We go to rich houses to wash and braid hair so they can give us money. It’s not immorality. Whoever slandered us lied,” Ummi replied.
At that word, Abbati removed his belt and lunged at Ummi. The men treated them like enemies. Abbati beat Ummi; she stood and grabbed the belt.
“Let go or I’ll injure you!”
“I swear I won’t let go so you can beat me senseless. Even the money for medicine—you sit on it, not us!”
He shoved her and they wrestled fiercely. Though Ummi owed them nothing, she had lost all respect for them because of how they treated their mother. Kamalu owned a provision store; Abbati sold petrol—yet they could go weeks without visiting Hajiyata, let alone helping with money. Even detergent money was beyond them. That’s why all respect had fallen from Ummi’s eyes.
A man’s strength exceeded a woman’s. Abbati beat Ummi relentlessly. Hajiyata watched helplessly, tears streaming. Sa’adah grabbed Abbati, crying, “What kind of calamity is this—to kill each other like enemies? If you kill Ummi, I’ll kill you too. Ummi is our shield, our strength!”
Sa’adah screamed for help and ran into the courtyard, uncovered, but no neighbor came—until Aunty Murja rushed in. With great effort, she pulled Abbati off Ummi. He was raging, panting, capable of anything. Without God’s mercy in sending Aunty Murja, something terrible would have happened.
Abbati shouted threats and insults. Sa’adah declared, “Aunty Murja, be my witness—if anything happens to Ummi, I’ll kill Abbati. He won’t take my Ummi away from me.”
Aunty Murja shook her head. There was a deep problem in this family—same blood, yet bitter enemies. Abbati stormed out still shouting. Aunty Murja sat heavily, pity filling her heart. The neighbors had never helped because of Umma’s hypocrisy and cruelty. Only now did she understand that the girls’ daily outings were forced by hardship.
Aunty Murja cried. “May God bring you relief. Your lives are full of unanswered questions—same blood, yet hatred as if you see each other’s entrails.”
Sa’adah wept. Ummi struggled to breathe, gasping. Slowly she began to groan—then her breathing stopped. Her eyes fixed in a stare.
Sa’adah and Aunty Murja exchanged terrified looks. Sa’adah rushed to Ummi, shaking, crying out… (continues)
