It was late in the month, for the lunar month of Jumada al-Ula had reached its twenty-fifth day, corresponding to November in the Gregorian calendar.
At about half past two in the night, darkness had completely covered everywhere. There was no sound or movement, except for the cries of tiny insects and the rustling of dry leaves stirred occasionally by the wind.
At that time when most people were fast asleep, she lay wide awake — her eyes refusing to close, as though they had been roasted open. There was no trace of sleep in them, for her heart was dry and full of pain.
That night, she finally understood that peace of mind, calmness of the heart, and freedom from worries are the ingredients that make sleep truly sweet and refreshing.
Slowly, she rose from her mat and walked toward the window. When she opened it, a cold breeze struck her face. She looked out into the vast courtyard but could see nothing — the darkness swallowed everything.
She lifted her eyes to the sky and saw how the stars beautified the heavens, held in place by the power and decree of the Almighty. She sighed deeply, comparing her life to that dark, fearful night.
In those moments, a famous Hausa saying echoed in her mind: “Drink the bitter water from the gourd and endure it.” But sadly, the modern world has brought us progress that reminds us of the importance of our well-being — even though such progress hasn’t stopped people from inflicting pain on others.
She was still forced to drink that bitter water — against her will — and it poisoned her life. The result became a sickness that tormented her day and night, a disease without cure. What was once hidden now showed visibly, and people recognized her by it.
Just as the Hausa proverb says “A woman’s sickness belongs to women,” many women repeat it. But to her, her own pain was hers alone. Perhaps, in her lifetime, she was never fortunate enough to meet those who shared her kind of suffering.
She tried swallowing her saliva, but her mouth was dry. Her heart burned painfully, her breathing came out in gasps.
Softly she muttered, “What is left? The world is full of chaos and challenges. Everyone only cares for themselves, and your money is what defines your worth. Enough is enough — I will face all those who wronged me. Since there’s no loyalty or sympathy anymore, I’ll break the shell no matter how it stinks, even if it tears relationships apart. Let them too taste the bitterness they forced upon me. From now on, I’ll move forward and fight for my own freedom.”
Mariya, Ummi, and the Hidden Wound
In the late afternoon, a young woman — barely eighteen years old — sat in a large courtyard, picking beans to grind for the soup she was cooking. On her lap lay a little girl, about three and a half years old, sucking her finger while playing with her belly button.
One glance at the girl would make you look again — curious to know her tribe.
She was dark-skinned and plump, with a small forehead partly covered by thick eyebrows. Her large white eyes held brown pupils instead of black. Her lips were reddish, as though she wore lipstick. Most striking was her long, smooth black hair — not coarse like typical African hair, but fine and soft like that of Arabs — braided into two long plaits that reached her waist. Her cheeks made her nose appear short and flattened.
A harsh voice interrupted:
“Mariya! Will you stop pampering that lazy child and finish what you’re doing? You’ve carried her on your lap all day — aren’t you tired? I see you’re not even breastfeeding her!”
Mariya thought to herself, “Nonsense! Since when does a cow complain about its horn?”
But aloud, she said politely, “I’m almost done, Iya.”
The older woman continued, “Put her down to play with the other kids! You just keep holding her like some queen. You better have another baby — maybe God will bless you with one who looks decent. This girl is too dark and ugly. You people from your mother’s side are all black like sin itself.”
Mariya bowed her head silently, feeling the sting of those words. Forcing a weak smile, she replied, “Don’t worry, Iya. This granddaughter of yours will surprise you someday — she’ll bring home a suitor so wealthy he’ll take you to Mecca.”
Iya spat out her kola nut and scoffed, “With that black, ugly face? Men want fair-skinned women. Who would marry such ugliness? Even those eyes of hers look scary — like leftover witchcraft!”
The little girl turned her head away and lay back on her mother’s lap. Mariya stroked her gently, saying, “Ummina, get up, let me finish cooking before your uncles return. Go play with the others.”
The girl only shrugged and sucked her finger, refusing to move.
Just then, someone called out “Assalamu Alaikum!” — greeting from outside. They both replied, but when Mariya recognized the voice, she froze and quickly sat up.
It was a young man — Idris — holding a small bag.
“Ah Idris, you’re back?” said Iya.
“Yes. Is the food ready yet?”
“Not yet. She’s still busy fussing over that chubby girl of hers instead of cooking.”
He turned to the little girl. “Ummi, come with me, let’s buy biscuits while Aunty finishes the food.”
The child clung tightly to her mother’s hand, her wide eyes filled with fear.
“Please, Ummina,” Mariya urged softly, “go with your brother Idris. I’ll finish soon.”
Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes as she pressed her head against her mother’s chest. Idris reached out to grab her, but she cried out — a loud, frightened wail.
“Leave her alone!” Iya barked. “You’ve spoiled that child too much. She’s not even pretty enough to be acting like this.”
Ignoring her cries, Idris snatched the child, threateningly strong. Mariya stood up hesitantly, forcing a calm tone. “Rigimammiyar yarinya — you’re always difficult.”
He carried her away toward a deserted part of the compound — the section for the men. There he entered an empty room, dropped her on the floor, and whispered coldly:
“Keep quiet, or I’ll choke you to death.”
She trembled, sobbing silently, terrified. Idris lifted a mattress, brought out a pair of scissors, and squatted in front of her.
“Did you tell your mother?” he asked. She shook her head, tears falling.
“If you ever do, I’ll cut you into pieces with these scissors and feed you to the dogs. I’ll even throw you into the fire where your mother cooks — you remember how fire burns, don’t you?”
Too frightened to speak, she just nodded, shaking. Idris dropped the scissors and began pulling at her little gown as she cried helplessly.
When he was done, he gave her another warning — to never tell anyone. Then he dragged her by the hand, bought her a ₦20 biscuit and ₦5 sweet, and pulled her roughly back home, scolding her for walking too slowly.
“Why are you walking like an old woman? Move faster!” he snapped.
As they entered the compound, he shouted mockingly, “Here’s your noisy daughter! She cried all the way home because she’s stubborn.”
“Oh, Ummi,” Mariya said tiredly, “you’ve grown but never matured. Always crying like a baby.” She didn’t realize the real reason for the tears — thinking it was only childish stubbornness.
Later, when Ummi’s father returned home and lifted her playfully, he noticed her swollen eyes.
“Ummi, my only daughter, have you been crying? Did your mother scold you?” he asked.
“No, wallahi,” Mariya replied quickly. “She just clings to me all the time. Idris took her to buy biscuits — that’s all.”
Her father laughed, unaware of the horror his daughter had just endured.
Description
The Dark Night and Her Troubled Heart
It was late in the month, for the lunar month of Jumada al-Ula had reached its twenty-fifth day, corresponding to November in the Gregorian calendar.
At about half past two in the night, darkness had completely covered everywhere. There was no sound or movement, except for the cries of tiny insects and the rustling of dry leaves stirred occasionally by the wind.
At that time when most people were fast asleep, she lay wide awake — her eyes refusing to close, as though they had been roasted open. There was no trace of sleep in them, for her heart was dry and full of pain.
That night, she finally understood that peace of mind, calmness of the heart, and freedom from worries are the ingredients that make sleep truly sweet and refreshing.
Slowly, she rose from her mat and walked toward the window. When she opened it, a cold breeze struck her face. She looked out into the vast courtyard but could see nothing — the darkness swallowed everything.
She lifted her eyes to the sky and saw how the stars beautified the heavens, held in place by the power and decree of the Almighty. She sighed deeply, comparing her life to that dark, fearful night.
In those moments, a famous Hausa saying echoed in her mind: “Drink the bitter water from the gourd and endure it.” But sadly, the modern world has brought us progress that reminds us of the importance of our well-being — even though such progress hasn’t stopped people from inflicting pain on others.
She was still forced to drink that bitter water — against her will — and it poisoned her life. The result became a sickness that tormented her day and night, a disease without cure. What was once hidden now showed visibly, and people recognized her by it.
Just as the Hausa proverb says “A woman’s sickness belongs to women,” many women repeat it. But to her, her own pain was hers alone. Perhaps, in her lifetime, she was never fortunate enough to meet those who shared her kind of suffering.
She tried swallowing her saliva, but her mouth was dry. Her heart burned painfully, her breathing came out in gasps.
Softly she muttered, “What is left? The world is full of chaos and challenges. Everyone only cares for themselves, and your money is what defines your worth. Enough is enough — I will face all those who wronged me. Since there’s no loyalty or sympathy anymore, I’ll break the shell no matter how it stinks, even if it tears relationships apart. Let them too taste the bitterness they forced upon me. From now on, I’ll move forward and fight for my own freedom.”
Mariya, Ummi, and the Hidden Wound
In the late afternoon, a young woman — barely eighteen years old — sat in a large courtyard, picking beans to grind for the soup she was cooking. On her lap lay a little girl, about three and a half years old, sucking her finger while playing with her belly button.
One glance at the girl would make you look again — curious to know her tribe.
She was dark-skinned and plump, with a small forehead partly covered by thick eyebrows. Her large white eyes held brown pupils instead of black. Her lips were reddish, as though she wore lipstick. Most striking was her long, smooth black hair — not coarse like typical African hair, but fine and soft like that of Arabs — braided into two long plaits that reached her waist. Her cheeks made her nose appear short and flattened.
A harsh voice interrupted:
“Mariya! Will you stop pampering that lazy child and finish what you’re doing? You’ve carried her on your lap all day — aren’t you tired? I see you’re not even breastfeeding her!”
Mariya thought to herself, “Nonsense! Since when does a cow complain about its horn?”
But aloud, she said politely, “I’m almost done, Iya.”
The older woman continued, “Put her down to play with the other kids! You just keep holding her like some queen. You better have another baby — maybe God will bless you with one who looks decent. This girl is too dark and ugly. You people from your mother’s side are all black like sin itself.”
Mariya bowed her head silently, feeling the sting of those words. Forcing a weak smile, she replied, “Don’t worry, Iya. This granddaughter of yours will surprise you someday — she’ll bring home a suitor so wealthy he’ll take you to Mecca.”
Iya spat out her kola nut and scoffed, “With that black, ugly face? Men want fair-skinned women. Who would marry such ugliness? Even those eyes of hers look scary — like leftover witchcraft!”
The little girl turned her head away and lay back on her mother’s lap. Mariya stroked her gently, saying, “Ummina, get up, let me finish cooking before your uncles return. Go play with the others.”
The girl only shrugged and sucked her finger, refusing to move.
Just then, someone called out “Assalamu Alaikum!” — greeting from outside. They both replied, but when Mariya recognized the voice, she froze and quickly sat up.
It was a young man — Idris — holding a small bag.
“Ah Idris, you’re back?” said Iya.
“Yes. Is the food ready yet?”
“Not yet. She’s still busy fussing over that chubby girl of hers instead of cooking.”
He turned to the little girl. “Ummi, come with me, let’s buy biscuits while Aunty finishes the food.”
The child clung tightly to her mother’s hand, her wide eyes filled with fear.
“Please, Ummina,” Mariya urged softly, “go with your brother Idris. I’ll finish soon.”
Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes as she pressed her head against her mother’s chest. Idris reached out to grab her, but she cried out — a loud, frightened wail.
“Leave her alone!” Iya barked. “You’ve spoiled that child too much. She’s not even pretty enough to be acting like this.”
Ignoring her cries, Idris snatched the child, threateningly strong. Mariya stood up hesitantly, forcing a calm tone. “Rigimammiyar yarinya — you’re always difficult.”
He carried her away toward a deserted part of the compound — the section for the men. There he entered an empty room, dropped her on the floor, and whispered coldly:
“Keep quiet, or I’ll choke you to death.”
She trembled, sobbing silently, terrified. Idris lifted a mattress, brought out a pair of scissors, and squatted in front of her.
“Did you tell your mother?” he asked. She shook her head, tears falling.
“If you ever do, I’ll cut you into pieces with these scissors and feed you to the dogs. I’ll even throw you into the fire where your mother cooks — you remember how fire burns, don’t you?”
Too frightened to speak, she just nodded, shaking. Idris dropped the scissors and began pulling at her little gown as she cried helplessly.
When he was done, he gave her another warning — to never tell anyone. Then he dragged her by the hand, bought her a ₦20 biscuit and ₦5 sweet, and pulled her roughly back home, scolding her for walking too slowly.
“Why are you walking like an old woman? Move faster!” he snapped.
As they entered the compound, he shouted mockingly, “Here’s your noisy daughter! She cried all the way home because she’s stubborn.”
“Oh, Ummi,” Mariya said tiredly, “you’ve grown but never matured. Always crying like a baby.” She didn’t realize the real reason for the tears — thinking it was only childish stubbornness.
Later, when Ummi’s father returned home and lifted her playfully, he noticed her swollen eyes.
“Ummi, my only daughter, have you been crying? Did your mother scold you?” he asked.
“No, wallahi,” Mariya replied quickly. “She just clings to me all the time. Idris took her to buy biscuits — that’s all.”
Her father laughed, unaware of the horror his daughter had just endured.