When I got to class, Hafsat rushed to me and asked,
“Well, what did he say?”
I looked at her with red eyes and replied,
“It’s none of your business.”
She stood staring at me for a while, then shrugged and said,
“Okay, if it’s sour, I’ll taste it.”
Honestly, if eye drops were sold here, I would have bought some and given them to Hafsat.
Two days passed. My heart began to calm down, but I still hadn’t fully forgiven anything. Ibrahim was completely confused because of the silent treatment I was giving him. Amira, on the other hand, withdrew from everything. She became unusually quiet and barely spoke to anyone—especially me.
On the third day, while we were seated in class, Ibrahim suddenly walked in. He came straight to me, stood in front of my desk, and said loudly enough for the entire class to hear,
“I told you I don’t love her. What more do you want from me?”
The whole class fell silent, staring at us—especially Hafsat, whose eyes were wide open. In a low voice, I asked,
“What are you doing?”
He raised his voice even more and said,
“I’m telling everyone that I don’t love her. You are the one I love. You are the only one I love.”
One girl, Jamila, said,
“Sir, who is she? Is she in this class? Did she say she loves you?”
I stole a glance at Amira and saw that she had turned her back to the class and was staring outside. At that moment, my heart broke. I grabbed a very big textbook and started hitting Ibrahim with it, chasing him out of the class. But he refused to leave. He insisted that I must tell him that the issue was over before he would go. Meanwhile, the students kept asking him questions, urging him to tell them the story.
When I realized that Ibrahim was truly about to expose Amira, I told him that I agreed—that the matter was over. He asked,
“You promise you won’t bring it up again?”
I said,
“I promise.”
Then he turned and left.
As soon as he left, Hafsat said,
“Well then, I told you if it’s sour I’d taste it. Anyone in this class who wants to know who she is should come to me—I’ll tell you.”
Immediately, everyone rushed to Hafsat. I looked at Amira and saw fear on her face. I quickly went to Hafsat and said,
“Hafsat, please, leave this matter.”
She replied,
“Only if you promise that from today you’ll call me Aunty Hafsat.”
I said,
“Done. Aunty Hafsat from today.”
When we got back to the hostel, Hafsat said,
“Honestly, both you and Amira surprise me. I don’t see anything lovable in that tall man.”
I just laughed and stayed close to her, but her words stuck in my heart.
Many times, a person doesn’t choose who their heart loves. Suddenly, you just find yourself loving someone. Other times, the moment you see someone, you feel you don’t like them—even though they’ve done nothing to you. Just as I suddenly found my heart loving Ibrahim despite all the differences between us. There was no specific reason I could give for loving him—I just knew that I did.
When I considered Amira, I realized it was the same for her. She simply found herself loving him too, but because of our closeness, she hid it in her heart until now, when they started spending time together and she began to show it. It must be very hard on her—especially now that he openly declared in front of everyone that he doesn’t love her. And now, a friendship of almost six years was about to be ruined simply because she couldn’t control her heart. She deserved a break from me.
After bathing and dressing, I went to Amira’s room. I found her lying down with her eyes closed, pretending to sleep—but you could tell she wasn’t asleep. I slapped her lightly on the thigh and said,
“Sleepyhead, get up, let’s go and study.”
She opened her eyes and looked at me in surprise. She knew that I knew.
Slowly, she said,
“I’m not feeling well.”
I replied,
“Yeah, right. Once you go out, you’ll be fine.”
I forced her to bathe, and we went out together. From then on, we continued our friendship as before. But whenever Ibrahim came around while we were together, she would get up and leave. I never asked her to stay; I just endured it silently.
A new love was unfolding between Ibrahim and me. I felt that since I was now in SS3, I was old enough—and he too had been waiting patiently. Ibrahim had no shame in showing his love for me, even in front of anyone. I, on the other hand, was always overwhelmed with shyness. One day in class, he came saying he couldn’t sleep the previous night because he just wanted to hear my voice, that he almost came to the hostel. The classmates teased me endlessly. Whenever they went too far, I would stand up and leave the class for them.
Here, I want to advise parents—especially parents of girls—to pay close attention to their children’s upbringing. Schools are no longer what they used to be. Many teachers are in relationships with their female students, and many of them have bad intentions—especially in boarding schools. School management often ignores it, because even the principal or vice principal may have girlfriends, especially in private schools where students are very exposed. Let us give our children good moral upbringing and always pray for them, because nothing protects children more than the prayers of their parents. May Allah bless all our offspring.
One day, we were in front of the chemistry lab checking WAEC past questions and answers when we saw Ibrahim with two women in front of the staff room. Hasiya nudged me and said,
“Look at your man there—maybe he has found someone else.”
I looked and saw two women. One was clearly older, the other a young lady. The younger one wore a hijab, while the older one had a large wrapper. They stood talking for a while. Then I saw Ibrahim collect a bag from the younger one, and they all walked toward the staff quarters. I didn’t see him again that day, and I kept wondering who those women were.
The next morning, he came and asked me to come with him. As we stepped outside, he said,
“There is someone here who wants to see you.”
My heart dropped. I asked,
“Who?”
He replied,
“My mother.”
Instantly, fear gripped me. He wanted me to meet his mother—this was serious. How would I face her? What would I say? I told him,
“Ibrahim, I’m sorry, I can’t.”
He frowned and asked,
“Why can’t you?”
I said,
“I’m scared.”
He laughed and said,
“Scared of what? She doesn’t eat people. Besides, we’ll go together. Just greet her, that’s all.”
I looked at myself. I was in my clean, neatly ironed uniform. My hijab covered me fully, my face had no makeup—as usual. I looked at him again; he was still smiling.
“You look great. Let’s go,” he said, walking ahead. I followed him nervously, like someone with a broken egg inside her stomach.
We went straight to the visitors’ room. He paused and asked,
“Are you ready?”
I shook my head no. He laughed, opened the door with greetings, and entered. I greeted and followed him inside.
They were the same two women from the day before—the older and the younger. I looked at the older one and knew immediately she was Ibrahim’s mother, though she wasn’t as tall as him. The younger one looked nothing like him; she was much fairer—almost white—and her face was full of acne, unlike mine, which was smooth. From her appearance, Ibrahim’s mother was a typical Yoruba woman, with a wrapper tied over her dress and a head tie.
Ibrahim sat close to her; I knelt on the floor at a distance and greeted her in English. She replied, but it was obvious she didn’t understand English very well. In my heart, I thought, Oh well, I don’t speak Yoruba either, so we’ll just stick to greetings.
I greeted the younger one too, knowing she was older than me. She replied with a smile. When I looked up, I saw Ibrahim glaring at her, one leg crossed over the other. Their mother kept her eyes on me.
After a while, Ibrahim said,
“Maimunatu, this is my mother, and that girl over there is my sister.”
Quickly, she corrected him,
“His step-sister.”
I looked at her and saw her eyes fixed on him. I don’t know why, but I felt uneasy about the way she was looking at him. Their mother started speaking in her broken English,
“Every time I call Ibrahim, it’s Maimunatu this, Maimunatu that. When I complain that he doesn’t visit us on weekends, he says they’re studying together and exams are near. Always Maimunatu. So I decided to come and see this Maimunatu with my own eyes.”
I pulled my hijab closer to my face. She spoke to him in Yoruba, mentioning “Fulani.” Then I heard him say,
“We Yoruba don’t hide our in-laws. Open your eyes well, because the day you give birth, she’s the one who will bathe you.”
I shrank into myself, thinking, Ibrahim, why are you talking about childbirth now?
They all laughed.
The young lady then spoke,
“Let me introduce myself properly. I’m his step-sister—my father is married to his mother. My name is Efisowa, but you can call me Efi. I came to help him assess things, because I know he can’t choose well. When Mama said you’re Fulani, I decided to come and see for myself—and I see you’re very young.”
Ibrahim snapped at her,
“Shut up,”
and spoke to her in Yoruba. She replied, and then their mother warned them into silence.
Gently, his mother asked me,
“Where are your parents?”
I said,
“They live in Abuja.”
She said,
“So you’re Abuja people?”
I replied,
“We’re from Jigawa.”
I then felt someone mimic me—the way I spoke softly, just like Ibrahim. It was Efi. My uneasiness grew as she couldn’t take her eyes off Ibrahim.
Ibrahim said he would escort me back to class since we had lessons. Efi spoke to him again in Yoruba; he told her to shut up. Their mother clicked her tongue at Efi as a warning.
After we left, we walked in silence for a while. Then he asked,
“How do you like my mother?”
I said,
“She’s okay. You look like her, but taller.”
He replied,
“No, she always says I look like my father.”
I hesitated, but my heart couldn’t hold it in. I said,
“Your sister doesn’t like me.”
He laughed and said,
“Yours doesn’t like me either.”
I laughed too, then said,
“But this is different. I feel there’s some tension between you two.”
He went silent and didn’t answer. That confirmed my suspicion, and instantly my heart burned with jealousy.
As we neared the class, he finally said,
“Whatever was between Efi and me is long over. What I have with you has nothing to do with her. All I need is my parents’ approval. Please, Maimunatu, don’t mess this up. Mama came all the way to see you. Please show her your best behavior so that when she goes back, she’ll tell my father good things about you. Don’t let Efi get into your head—that’s exactly what she wants.”
We reached the class. I entered without saying a word. He stood outside, arms folded, his face full of worry.
After sitting down, I realized I hadn’t treated Ibrahim fairly. He was right—this was our chance. I needed to prove to his mother that I was good enough. If I allowed jealousy over Efi to enter my heart now, then I had a serious problem.
Here, I want to advise girls and married women alike: if another woman shows interest in your husband or boyfriend—especially if he doesn’t love her—don’t make an enemy of her. Draw her close and treat her kindly. Make sure that whenever your husband or boyfriend is around, you openly show the love between you. She will feel embarrassed and withdraw on her own. But if you fight and insult her, it’s like you’re pushing him toward her.
And you, a single girl looking for a husband—if you see another woman with her man, don’t desire him and insist on breaking them apart. If Allah has placed love between them, they will not separate.
The next evening, Amira, some friends, and I were at the entrance of the library when Ibrahim arrived with Efi. From a distance, I watched how she kept clinging to him. Everyone stopped to stare. One look at Ibrahim told me he was angry.
When they reached us, he introduced her generally and said,
“She says she wants to look around the school.”
I quickly said,
“She’s welcome,”
and stretched out my hand to her. She looked at me, then at Ibrahim, as if seeking permission. He turned his face away and walked off. She spoke to him in Yoruba; he didn’t reply. He put his hands in his pockets and walked away.
After he left, I started chatting with her and introduced her to all my friends there. Amira didn’t even look at her. I offered to show her around the school—classes, labs, kitchen, dining hall—everywhere. Then I took her to the hostel.
Hafsat was lying down when we entered. She looked at us and asked me in Fulani,
“Where did you get this one from?”
I replied in English,
“She is Ibrahim’s step-sister.”
Then I told Efi,
“This is my sister, Hafsat.”
Efi exclaimed,
“Oh my God, she is so beautiful. Nice to meet you,”
and stretched out her hand. Hafsat refused to shake it and replied in Fulani,
“I will never touch your hand, witch.”
I laughed. Efi asked,
“What did she say?”
I told her,
“She said you’re very beautiful.”
Efi smiled brightly and said,
“Thank you.”
Hafsat glared at me.
Efi began admiring our room, saying it was just like her home and that if she stayed, she wouldn’t even want holidays. I filled the table with snacks and we chatted as she told me about their family. I didn’t tell her anything about mine.
We were together until Maghrib prayer. Then Ibrahim called her to come out so they could go home. For some reason, I felt uneasy that he called her on the phone. I took a set of Dove toiletries from my things and gave it to her. She was shocked, asking how a student could afford to give gifts.
The next day, Ibrahim told me they were leaving. I packed plenty of sweets and biscuits in a bag, hid it in my hijab because of prying eyes, and went with him to say goodbye to his mother. I greeted her; she replied warmly and advised me strongly about my studies. It made me very happy. I gave her the bag and said it was for Abdullahi and Abdulrahman, Ibrahim’s younger brothers. She refused, but I placed it in front of her and left.
That night, Ibrahim came complaining, asking why I spent money buying things. Why didn’t I tell him so he could buy them instead? He thought I bought clothes. Two days later, he came with lots of clothes for me.
When our SSCE exams started, Ibrahim would sit at the entrance of the hall every day, waiting for me. After each exam, he’d ask me how the paper was before leaving. He introduced me to music—slow songs. We’d share earphones, one in his ear, one in mine. Our bond grew stronger every day. I even counted down the days to our last paper.
A week before we finished, the principal called me and said the federal government had requested the name of the best student to be awarded a scholarship to any university of her choice. She informed me that they wanted to submit my name. I stayed quiet, thinking. I didn’t need the scholarship—Daddy could sponsor me anywhere. Scholarships are meant for brilliant students whose parents can’t afford fees. Amira immediately came to my mind. I told the principal to give it to Amira instead of me. She wasn’t happy—I was the best student the school had ever had. I told her to contact my father and do whatever he agreed to.
The next day was our graduation. Ibrahim called and said he wanted to talk. When we sat, I noticed he was serious. He said,
“Maimunatu, when you get home, I want to come and ask your father for permission to marry you.”
My heart raced. I looked at him and said,
“Yes. I want you to get their permission, because I know where I’m headed. Just pray for us.”
I hope you enjoyed this episode. Fasten your seat belts, because the next episode is going to blow you away.
Episode Twenty-Two: Efisowa
When I got to class, Hafsat rushed to me and asked,
“Well, what did he say?”
I looked at her with red eyes and replied,
“It’s none of your business.”
She stood staring at me for a while, then shrugged and said,
“Okay, if it’s sour, I’ll taste it.”
Honestly, if eye drops were sold here, I would have bought some and given them to Hafsat.
Two days passed. My heart began to calm down, but I still hadn’t fully forgiven anything. Ibrahim was completely confused because of the silent treatment I was giving him. Amira, on the other hand, withdrew from everything. She became unusually quiet and barely spoke to anyone—especially me.
On the third day, while we were seated in class, Ibrahim suddenly walked in. He came straight to me, stood in front of my desk, and said loudly enough for the entire class to hear,
“I told you I don’t love her. What more do you want from me?”
The whole class fell silent, staring at us—especially Hafsat, whose eyes were wide open. In a low voice, I asked,
“What are you doing?”
He raised his voice even more and said,
“I’m telling everyone that I don’t love her. You are the one I love. You are the only one I love.”
One girl, Jamila, said,
“Sir, who is she? Is she in this class? Did she say she loves you?”
I stole a glance at Amira and saw that she had turned her back to the class and was staring outside. At that moment, my heart broke. I grabbed a very big textbook and started hitting Ibrahim with it, chasing him out of the class. But he refused to leave. He insisted that I must tell him that the issue was over before he would go. Meanwhile, the students kept asking him questions, urging him to tell them the story.
When I realized that Ibrahim was truly about to expose Amira, I told him that I agreed—that the matter was over. He asked,
“You promise you won’t bring it up again?”
I said,
“I promise.”
Then he turned and left.
As soon as he left, Hafsat said,
“Well then, I told you if it’s sour I’d taste it. Anyone in this class who wants to know who she is should come to me—I’ll tell you.”
Immediately, everyone rushed to Hafsat. I looked at Amira and saw fear on her face. I quickly went to Hafsat and said,
“Hafsat, please, leave this matter.”
She replied,
“Only if you promise that from today you’ll call me Aunty Hafsat.”
I said,
“Done. Aunty Hafsat from today.”
When we got back to the hostel, Hafsat said,
“Honestly, both you and Amira surprise me. I don’t see anything lovable in that tall man.”
I just laughed and stayed close to her, but her words stuck in my heart.
Many times, a person doesn’t choose who their heart loves. Suddenly, you just find yourself loving someone. Other times, the moment you see someone, you feel you don’t like them—even though they’ve done nothing to you. Just as I suddenly found my heart loving Ibrahim despite all the differences between us. There was no specific reason I could give for loving him—I just knew that I did.
When I considered Amira, I realized it was the same for her. She simply found herself loving him too, but because of our closeness, she hid it in her heart until now, when they started spending time together and she began to show it. It must be very hard on her—especially now that he openly declared in front of everyone that he doesn’t love her. And now, a friendship of almost six years was about to be ruined simply because she couldn’t control her heart. She deserved a break from me.
After bathing and dressing, I went to Amira’s room. I found her lying down with her eyes closed, pretending to sleep—but you could tell she wasn’t asleep. I slapped her lightly on the thigh and said,
“Sleepyhead, get up, let’s go and study.”
She opened her eyes and looked at me in surprise. She knew that I knew.
Slowly, she said,
“I’m not feeling well.”
I replied,
“Yeah, right. Once you go out, you’ll be fine.”
I forced her to bathe, and we went out together. From then on, we continued our friendship as before. But whenever Ibrahim came around while we were together, she would get up and leave. I never asked her to stay; I just endured it silently.
A new love was unfolding between Ibrahim and me. I felt that since I was now in SS3, I was old enough—and he too had been waiting patiently. Ibrahim had no shame in showing his love for me, even in front of anyone. I, on the other hand, was always overwhelmed with shyness. One day in class, he came saying he couldn’t sleep the previous night because he just wanted to hear my voice, that he almost came to the hostel. The classmates teased me endlessly. Whenever they went too far, I would stand up and leave the class for them.
Here, I want to advise parents—especially parents of girls—to pay close attention to their children’s upbringing. Schools are no longer what they used to be. Many teachers are in relationships with their female students, and many of them have bad intentions—especially in boarding schools. School management often ignores it, because even the principal or vice principal may have girlfriends, especially in private schools where students are very exposed. Let us give our children good moral upbringing and always pray for them, because nothing protects children more than the prayers of their parents. May Allah bless all our offspring.
One day, we were in front of the chemistry lab checking WAEC past questions and answers when we saw Ibrahim with two women in front of the staff room. Hasiya nudged me and said,
“Look at your man there—maybe he has found someone else.”
I looked and saw two women. One was clearly older, the other a young lady. The younger one wore a hijab, while the older one had a large wrapper. They stood talking for a while. Then I saw Ibrahim collect a bag from the younger one, and they all walked toward the staff quarters. I didn’t see him again that day, and I kept wondering who those women were.
The next morning, he came and asked me to come with him. As we stepped outside, he said,
“There is someone here who wants to see you.”
My heart dropped. I asked,
“Who?”
He replied,
“My mother.”
Instantly, fear gripped me. He wanted me to meet his mother—this was serious. How would I face her? What would I say? I told him,
“Ibrahim, I’m sorry, I can’t.”
He frowned and asked,
“Why can’t you?”
I said,
“I’m scared.”
He laughed and said,
“Scared of what? She doesn’t eat people. Besides, we’ll go together. Just greet her, that’s all.”
I looked at myself. I was in my clean, neatly ironed uniform. My hijab covered me fully, my face had no makeup—as usual. I looked at him again; he was still smiling.
“You look great. Let’s go,” he said, walking ahead. I followed him nervously, like someone with a broken egg inside her stomach.
We went straight to the visitors’ room. He paused and asked,
“Are you ready?”
I shook my head no. He laughed, opened the door with greetings, and entered. I greeted and followed him inside.
They were the same two women from the day before—the older and the younger. I looked at the older one and knew immediately she was Ibrahim’s mother, though she wasn’t as tall as him. The younger one looked nothing like him; she was much fairer—almost white—and her face was full of acne, unlike mine, which was smooth. From her appearance, Ibrahim’s mother was a typical Yoruba woman, with a wrapper tied over her dress and a head tie.
Ibrahim sat close to her; I knelt on the floor at a distance and greeted her in English. She replied, but it was obvious she didn’t understand English very well. In my heart, I thought, Oh well, I don’t speak Yoruba either, so we’ll just stick to greetings.
I greeted the younger one too, knowing she was older than me. She replied with a smile. When I looked up, I saw Ibrahim glaring at her, one leg crossed over the other. Their mother kept her eyes on me.
After a while, Ibrahim said,
“Maimunatu, this is my mother, and that girl over there is my sister.”
Quickly, she corrected him,
“His step-sister.”
I looked at her and saw her eyes fixed on him. I don’t know why, but I felt uneasy about the way she was looking at him. Their mother started speaking in her broken English,
“Every time I call Ibrahim, it’s Maimunatu this, Maimunatu that. When I complain that he doesn’t visit us on weekends, he says they’re studying together and exams are near. Always Maimunatu. So I decided to come and see this Maimunatu with my own eyes.”
I pulled my hijab closer to my face. She spoke to him in Yoruba, mentioning “Fulani.” Then I heard him say,
“We Yoruba don’t hide our in-laws. Open your eyes well, because the day you give birth, she’s the one who will bathe you.”
I shrank into myself, thinking, Ibrahim, why are you talking about childbirth now?
They all laughed.
The young lady then spoke,
“Let me introduce myself properly. I’m his step-sister—my father is married to his mother. My name is Efisowa, but you can call me Efi. I came to help him assess things, because I know he can’t choose well. When Mama said you’re Fulani, I decided to come and see for myself—and I see you’re very young.”
Ibrahim snapped at her,
“Shut up,”
and spoke to her in Yoruba. She replied, and then their mother warned them into silence.
Gently, his mother asked me,
“Where are your parents?”
I said,
“They live in Abuja.”
She said,
“So you’re Abuja people?”
I replied,
“We’re from Jigawa.”
I then felt someone mimic me—the way I spoke softly, just like Ibrahim. It was Efi. My uneasiness grew as she couldn’t take her eyes off Ibrahim.
Ibrahim said he would escort me back to class since we had lessons. Efi spoke to him again in Yoruba; he told her to shut up. Their mother clicked her tongue at Efi as a warning.
After we left, we walked in silence for a while. Then he asked,
“How do you like my mother?”
I said,
“She’s okay. You look like her, but taller.”
He replied,
“No, she always says I look like my father.”
I hesitated, but my heart couldn’t hold it in. I said,
“Your sister doesn’t like me.”
He laughed and said,
“Yours doesn’t like me either.”
I laughed too, then said,
“But this is different. I feel there’s some tension between you two.”
He went silent and didn’t answer. That confirmed my suspicion, and instantly my heart burned with jealousy.
As we neared the class, he finally said,
“Whatever was between Efi and me is long over. What I have with you has nothing to do with her. All I need is my parents’ approval. Please, Maimunatu, don’t mess this up. Mama came all the way to see you. Please show her your best behavior so that when she goes back, she’ll tell my father good things about you. Don’t let Efi get into your head—that’s exactly what she wants.”
We reached the class. I entered without saying a word. He stood outside, arms folded, his face full of worry.
After sitting down, I realized I hadn’t treated Ibrahim fairly. He was right—this was our chance. I needed to prove to his mother that I was good enough. If I allowed jealousy over Efi to enter my heart now, then I had a serious problem.
Here, I want to advise girls and married women alike: if another woman shows interest in your husband or boyfriend—especially if he doesn’t love her—don’t make an enemy of her. Draw her close and treat her kindly. Make sure that whenever your husband or boyfriend is around, you openly show the love between you. She will feel embarrassed and withdraw on her own. But if you fight and insult her, it’s like you’re pushing him toward her.
And you, a single girl looking for a husband—if you see another woman with her man, don’t desire him and insist on breaking them apart. If Allah has placed love between them, they will not separate.
The next evening, Amira, some friends, and I were at the entrance of the library when Ibrahim arrived with Efi. From a distance, I watched how she kept clinging to him. Everyone stopped to stare. One look at Ibrahim told me he was angry.
When they reached us, he introduced her generally and said,
“She says she wants to look around the school.”
I quickly said,
“She’s welcome,”
and stretched out my hand to her. She looked at me, then at Ibrahim, as if seeking permission. He turned his face away and walked off. She spoke to him in Yoruba; he didn’t reply. He put his hands in his pockets and walked away.
After he left, I started chatting with her and introduced her to all my friends there. Amira didn’t even look at her. I offered to show her around the school—classes, labs, kitchen, dining hall—everywhere. Then I took her to the hostel.
Hafsat was lying down when we entered. She looked at us and asked me in Fulani,
“Where did you get this one from?”
I replied in English,
“She is Ibrahim’s step-sister.”
Then I told Efi,
“This is my sister, Hafsat.”
Efi exclaimed,
“Oh my God, she is so beautiful. Nice to meet you,”
and stretched out her hand. Hafsat refused to shake it and replied in Fulani,
“I will never touch your hand, witch.”
I laughed. Efi asked,
“What did she say?”
I told her,
“She said you’re very beautiful.”
Efi smiled brightly and said,
“Thank you.”
Hafsat glared at me.
Efi began admiring our room, saying it was just like her home and that if she stayed, she wouldn’t even want holidays. I filled the table with snacks and we chatted as she told me about their family. I didn’t tell her anything about mine.
We were together until Maghrib prayer. Then Ibrahim called her to come out so they could go home. For some reason, I felt uneasy that he called her on the phone. I took a set of Dove toiletries from my things and gave it to her. She was shocked, asking how a student could afford to give gifts.
The next day, Ibrahim told me they were leaving. I packed plenty of sweets and biscuits in a bag, hid it in my hijab because of prying eyes, and went with him to say goodbye to his mother. I greeted her; she replied warmly and advised me strongly about my studies. It made me very happy. I gave her the bag and said it was for Abdullahi and Abdulrahman, Ibrahim’s younger brothers. She refused, but I placed it in front of her and left.
That night, Ibrahim came complaining, asking why I spent money buying things. Why didn’t I tell him so he could buy them instead? He thought I bought clothes. Two days later, he came with lots of clothes for me.
When our SSCE exams started, Ibrahim would sit at the entrance of the hall every day, waiting for me. After each exam, he’d ask me how the paper was before leaving. He introduced me to music—slow songs. We’d share earphones, one in his ear, one in mine. Our bond grew stronger every day. I even counted down the days to our last paper.
A week before we finished, the principal called me and said the federal government had requested the name of the best student to be awarded a scholarship to any university of her choice. She informed me that they wanted to submit my name. I stayed quiet, thinking. I didn’t need the scholarship—Daddy could sponsor me anywhere. Scholarships are meant for brilliant students whose parents can’t afford fees. Amira immediately came to my mind. I told the principal to give it to Amira instead of me. She wasn’t happy—I was the best student the school had ever had. I told her to contact my father and do whatever he agreed to.
The next day was our graduation. Ibrahim called and said he wanted to talk. When we sat, I noticed he was serious. He said,
“Maimunatu, when you get home, I want to come and ask your father for permission to marry you.”
My heart raced. I looked at him and said,
“Yes. I want you to get their permission, because I know where I’m headed. Just pray for us.”
I hope you enjoyed this episode. Fasten your seat belts, because the next episode is going to blow you away.