He is wearing a T-shirt and three-quarter pants, a cross necklace hangs around his neck, and a P-cap on his head. At first glance, you’d understand he’s a thug, looking at his clothes and expression, there is not a trace of Islamic light in him.
Meanwhile, camera operators started recording a young man standing with a girl. The young man wore long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, while the girl in front of him wore a knee-length fitted shirt, tight enough that it traced her body, and a head attachment that fit snugly.
For the nth time, I smiled while standing beside the Director, wishing I could enter the field too.
When he looked at me, it seemed like he was about to signal me to enter, but suddenly something hit me that made me scream, returning to reality. My mouth moved:
“Director, see meeeee.”
Startled, I woke up from the daze the car had put me in.
I exhaled long, no one would have known it came from my small mouth, then I glanced to the side where I felt the blow. My eyes met my siblings who were staring intently.
“Fool! Get out of the car! You made me late. It’s 8:12 a.m., our lecture started at 8:00 a.m. Get out of the car! The only reason you won’t go mad between home and here is because of sleep, including those crazy dreams.” She spoke, raising her voice. I smiled slightly, though I wanted to see her irritated.
“Stop insulting my dream, ehe, because it means more to me than anything else in life.” I smiled at the madwoman’s comment.
“Hmmm, little man, get out before I punish you. I swear, if you don’t leave this topic, I’ll tell Dad.”
“Uhmmmm, calm down Ashenty.” I said as I opened the car door.
At our school, luxury cars drop off students. I froze at what she said.
“So you left your lunch bag with me, right?”
Since I knew I wouldn’t be home until 6 p.m., I had returned with my lunch bag.
I grabbed the big bag, pouted a little, and looked at my sister who was wearing a long maroon Jalbab hijab, beautiful, long nose, small mouth, bright eyes—a beauty indeed. Dad is Shuwa, Mom is fair-skinned.
“What are you standing for? Close the door.” She said, trying to enter the car.
I blinked, politely insisting when I needed something.
“Aunty… Aunty Aishataahhh.” She smiled, knowing the rest.
“Please give me some money for break.” I said, using a begging tone.
“Mom already gave you ₦500, what else will I give you?” She said, rolling her eyes.
I drew a long breath inside, but I wanted to ask anyway:
“Honestly, I’ll give, just a small gift.”
“Hmmm.” She said, taking ₦500 from her bag. I accepted, smiling, dimple showing.
“No matter what, I won’t let you dictate how to give money, hmmm I love you.” She then sped off, skilled at driving.
I smiled and shrugged as I headed to the gate. Even though we were late, they let me pass because they knew I’m never late.
It’s a big school for wealthy students. Muslim and Christian students attend. Our uniform is blue and white: blue short-sleeved shirt to the knees, or white long-sleeved shirt with skirt/pants. Muslims wear leggings and a hat but no hijab, except during Islamiyya lessons when a blue hijab reaches the ground.
I walked through the school, climbed the stairs to the S.S. section, headed to S.S.3. Thankful there were no teachers yet. I signed in a book on the teacher’s desk—this is standard, so each class has a clock above the whiteboard to record time.
We boys in the front row greet each other while walking past.
“Hey/Hello.”
I greeted everyone, 24 students in class—10 boys, 14 girls.
I approached my seat; two students share a desk with a spot for bags. I greeted the girl next to me, my friend.
“Jennifer, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Dear Rose.” I smiled; my school name is Rose because I like it.
I kept my hat on today. When teachers began entering, it was time for break. Some classmates went out, some stayed.
I was excited because Jennifer had brought me something—a Tecno Spark 4 phone. Nobody knew I had it except Jennifer. I struggled to save money for it, and every day I gave her ₦500.
“Thank you so much, Jennifer.” I said, happy to see the phone at 100%. She smiled.
“Yesterday, To Kill a Monkey Episode 5 was released.” She hit the desk and cheered. I sang along.
“Ahhh, you know everything… I won’t let you go… I won’t watch your episodes without you…” I said, showing my heart. We laughed and walked, classmates smiled.
“Me too, I love you Rose.”
Then she left, and I focused on watching Nigerian films, as usual, sometimes downloading, sometimes Jennifer sends me links.
I love Nollywood films. That’s why I bought a phone, working hard to save ₦35,000, collecting money daily.
I bought the phone; my plan is to continue school, then attend University in another state, and become a NOLLYWOOD actress. That’s my dream.
I watched two films, then returned to class, continuing studies. I always got first class, never giving way academically, even while acting in films.
At 2:00 p.m., we finished, prayed, ate, then went to Islamiyya. My Christian friend went home. I wasn’t too fond of Islamiyya since I liked fun; I didn’t even take Islamic exams seriously.
At 6:00 p.m., I was picked up by Ashenty since the driver was unwell. At the school gate, we signed out. I was tired and didn’t speak much.
After driving, she parked, I deliberately left my lunch bag. I hurried, running a little, hoping she wouldn’t call me.
Our house is huge; Dad, Alhaji Musa, is a major political figure and wealthy businessman. The mansion has two floors, many rooms, we use only a few.
Four of us live here after the staff: Dad, Mom, Ashenty, and me.
We weren’t the first kids. Muhammad was born first but died at one, then Usman died as an infant, then Ashenty, then Sadiq, who also died young, then me. The men left us. May Allah bless them.
I entered the main hall, hugged Mom watching NTA, smiling.
“I’m back, Dear.”
“My daughter, you’re welcome.” I sat beside her, removing my hijab. Mom is beautiful and stylish, often compared with Dad and A’isha.
“My beautiful girl, always growing more beautiful, now becoming a young lady.” She said as I rushed upstairs, leaving my hijab and jacket.
I entered Ashenty’s room for the TV, turning it on, watching African Zone, Nigerian film Two Fathers.
While watching, the housemaid entered, staring at me.
“You left your lunch bag, didn’t you? Hmmmm Inayah, I don’t know when you’ll stop ignoring me.” She said, removing her Jalbab.
Instead of replying, I said:
“Aunty Aisha, let me finish. Please let it end. I want to know the real father.”
“Hmmm, alright.” She turned off the TV.
I got up, walking, saying:
“Very soon you’ll see. Insha Allah…” Before I could finish, she pulled me back, quickly pushing me against the wall and locking the door, leaving the key in the door.
We stared at each other; I even lifted my chin, seeking an explanation. Aisha looked at me like she wanted to hit, but she couldn’t because she loved me…
Continuation (GIƊAƊO Mansion section)
Aisha said:
“Inayah, I want to talk to you.” She sat on the sofa; I mirrored her on the dressing mirror. She exhaled and asked:
“How old are you?”
I smiled, replying:
“Subtract 3 years, I’m 21, you’re 17, almost a match.”
“Hmmm, be serious. I don’t want madness.” She said, narrowing her bright eyes.
“Why do you want to become an actress?” I asked.
“Because I love it.”
“You mean Hausa films impress you…” I started.
“No, not Kannywood. I mean NOLLYWOOD.” She interrupted. I went silent.
“But you’re Muslim. Dad and Mom want you to be a doctor…”
“I’ll do everything,” she said, turning on the TV.
She watched a film with scantily dressed women dancing in a club. I quickly turned away.
“That’s what you want? That’s the kind of immorality you like?” I said.
“I won’t do that. I want to act as a decent lady, dressed modestly to my knees, like my uniform.” She shook her head, staring at me.
“Go… go.” I left quickly. I wasn’t afraid of Dad knowing; she loved me. My Nollywood dream remains untouched.
GIƊAƊO Mansion
A large mansion with four gates, four floors, 40 armed guards. Cars park in the lot, and visitors are checked.
Sarah, a young woman no older than 21, enters the house chewing gum. She meets her mother, smiling politely.
“School went well?” Mother asked kindly.
“Alhamdulillah,” Sarah replied.
As she headed upstairs, a young man called out:
“Darling… Darling.” She stopped, lifted her chin, smiled, and he began descending the stairs.
He was tall, handsome, wearing modest clothes, with necklaces, rings, and ear studs. A Nollywood star, respectful, with tattoos.
“Darling, how are you?” He said warmly.
“Fine.” She replied softly.
“I know you’re tired. Rest; we’ll meet soon.” She nodded, running upstairs to her room 25, locking the door, removing her hijab, silently frustrated with GIƊAƊO Mansion life.
The mansion is full of people with different temperaments, living under one will—the Wassiyar GIƊAƊO, a binding testament shaping their lives.
After a long time, she bathed, changed, and went to dinner at 8:00 p.m. Everyone must attend meals, morning and night.
The dining area has 50 seats; 47 attended that night, family members only. Sarah sat next to her mother.
“Where’s Ayan? He’s always late.” A relative complained.
“He’ll come soon,” Sarah replied, glancing at Ahmad, who smiled and winked at her.
GIƊAƊO, the patriarch, had strict rules but loving relationships with his grandchildren.
He is wearing a T-shirt and three-quarter pants, a cross necklace hangs around his neck, and a P-cap on his head. At first glance, you’d understand he’s a thug, looking at his clothes and expression, there is not a trace of Islamic light in him.
Meanwhile, camera operators started recording a young man standing with a girl. The young man wore long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, while the girl in front of him wore a knee-length fitted shirt, tight enough that it traced her body, and a head attachment that fit snugly.
For the nth time, I smiled while standing beside the Director, wishing I could enter the field too.
When he looked at me, it seemed like he was about to signal me to enter, but suddenly something hit me that made me scream, returning to reality. My mouth moved:
“Director, see meeeee.”
Startled, I woke up from the daze the car had put me in.
I exhaled long, no one would have known it came from my small mouth, then I glanced to the side where I felt the blow. My eyes met my siblings who were staring intently.
“Fool! Get out of the car! You made me late. It’s 8:12 a.m., our lecture started at 8:00 a.m. Get out of the car! The only reason you won’t go mad between home and here is because of sleep, including those crazy dreams.” She spoke, raising her voice. I smiled slightly, though I wanted to see her irritated.
“Stop insulting my dream, ehe, because it means more to me than anything else in life.” I smiled at the madwoman’s comment.
“Hmmm, little man, get out before I punish you. I swear, if you don’t leave this topic, I’ll tell Dad.”
“Uhmmmm, calm down Ashenty.” I said as I opened the car door.
At our school, luxury cars drop off students. I froze at what she said.
“So you left your lunch bag with me, right?”
Since I knew I wouldn’t be home until 6 p.m., I had returned with my lunch bag.
I grabbed the big bag, pouted a little, and looked at my sister who was wearing a long maroon Jalbab hijab, beautiful, long nose, small mouth, bright eyes—a beauty indeed. Dad is Shuwa, Mom is fair-skinned.
“What are you standing for? Close the door.” She said, trying to enter the car.
I blinked, politely insisting when I needed something.
“Aunty… Aunty Aishataahhh.” She smiled, knowing the rest.
“Please give me some money for break.” I said, using a begging tone.
“Mom already gave you ₦500, what else will I give you?” She said, rolling her eyes.
I drew a long breath inside, but I wanted to ask anyway:
“Honestly, I’ll give, just a small gift.”
“Hmmm.” She said, taking ₦500 from her bag. I accepted, smiling, dimple showing.
“No matter what, I won’t let you dictate how to give money, hmmm I love you.” She then sped off, skilled at driving.
I smiled and shrugged as I headed to the gate. Even though we were late, they let me pass because they knew I’m never late.
It’s a big school for wealthy students. Muslim and Christian students attend. Our uniform is blue and white: blue short-sleeved shirt to the knees, or white long-sleeved shirt with skirt/pants. Muslims wear leggings and a hat but no hijab, except during Islamiyya lessons when a blue hijab reaches the ground.
I walked through the school, climbed the stairs to the S.S. section, headed to S.S.3. Thankful there were no teachers yet. I signed in a book on the teacher’s desk—this is standard, so each class has a clock above the whiteboard to record time.
We boys in the front row greet each other while walking past.
“Hey/Hello.”
I greeted everyone, 24 students in class—10 boys, 14 girls.
I approached my seat; two students share a desk with a spot for bags. I greeted the girl next to me, my friend.
“Jennifer, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Dear Rose.” I smiled; my school name is Rose because I like it.
I kept my hat on today. When teachers began entering, it was time for break. Some classmates went out, some stayed.
I was excited because Jennifer had brought me something—a Tecno Spark 4 phone. Nobody knew I had it except Jennifer. I struggled to save money for it, and every day I gave her ₦500.
“Thank you so much, Jennifer.” I said, happy to see the phone at 100%. She smiled.
“Yesterday, To Kill a Monkey Episode 5 was released.” She hit the desk and cheered. I sang along.
“Ahhh, you know everything… I won’t let you go… I won’t watch your episodes without you…” I said, showing my heart. We laughed and walked, classmates smiled.
“Me too, I love you Rose.”
Then she left, and I focused on watching Nigerian films, as usual, sometimes downloading, sometimes Jennifer sends me links.
I love Nollywood films. That’s why I bought a phone, working hard to save ₦35,000, collecting money daily.
I bought the phone; my plan is to continue school, then attend University in another state, and become a NOLLYWOOD actress. That’s my dream.
I watched two films, then returned to class, continuing studies. I always got first class, never giving way academically, even while acting in films.
At 2:00 p.m., we finished, prayed, ate, then went to Islamiyya. My Christian friend went home. I wasn’t too fond of Islamiyya since I liked fun; I didn’t even take Islamic exams seriously.
At 6:00 p.m., I was picked up by Ashenty since the driver was unwell. At the school gate, we signed out. I was tired and didn’t speak much.
After driving, she parked, I deliberately left my lunch bag. I hurried, running a little, hoping she wouldn’t call me.
Our house is huge; Dad, Alhaji Musa, is a major political figure and wealthy businessman. The mansion has two floors, many rooms, we use only a few.
Four of us live here after the staff: Dad, Mom, Ashenty, and me.
We weren’t the first kids. Muhammad was born first but died at one, then Usman died as an infant, then Ashenty, then Sadiq, who also died young, then me. The men left us. May Allah bless them.
I entered the main hall, hugged Mom watching NTA, smiling.
“I’m back, Dear.”
“My daughter, you’re welcome.” I sat beside her, removing my hijab. Mom is beautiful and stylish, often compared with Dad and A’isha.
“My beautiful girl, always growing more beautiful, now becoming a young lady.” She said as I rushed upstairs, leaving my hijab and jacket.
I entered Ashenty’s room for the TV, turning it on, watching African Zone, Nigerian film Two Fathers.
While watching, the housemaid entered, staring at me.
“You left your lunch bag, didn’t you? Hmmmm Inayah, I don’t know when you’ll stop ignoring me.” She said, removing her Jalbab.
Instead of replying, I said:
“Aunty Aisha, let me finish. Please let it end. I want to know the real father.”
“Hmmm, alright.” She turned off the TV.
I got up, walking, saying:
“Very soon you’ll see. Insha Allah…” Before I could finish, she pulled me back, quickly pushing me against the wall and locking the door, leaving the key in the door.
We stared at each other; I even lifted my chin, seeking an explanation. Aisha looked at me like she wanted to hit, but she couldn’t because she loved me…
Continuation (GIƊAƊO Mansion section)
Aisha said:
“Inayah, I want to talk to you.” She sat on the sofa; I mirrored her on the dressing mirror. She exhaled and asked:
“How old are you?”
I smiled, replying:
“Subtract 3 years, I’m 21, you’re 17, almost a match.”
“Hmmm, be serious. I don’t want madness.” She said, narrowing her bright eyes.
“Why do you want to become an actress?” I asked.
“Because I love it.”
“You mean Hausa films impress you…” I started.
“No, not Kannywood. I mean NOLLYWOOD.” She interrupted. I went silent.
“But you’re Muslim. Dad and Mom want you to be a doctor…”
“I’ll do everything,” she said, turning on the TV.
She watched a film with scantily dressed women dancing in a club. I quickly turned away.
“That’s what you want? That’s the kind of immorality you like?” I said.
“I won’t do that. I want to act as a decent lady, dressed modestly to my knees, like my uniform.” She shook her head, staring at me.
“Go… go.” I left quickly. I wasn’t afraid of Dad knowing; she loved me. My Nollywood dream remains untouched.
GIƊAƊO Mansion
A large mansion with four gates, four floors, 40 armed guards. Cars park in the lot, and visitors are checked.
Sarah, a young woman no older than 21, enters the house chewing gum. She meets her mother, smiling politely.
“School went well?” Mother asked kindly.
“Alhamdulillah,” Sarah replied.
As she headed upstairs, a young man called out:
“Darling… Darling.” She stopped, lifted her chin, smiled, and he began descending the stairs.
He was tall, handsome, wearing modest clothes, with necklaces, rings, and ear studs. A Nollywood star, respectful, with tattoos.
“Darling, how are you?” He said warmly.
“Fine.” She replied softly.
“I know you’re tired. Rest; we’ll meet soon.” She nodded, running upstairs to her room 25, locking the door, removing her hijab, silently frustrated with GIƊAƊO Mansion life.
The mansion is full of people with different temperaments, living under one will—the Wassiyar GIƊAƊO, a binding testament shaping their lives.
After a long time, she bathed, changed, and went to dinner at 8:00 p.m. Everyone must attend meals, morning and night.
The dining area has 50 seats; 47 attended that night, family members only. Sarah sat next to her mother.
“Where’s Ayan? He’s always late.” A relative complained.
“He’ll come soon,” Sarah replied, glancing at Ahmad, who smiled and winked at her.
GIƊAƊO, the patriarch, had strict rules but loving relationships with his grandchildren.