Slowly, the sound of crying rose, like someone deliberately sobbing. But from the tone, it was clear that the person had been at it for so long they were exhausted. I couldn’t help but push my way into the well-furnished house, curious.
The living room was large—Masha Allah—but empty. I paused, thinking, Where could that cry be coming from? With no one to answer me, I began glancing around. It was certainly not in the living room. My heart assured me the cry was coming from a room near a window.
The Woman on the Stairs
The sound of measured footsteps coming down the stairs—stairs beautifully designed to match the living room—caught my attention.
A tall, elegant woman with the regal grace of a Fulani Nigerian descended calmly. From her attire and poise, she carried herself with dignity. I never expected her to speak Hausa in a tone like “come here or I’ll kill you,” but to my surprise, she called out in a slightly harsh voice:
> “Anam!”
When there was no response, her tone grew sharper:
> “Anam! If I have to come in there to get you, know that your body will ache before you leave this country. Foolish girl with no self-respect! Who refuses their own roots? Not only will you cry tears, but you’ll bleed if you don’t return to Nigeria to stay. And if you annoy me, Allah knows you’ll be stuck here forever, wandering this country.”
The Girl Called Anam
The sobbing grew louder, making me turn quickly. Before me was a stunning young woman—dark-skinned, strikingly beautiful. She didn’t resemble the older woman in physique, only in faint family resemblance. I estimated she was about seventeen, though people with her petite figure often looked younger than they really were. She was small, slender, and short—like one of my little cousins (no names mentioned 😜).
Despite her tear-stained eyes behind thin glasses, her beauty still shone. Her neatly shaped eyebrows and long, graceful nose (like Billion Abdull’s—don’t argue! 🙄😜) made her face stand out. Her tears streamed like water from an open tap. The older woman glared at her harshly:
> “Swallow that crying before I come and deal with you.”
With difficulty, the girl tried to hold back her sobs, though the tears wouldn’t stop. In a trembling voice, she pleaded:
> “Mamie, I swear, I’ll never again do anything you or Abie don’t want.”
But Mamie dismissed it:
> “Whether you stop or not, it makes no difference. You’re going to Nigeria—it’s important. You must do your savings there in your birth country; it’ll help you later. This country you think is home is only temporary.”
Anam’s Reluctance
Anam broke into tears again, stamping her feet:
> “I swear, I hate Nigeria—heat, mosquitoes, unbearable noise! I don’t even want savings there; I’ll never live in Nigeria. Please, Mamie…”
Mamie cut her off with an annoyed hiss. Without looking at her again, she said:
> “Go. The driver will take you for your beauty appointment. Abie says you’re leaving soon, and you know he doesn’t like delays.”
Anam’s sobs became heavier—almost as if Abie or Mamie had died. She truly hated going to Nigeria. The climate, the relentless mosquitoes of Kano, and staying at her uncles’ house—especially with her father’s wife’s terrible behavior—were unbearable. Worst of all was the eldest son, a cruel man she had despised since childhood for once injuring her over a small mistake when she was only ten.
Preparing to Leave
After sulking for a while, Anam went upstairs. Fifteen minutes later, she came down wearing jeans, a shirt, and a long winter coat, veil wrapped Arab-style. Her side bag hung around her neck, and she pouted.
Mamie, still in the living room cutting fruit, didn’t look up when Anam said:
> “Mamie, I’m ready. The money, please.”
Without a word, Mamie handed her a bank card.
> “Thank you. May Allah bless you,” Anam said, kissing Mamie’s hand and cheek in the Arab way.
Mamie didn’t respond, and Anam’s eyes welled up—she could tell Mamie was still upset. But unexpectedly, Mamie smiled, shook her head, and held her only daughter’s hand tightly, her heart heavy knowing marriage would soon take her away. Despite Anam’s petite build, she was twenty-three. They exchanged kisses before Mamie sent her off:
> “Alright, chatterbox, go—and don’t be late.”
Abie’s Return
Three hours later, Anam returned, more radiant than ever—her face glowing, her fragrance captivating. She went straight to an elegant older man—tall, handsome, and clearly her father, Abie. Their resemblance was striking.
She hugged him playfully. Smiling, he teased:
> “My daughter, what’s this bridal perfume?”
> “I’m no bride, Abie,” she laughed.
Mamie joined them, smiling at the sight. Removing her veil, Anam showed off her freshly styled, long, silky hair. They both admired her beauty, until Abie jokingly said:
> “You look like a real bride—maybe I should marry you off when we arrive.”
Anam’s eyes widened; her lips trembled, tears forming. Her parents laughed, but she bolted upstairs. Mamie and Abie then spoke quietly about her future marriage and the hope she would marry a Nigerian.
Departure for Nigeria
The next day, as Mamie predicted, Abie and Anam departed for Nigeria. At the airport, Anam cried over parting with Mamie, knowing they wouldn’t see each other until she completed her plans.
On the plane, she slept heavily, exhausted from the previous night’s emotions.
Arrival in Kano
At 4:25 pm, their plane landed at Aminu Kano International Airport. Anam was tired, dragging her feet beside Abie.
Soon, her uncles spotted them and approached with smiles. Abie hugged them warmly. Anam smiled shyly—she liked her uncles, though she had issues with her Big Uncle’s wife and son.
Her Uncle known as “Daddy” opened his arm
s:
> “Oh my Mah-mah, welcome.”
Letting go of her trolley, she walked slowly to him, smiling, and he gave her a light side hug.
Description
A Strange Cry in the House
Slowly, the sound of crying rose, like someone deliberately sobbing. But from the tone, it was clear that the person had been at it for so long they were exhausted. I couldn’t help but push my way into the well-furnished house, curious.
The living room was large—Masha Allah—but empty. I paused, thinking, Where could that cry be coming from? With no one to answer me, I began glancing around. It was certainly not in the living room. My heart assured me the cry was coming from a room near a window.
The Woman on the Stairs
The sound of measured footsteps coming down the stairs—stairs beautifully designed to match the living room—caught my attention.
A tall, elegant woman with the regal grace of a Fulani Nigerian descended calmly. From her attire and poise, she carried herself with dignity. I never expected her to speak Hausa in a tone like “come here or I’ll kill you,” but to my surprise, she called out in a slightly harsh voice:
> “Anam!”
When there was no response, her tone grew sharper:
> “Anam! If I have to come in there to get you, know that your body will ache before you leave this country. Foolish girl with no self-respect! Who refuses their own roots? Not only will you cry tears, but you’ll bleed if you don’t return to Nigeria to stay. And if you annoy me, Allah knows you’ll be stuck here forever, wandering this country.”
The Girl Called Anam
The sobbing grew louder, making me turn quickly. Before me was a stunning young woman—dark-skinned, strikingly beautiful. She didn’t resemble the older woman in physique, only in faint family resemblance. I estimated she was about seventeen, though people with her petite figure often looked younger than they really were. She was small, slender, and short—like one of my little cousins (no names mentioned 😜).
Despite her tear-stained eyes behind thin glasses, her beauty still shone. Her neatly shaped eyebrows and long, graceful nose (like Billion Abdull’s—don’t argue! 🙄😜) made her face stand out. Her tears streamed like water from an open tap. The older woman glared at her harshly:
> “Swallow that crying before I come and deal with you.”
With difficulty, the girl tried to hold back her sobs, though the tears wouldn’t stop. In a trembling voice, she pleaded:
> “Mamie, I swear, I’ll never again do anything you or Abie don’t want.”
But Mamie dismissed it:
> “Whether you stop or not, it makes no difference. You’re going to Nigeria—it’s important. You must do your savings there in your birth country; it’ll help you later. This country you think is home is only temporary.”
Anam’s Reluctance
Anam broke into tears again, stamping her feet:
> “I swear, I hate Nigeria—heat, mosquitoes, unbearable noise! I don’t even want savings there; I’ll never live in Nigeria. Please, Mamie…”
Mamie cut her off with an annoyed hiss. Without looking at her again, she said:
> “Go. The driver will take you for your beauty appointment. Abie says you’re leaving soon, and you know he doesn’t like delays.”
Anam’s sobs became heavier—almost as if Abie or Mamie had died. She truly hated going to Nigeria. The climate, the relentless mosquitoes of Kano, and staying at her uncles’ house—especially with her father’s wife’s terrible behavior—were unbearable. Worst of all was the eldest son, a cruel man she had despised since childhood for once injuring her over a small mistake when she was only ten.
Preparing to Leave
After sulking for a while, Anam went upstairs. Fifteen minutes later, she came down wearing jeans, a shirt, and a long winter coat, veil wrapped Arab-style. Her side bag hung around her neck, and she pouted.
Mamie, still in the living room cutting fruit, didn’t look up when Anam said:
> “Mamie, I’m ready. The money, please.”
Without a word, Mamie handed her a bank card.
> “Thank you. May Allah bless you,” Anam said, kissing Mamie’s hand and cheek in the Arab way.
Mamie didn’t respond, and Anam’s eyes welled up—she could tell Mamie was still upset. But unexpectedly, Mamie smiled, shook her head, and held her only daughter’s hand tightly, her heart heavy knowing marriage would soon take her away. Despite Anam’s petite build, she was twenty-three. They exchanged kisses before Mamie sent her off:
> “Alright, chatterbox, go—and don’t be late.”
Abie’s Return
Three hours later, Anam returned, more radiant than ever—her face glowing, her fragrance captivating. She went straight to an elegant older man—tall, handsome, and clearly her father, Abie. Their resemblance was striking.
She hugged him playfully. Smiling, he teased:
> “My daughter, what’s this bridal perfume?”
> “I’m no bride, Abie,” she laughed.
Mamie joined them, smiling at the sight. Removing her veil, Anam showed off her freshly styled, long, silky hair. They both admired her beauty, until Abie jokingly said:
> “You look like a real bride—maybe I should marry you off when we arrive.”
Anam’s eyes widened; her lips trembled, tears forming. Her parents laughed, but she bolted upstairs. Mamie and Abie then spoke quietly about her future marriage and the hope she would marry a Nigerian.
Departure for Nigeria
The next day, as Mamie predicted, Abie and Anam departed for Nigeria. At the airport, Anam cried over parting with Mamie, knowing they wouldn’t see each other until she completed her plans.
On the plane, she slept heavily, exhausted from the previous night’s emotions.
Arrival in Kano
At 4:25 pm, their plane landed at Aminu Kano International Airport. Anam was tired, dragging her feet beside Abie.
Soon, her uncles spotted them and approached with smiles. Abie hugged them warmly. Anam smiled shyly—she liked her uncles, though she had issues with her Big Uncle’s wife and son.
Her Uncle known as “Daddy” opened his arm
s:
> “Oh my Mah-mah, welcome.”
Letting go of her trolley, she walked slowly to him, smiling, and he gave her a light side hug.