She fixed her gaze on the wide door of her spacious office, as she did every morning when the sun was about to rise. Usually, her children would arrive before she started work — but today they seemed unusually late. The landline phone beside her rang sharply. She picked it up calmly and placed it to her ear.
“Assalamu alaikum,” she said softly, her voice filled with maturity and grace.
“Am I speaking with the Chairwoman of Ba’are Golden Empires?”
“Yes,” she replied, her heart trembling, recognizing the Nigerian accent through the English tone.
“Well, Ma’am, Captain MJ Mamman Ba’are asked me to inform you that he won’t be able to make it…”
“It’s okay, no problem,” she quickly interrupted with a weak voice. Her eyes filled with tears — denying how much she missed MJ would be a lie. It had been six years since she last saw him. MJ was no child that needed constant reminders of his duties as a son. She sighed deeply when her phone rang again. She answered slowly, her tongue heavy with emotion, silently praying for MJ’s safety wherever he was.
“Madam, Amaan Mamman Ba’are wants to come in.”
“Let him in,” she said, wiping her tears with a tissue.
He entered with a greeting, holding an iPhone 14 Pro.
“Good afternoon, Hajiya,” he said, putting his phone to his ear.
“Good afternoon, Amaan Mamman Ba’are,” she replied.
He raised his hand to greet her. She glared at him, then slowly reached for a gold rod on her table and struck his hand before he realized it.
“Ouch, Hajiya! I was trying to make an important call!” he said, ending the call and pouting. “Fisabilillahi, Hajiya — just because I signaled that I’m coming, you hit my hand?”
“May Allah guide you! Tell me, what kind of mother would tolerate that from her child?”
“What did I even do, Hajiya?” he asked loudly. Her phone rang again.
“Madam, Aryan Mamman Ba’are wants to see you.”
“Let him in,” she said, checking her wristwatch.
Soon, a tall, handsome man — Aryan — walked in and sat down politely.
“Good day, Hajiya. How’s work?”
“Alhamdulillah. How are your wife and Nabeeha?”
“They’re fine.”
Hajiya frowned. “So, you won’t even ask about me? You think I hate you?”
“Did you give me a chance to talk?” he said.
“But Hajiya, I was on a call…”
“Is your call more important than me?” she snapped.
Amaan fell silent, head bowed. Truly, Hajiya wasn’t always gentle with him. Yet she treated Aryan kindly — that annoyed him.
“Hajiya, did you speak with Hamma MJ?” Aryan asked.
She gave a sad smile. “MJ said he won’t be coming.”
“But Hajiya, without him, our votes won’t count. We need Hamma — or should I go to Port Harcourt myself?”
“If I push too hard, he’ll run again. From Port Harcourt to another country — leave him,” she warned.
“Then give them what they want since his job matters more,” Aryan suggested.
“Sometimes you speak as if you never sat in a classroom,” she said bitterly. “Did I waste my money educating you?”
“Amaan,” Aryan said, “tell her to stop scolding me. I’m not talking to him; I’m talking to you, Hajiya.”
She closed her eyes and opened them again, her heart tightening. Amaan often acted as if she weren’t his mother. Whenever she remembered her past, she felt he was deliberately hurting her — forgetting that all her struggles were for them. Even her enemies didn’t deserve what she had endured, let alone her beloved sons. Yet Amaan thought she favored his brothers. He didn’t know she loved them all equally. Her concern for MJ wasn’t favoritism — it was because of his poor health.
Amaan was hot-headed, unlike Aryan, who was patient but quiet. Majeed, however, was fearless — even their grandmother, Hajiya Turai, feared him. In the whole Ba’are Estate, no one was bolder than Majeed.
“I will not hand them a single share of this company,” she declared. “Whatever happens has already been written by fate. When did you become so worldly that you forgot your roots? Have you forgotten I pounded tuwo with my bare hands so you could live?”
Tears rolled down Aryan’s face. Their mother’s painful past was tied to MJ’s long absence. Though they had returned to Nigeria, life hadn’t been easy.
“Hajiya, please try calling him again,” Aryan pleaded. “Only five days remain. If it comes to it, I’ll go myself.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid of losing him again.”
“Don’t worry,” he assured. “I promise, we’ll return safely.”
“Hmph. Yet the man who was supposed to visit while your father was dying never came…” she said, striking Amaan’s knee with the rod.
“Are you crazy, Hajiya?”
“Should I be silent? Fisabilillahi, I’ll stay quiet then!” he protested.
Before she could respond, Aryan intervened. “Enough, Hajiya. Don’t worry — he’ll come.”
She rose, gathered her files and tablet, then paused, staring at something metallic on the floor. She bent down, picked it up, and smiled faintly. “Aryan, keep this for me,” she said.
He accepted it, surprised. “Hajiya, should I return it?”
“No, keep it,” she replied.
They exited the office, greeting employees as they walked. Outside, she gazed at the company building and sighed deeply. Her dream was for all her sons to manage the company together — but MJ refused to cooperate. She licked her lips, entered Aryan’s car, and leaned back. Amaan, angry, drove off in his own car.
“I’m tired. Recline my seat,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
Only Allah knew everything happening. She couldn’t say when her sons began to drift apart, nor claim she caused it. They had all grown up through hardship, poverty, and pain — yet she raised them to this point. But now, watching them turn against each other broke her heart. After all her sacrifices, she was facing yet another punishment — seeing her children nearly destroy one another.
As they got stuck in traffic, she opened her eyes and spotted Sajjid Mamman Ba’are nearby with some foreigners.
“What is Sajjid Mamman Ba’are doing there?” she asked.
Aryan glanced and hissed. “Who knows? Only Allah understands the darkness surrounding Ba’are Golden Empires.”
She sighed, removing her sunglasses. “Everything happening is already written, yet people act blind — pretending not to see what they know.”
“Hajiya,” Aryan said softly, “this battle isn’t yours alone. Hamma MJ is part of it — he’s the backbone.”
They drove on toward their neighborhood — a place clearly not theirs alone.
Port Harcourt — Nigeria Naval Barracks (09:30 PM)
It had been raining since morning. I stared at my trembling hands, swallowing hard in fear. Had I really returned to Addah’s hand by fate? Tonight, both my mother’s family and I would face endless scolding. Scratching my head anxiously, I tried to find a way out. I began creeping from house to house, searching for an exit from the barracks. Why was I even here? I kept asking myself as I moved quietly through the darkness, hiding and trembling.
But suddenly, I heard soldiers shouting nearby.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un,” I whispered, slipping off my shoes and running barefoot through the rain. Then came a whistle — before I knew it, flashlights flooded the area. The soldiers were out in full force.
Maybe by fate or misfortune, I reached a house gate — and before I could react, someone grabbed me. I tried to scream, but something was shoved into my mouth, and darkness consumed me. The house was pitch black — I couldn’t even see my own hand. Whoever carried me seemed familiar with the place, for he dumped me into a dark room, shut it, and covered the door.
“If you move or make a sound, they’ll shoot you,” he whispered in a thick Port Harcourt accent.
Tears streamed down my face as I heard loud banging at the gate outside.
“The commander said search everywhere! There’s a Hausa boy who escaped!” someone yelled.
“Okay, check every room!”
“Kambu!” I thought bitterly — he was going to leave me here? Why had he even taken me?
As the noise grew closer, I curled up tightly, shivering. I swore that if I survived, I’d never return to Addah’s place — I’d rather go to my uncle’s than face this torment again. Suddenly, there was pounding at the door of my room. My heart stopped — I thought it was the end.
“Oga, should we open here?” someone asked. I didn’t catch the reply, but they seemed to plead for forgiveness.
“Please, sir! We’re sorry!” they said repeatedly before leaving.
I exhaled in relief as the man returned, muttering about how some Hausa people had lost their morals in pursuit of wealth. “Now what would this girl even do to a man?” he said as he opened the door and shone a light in my face. I covered it with both hands.
“Come out,” he ordered in a deep, commanding voice.
I lowered my hands slowly, trying to see his face — but it remained hidden.
“I said come out!” he repeated.
“I… I can’t come out,” I stammered.
He went silent, then suddenly grabbed me by the neck and lifted me off the ground.
“Kambu! Are you going to kill me?” I cried. He flung me aside; I fell hard on the floor with a loud thud.
“Why are soldiers always so cruel?” I muttered to myself as he left the room.
I curled up again, terrified. From the faint light I saw him return, dropping a thick blanket over me before leaving once more. Later, he returned with some clothes and threw them at me. Sitting there in the darkness, I realized there was a strange connection between him and the dark.
I stood, removed my wet clothes, changed into the dry ones, and wrapped myself in the blanket. Finally,
I sat down again — scared but exhausted — afraid that even in sleep, the night itself might betray me.
Description
In the Office of the Chairwoman
She fixed her gaze on the wide door of her spacious office, as she did every morning when the sun was about to rise. Usually, her children would arrive before she started work — but today they seemed unusually late. The landline phone beside her rang sharply. She picked it up calmly and placed it to her ear.
“Assalamu alaikum,” she said softly, her voice filled with maturity and grace.
“Am I speaking with the Chairwoman of Ba’are Golden Empires?”
“Yes,” she replied, her heart trembling, recognizing the Nigerian accent through the English tone.
“Well, Ma’am, Captain MJ Mamman Ba’are asked me to inform you that he won’t be able to make it…”
“It’s okay, no problem,” she quickly interrupted with a weak voice. Her eyes filled with tears — denying how much she missed MJ would be a lie. It had been six years since she last saw him. MJ was no child that needed constant reminders of his duties as a son. She sighed deeply when her phone rang again. She answered slowly, her tongue heavy with emotion, silently praying for MJ’s safety wherever he was.
“Madam, Amaan Mamman Ba’are wants to come in.”
“Let him in,” she said, wiping her tears with a tissue.
He entered with a greeting, holding an iPhone 14 Pro.
“Good afternoon, Hajiya,” he said, putting his phone to his ear.
“Good afternoon, Amaan Mamman Ba’are,” she replied.
He raised his hand to greet her. She glared at him, then slowly reached for a gold rod on her table and struck his hand before he realized it.
“Ouch, Hajiya! I was trying to make an important call!” he said, ending the call and pouting. “Fisabilillahi, Hajiya — just because I signaled that I’m coming, you hit my hand?”
“May Allah guide you! Tell me, what kind of mother would tolerate that from her child?”
“What did I even do, Hajiya?” he asked loudly. Her phone rang again.
“Madam, Aryan Mamman Ba’are wants to see you.”
“Let him in,” she said, checking her wristwatch.
Soon, a tall, handsome man — Aryan — walked in and sat down politely.
“Good day, Hajiya. How’s work?”
“Alhamdulillah. How are your wife and Nabeeha?”
“They’re fine.”
Hajiya frowned. “So, you won’t even ask about me? You think I hate you?”
“Did you give me a chance to talk?” he said.
“But Hajiya, I was on a call…”
“Is your call more important than me?” she snapped.
Amaan fell silent, head bowed. Truly, Hajiya wasn’t always gentle with him. Yet she treated Aryan kindly — that annoyed him.
“Hajiya, did you speak with Hamma MJ?” Aryan asked.
She gave a sad smile. “MJ said he won’t be coming.”
“But Hajiya, without him, our votes won’t count. We need Hamma — or should I go to Port Harcourt myself?”
“If I push too hard, he’ll run again. From Port Harcourt to another country — leave him,” she warned.
“Then give them what they want since his job matters more,” Aryan suggested.
“Sometimes you speak as if you never sat in a classroom,” she said bitterly. “Did I waste my money educating you?”
“Amaan,” Aryan said, “tell her to stop scolding me. I’m not talking to him; I’m talking to you, Hajiya.”
She closed her eyes and opened them again, her heart tightening. Amaan often acted as if she weren’t his mother. Whenever she remembered her past, she felt he was deliberately hurting her — forgetting that all her struggles were for them. Even her enemies didn’t deserve what she had endured, let alone her beloved sons. Yet Amaan thought she favored his brothers. He didn’t know she loved them all equally. Her concern for MJ wasn’t favoritism — it was because of his poor health.
Amaan was hot-headed, unlike Aryan, who was patient but quiet. Majeed, however, was fearless — even their grandmother, Hajiya Turai, feared him. In the whole Ba’are Estate, no one was bolder than Majeed.
“I will not hand them a single share of this company,” she declared. “Whatever happens has already been written by fate. When did you become so worldly that you forgot your roots? Have you forgotten I pounded tuwo with my bare hands so you could live?”
Tears rolled down Aryan’s face. Their mother’s painful past was tied to MJ’s long absence. Though they had returned to Nigeria, life hadn’t been easy.
“Hajiya, please try calling him again,” Aryan pleaded. “Only five days remain. If it comes to it, I’ll go myself.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid of losing him again.”
“Don’t worry,” he assured. “I promise, we’ll return safely.”
“Hmph. Yet the man who was supposed to visit while your father was dying never came…” she said, striking Amaan’s knee with the rod.
“Are you crazy, Hajiya?”
“Should I be silent? Fisabilillahi, I’ll stay quiet then!” he protested.
Before she could respond, Aryan intervened. “Enough, Hajiya. Don’t worry — he’ll come.”
She rose, gathered her files and tablet, then paused, staring at something metallic on the floor. She bent down, picked it up, and smiled faintly. “Aryan, keep this for me,” she said.
He accepted it, surprised. “Hajiya, should I return it?”
“No, keep it,” she replied.
They exited the office, greeting employees as they walked. Outside, she gazed at the company building and sighed deeply. Her dream was for all her sons to manage the company together — but MJ refused to cooperate. She licked her lips, entered Aryan’s car, and leaned back. Amaan, angry, drove off in his own car.
“I’m tired. Recline my seat,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
Only Allah knew everything happening. She couldn’t say when her sons began to drift apart, nor claim she caused it. They had all grown up through hardship, poverty, and pain — yet she raised them to this point. But now, watching them turn against each other broke her heart. After all her sacrifices, she was facing yet another punishment — seeing her children nearly destroy one another.
As they got stuck in traffic, she opened her eyes and spotted Sajjid Mamman Ba’are nearby with some foreigners.
“What is Sajjid Mamman Ba’are doing there?” she asked.
Aryan glanced and hissed. “Who knows? Only Allah understands the darkness surrounding Ba’are Golden Empires.”
She sighed, removing her sunglasses. “Everything happening is already written, yet people act blind — pretending not to see what they know.”
“Hajiya,” Aryan said softly, “this battle isn’t yours alone. Hamma MJ is part of it — he’s the backbone.”
They drove on toward their neighborhood — a place clearly not theirs alone.
Port Harcourt — Nigeria Naval Barracks (09:30 PM)
It had been raining since morning. I stared at my trembling hands, swallowing hard in fear. Had I really returned to Addah’s hand by fate? Tonight, both my mother’s family and I would face endless scolding. Scratching my head anxiously, I tried to find a way out. I began creeping from house to house, searching for an exit from the barracks. Why was I even here? I kept asking myself as I moved quietly through the darkness, hiding and trembling.
But suddenly, I heard soldiers shouting nearby.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un,” I whispered, slipping off my shoes and running barefoot through the rain. Then came a whistle — before I knew it, flashlights flooded the area. The soldiers were out in full force.
Maybe by fate or misfortune, I reached a house gate — and before I could react, someone grabbed me. I tried to scream, but something was shoved into my mouth, and darkness consumed me. The house was pitch black — I couldn’t even see my own hand. Whoever carried me seemed familiar with the place, for he dumped me into a dark room, shut it, and covered the door.
“If you move or make a sound, they’ll shoot you,” he whispered in a thick Port Harcourt accent.
Tears streamed down my face as I heard loud banging at the gate outside.
“The commander said search everywhere! There’s a Hausa boy who escaped!” someone yelled.
“Okay, check every room!”
“Kambu!” I thought bitterly — he was going to leave me here? Why had he even taken me?
As the noise grew closer, I curled up tightly, shivering. I swore that if I survived, I’d never return to Addah’s place — I’d rather go to my uncle’s than face this torment again. Suddenly, there was pounding at the door of my room. My heart stopped — I thought it was the end.
“Oga, should we open here?” someone asked. I didn’t catch the reply, but they seemed to plead for forgiveness.
“Please, sir! We’re sorry!” they said repeatedly before leaving.
I exhaled in relief as the man returned, muttering about how some Hausa people had lost their morals in pursuit of wealth. “Now what would this girl even do to a man?” he said as he opened the door and shone a light in my face. I covered it with both hands.
“Come out,” he ordered in a deep, commanding voice.
I lowered my hands slowly, trying to see his face — but it remained hidden.
“I said come out!” he repeated.
“I… I can’t come out,” I stammered.
He went silent, then suddenly grabbed me by the neck and lifted me off the ground.
“Kambu! Are you going to kill me?” I cried. He flung me aside; I fell hard on the floor with a loud thud.
“Why are soldiers always so cruel?” I muttered to myself as he left the room.
I curled up again, terrified. From the faint light I saw him return, dropping a thick blanket over me before leaving once more. Later, he returned with some clothes and threw them at me. Sitting there in the darkness, I realized there was a strange connection between him and the dark.
I stood, removed my wet clothes, changed into the dry ones, and wrapped myself in the blanket. Finally,
I sat down again — scared but exhausted — afraid that even in sleep, the night itself might betray me.