As soon as I entered the room, the tears I had held back in front of them broke free. I didn’t allow myself to sit and cry; I just removed my clothes and went straight to the bathroom. I stood there, staring at my bathroom in complete disgust. It was messed up as if I had never struggled to clean it before leaving. I knew Bibaa was the one who did it. Out of sheer shamelessness, she even left two used pads there along with her pants.
I am someone who hates dirt very much; even the smallest thing irritates me. That’s why I usually force myself to clean the house properly without minding the disgust. Tears filled my eyes as I cleaned the bathroom. I returned everything to order and packed the trash she had piled up and took it outside.
They were still sitting in the living room watching TV, even Mum. It was as if they didn’t hear the Maghrib prayer call. I had long realized that Mum only prayed when she felt like it, and that’s why her children too didn’t care about worship. Hafizzullah had once started adopting that habit until Yaya Musaddiq and I corrected him firmly, as if we didn’t love him then.
I passed them again and went back inside. I took my bath, wore a light long gown, and prayed. After finishing, I sat and recited the Qur’an. I didn’t get up until Isha time, and even then, I could still hear their noise in the living room. They still didn’t pray.
I went to the living room to take my food, but I found nothing. I didn’t give up; I returned and asked Bibaa. She gave me a stupid look, even though I was about seven or eight years older than her. She was only thirteen. Rudely she said:
“Did you leave it in my care? Don’t insult my intelligence, please. Mtsss!”
She turned away and continued what she was doing.
I said nothing. I went back to the room, because what she did meant there was no food for me today. I had gone to work without finishing the soup, even though I had done everything, including what I wasn’t told to do. I only left it so the oil could settle, so I wouldn’t be late.
I sat on my sleeping place and cried. Today, I felt the pain of what they did to me, even though it wasn’t the first time. But returning home hungry made it worse.
Since childhood, whenever Mum was angry, she would deny us food. Hafizzullah would cry from hunger, while Yaya Musaddiq and I endured. Even if he cried terribly, she wouldn’t give him anything. Yaya Musaddiq would go out and find food for him, even if it meant begging. Now that we were older, whenever she denied us food, he would buy food and we’d eat in his room together.
That would make Mum angry, and she would report us to Abba, saying we gathered in Yaya Musaddiq’s room to insult her. Sometimes Abba would scold us, sometimes he would ignore her, and she’d continue her insults alone.
Seeing that sitting there was useless, I stood up and wiped my tears. I wore my small home hijab, took my bag, and went to Yaya Musaddiq’s room.
After knocking and greeting, he allowed me in. He stood up from his sleeping mat. Whenever he bought a mattress, Mum would take it and give it to Bibaa and the others to spoil. That’s why he stopped buying one.
He smiled at me and said gently:
“Kandala, what happened? Why is this cat face swollen?”
I pouted and said:
“Nothing. I’m just hungry.”
He sighed, wore his shirt, and said:
“Wait here. I’ll be back.”
I lay down on his mat. A few minutes later, I sat up and took out the magazine the MD gave me. I stared at the man in it again. He didn’t look like a Nigerian at all. His hairstyle, earrings, and tattoo made me click my tongue.
Yaya Musaddiq returned with food and said:
“Where did you get Maash?”
I said:
“Our MD gave it to me. I’m supposed to interview him at his company opening.”
He prayed for my success.
I asked:
“Is he even Muslim? Is he Nigerian?”
Yaya laughed and explained that he was truly from Kano, though he had mixed ancestry.
He encouraged me and gave me confidence.
Eventually, I fell asleep in his room.
---
The next morning, I woke up late, prepared for work, and left. Yaya Musaddiq dropped me off and gave me money.
At work, while leaving with Khalid, I almost collided with Mansoor. I stepped back to avoid his touch and fell. He tried to help me up, but I refused.
He joked with me lovingly, and I walked away smiling behind my face mask.
As soon as I entered the room, the tears I had held back in front of them broke free. I didn’t allow myself to sit and cry; I just removed my clothes and went straight to the bathroom. I stood there, staring at my bathroom in complete disgust. It was messed up as if I had never struggled to clean it before leaving. I knew Bibaa was the one who did it. Out of sheer shamelessness, she even left two used pads there along with her pants.
I am someone who hates dirt very much; even the smallest thing irritates me. That’s why I usually force myself to clean the house properly without minding the disgust. Tears filled my eyes as I cleaned the bathroom. I returned everything to order and packed the trash she had piled up and took it outside.
They were still sitting in the living room watching TV, even Mum. It was as if they didn’t hear the Maghrib prayer call. I had long realized that Mum only prayed when she felt like it, and that’s why her children too didn’t care about worship. Hafizzullah had once started adopting that habit until Yaya Musaddiq and I corrected him firmly, as if we didn’t love him then.
I passed them again and went back inside. I took my bath, wore a light long gown, and prayed. After finishing, I sat and recited the Qur’an. I didn’t get up until Isha time, and even then, I could still hear their noise in the living room. They still didn’t pray.
I went to the living room to take my food, but I found nothing. I didn’t give up; I returned and asked Bibaa. She gave me a stupid look, even though I was about seven or eight years older than her. She was only thirteen. Rudely she said:
“Did you leave it in my care? Don’t insult my intelligence, please. Mtsss!”
She turned away and continued what she was doing.
I said nothing. I went back to the room, because what she did meant there was no food for me today. I had gone to work without finishing the soup, even though I had done everything, including what I wasn’t told to do. I only left it so the oil could settle, so I wouldn’t be late.
I sat on my sleeping place and cried. Today, I felt the pain of what they did to me, even though it wasn’t the first time. But returning home hungry made it worse.
Since childhood, whenever Mum was angry, she would deny us food. Hafizzullah would cry from hunger, while Yaya Musaddiq and I endured. Even if he cried terribly, she wouldn’t give him anything. Yaya Musaddiq would go out and find food for him, even if it meant begging. Now that we were older, whenever she denied us food, he would buy food and we’d eat in his room together.
That would make Mum angry, and she would report us to Abba, saying we gathered in Yaya Musaddiq’s room to insult her. Sometimes Abba would scold us, sometimes he would ignore her, and she’d continue her insults alone.
Seeing that sitting there was useless, I stood up and wiped my tears. I wore my small home hijab, took my bag, and went to Yaya Musaddiq’s room.
After knocking and greeting, he allowed me in. He stood up from his sleeping mat. Whenever he bought a mattress, Mum would take it and give it to Bibaa and the others to spoil. That’s why he stopped buying one.
He smiled at me and said gently:
“Kandala, what happened? Why is this cat face swollen?”
I pouted and said:
“Nothing. I’m just hungry.”
He sighed, wore his shirt, and said:
“Wait here. I’ll be back.”
I lay down on his mat. A few minutes later, I sat up and took out the magazine the MD gave me. I stared at the man in it again. He didn’t look like a Nigerian at all. His hairstyle, earrings, and tattoo made me click my tongue.
Yaya Musaddiq returned with food and said:
“Where did you get Maash?”
I said:
“Our MD gave it to me. I’m supposed to interview him at his company opening.”
He prayed for my success.
I asked:
“Is he even Muslim? Is he Nigerian?”
Yaya laughed and explained that he was truly from Kano, though he had mixed ancestry.
He encouraged me and gave me confidence.
Eventually, I fell asleep in his room.
---
The next morning, I woke up late, prepared for work, and left. Yaya Musaddiq dropped me off and gave me money.
At work, while leaving with Khalid, I almost collided with Mansoor. I stepped back to avoid his touch and fell. He tried to help me up, but I refused.
He joked with me lovingly, and I walked away smiling behind my face mask.
Soon, our guest arrived, and the program began…