He adjusted his stance beside his Lifan MOTO B model machine, glanced at the wristwatch strapped to his wrist, and re-estimated the minutes he had wasted standing at the gate of the house. Truly, without a major reason, nothing could have kept him waiting this long. The one thing he hated most in life was waiting. He was a man who observed rules and did not subscribe to the Hausa saying of "African Time."
He dropped his hand and turned his gaze toward the solid gate attached to the fence in front of the house, the very door that would connect him to the inside of the compound. As if on cue, the gate began to open, and within seconds, a young lady appeared.
She walked slowly toward him, dressed in a fitted atamfa blouse and skirt that hugged her figure. She covered herself with a scarf that didn’t reach medium length. Slowly, he forced a smile across his face despite her indifferent expression. It didn’t bother him; he was observant. Her face was neither friendly nor harsh—just calm. As usual, she scanned him from afar, the way she always did whenever he visited.
He wore a light blue shirt and medium-priced black jeans, with local handmade shoes bought from the Wambai market. His outfit was neat and suited him perfectly. His hair and beard were well-groomed, which enhanced the natural handsomeness God had given him. Without doubt, Muhammad was the picture of a complete husband material who could be presented anywhere. But there was one thing missing—something that had made her erase him from the list of men worthy of being her husband.
“Good to see you, Princess Zulaiha,” he said with his calm, soothing voice—one of the things Zulaiha admired in him, even though she didn’t think she could allow him into her life. Studying her expression quietly, he waited.
“Good to see you too,” she replied, with a subtle air of indifference.
“I had almost lost hope. I thought I wouldn’t see you today.”
“That was nearly the case, because I was about to go out with Mama. Besides, I didn’t know you were coming. Even now, I only came to tell you… Please, whenever you want to come, you should let me know first before you show up.”
She said it plainly, frowning slightly. He smiled, bent his head, and toyed with the stones scattered around the gate without saying anything. He simply kept smiling while conversing with his own thoughts. Indeed, he knew this day would come—and very soon. It wasn’t new to him; Zulaiha wasn’t the first girl to treat him this way. But he wasn’t in a hurry—he would wait until the day she herself would either declare her feelings or cut ties with him directly. After his reflection, he finally lifted his gaze to her.
“That’s fine… no problem. Forgive me.”
Without responding, she turned back toward the house.
“Greet Mama for me when you get inside.”
“She will hear,” she replied, letting out a little hiss under her breath as she went in and shut the gate firmly.
He shook his head, bit his lower lip, and smiled to himself. Skillfully, he mounted his bike, revved it, and sped out of the street, his heart heavy with thoughts and amazement—an amazement that had troubled him for years. Was life really like this now? He thanked God he had not rushed into making life-changing decisions.
The Encounter
He joined the main road but had barely gone far before he diverted off the tarred road toward a sloping path near a row of black and white cars—at least five in total. Before he could stop, about seven young men in black and white coats approached him. Each wore dark sunglasses that concealed their eyes, giving them an intimidating aura.
One of them held his bike while he dismounted. Another opened the door of one of the biggest, finest cars in the row. Only when he stepped in did the man shut the door for him. The rest got into their cars, while one rode his bike behind them.
“So, is there any change today or are we just continuing?” asked a handsome man, around thirty-four years old, seated in the corner of the car with a magazine in hand. His face showed hints of suppressed laughter.
Ignoring him, he began removing his shoes and wristwatch, placed them along with his phone—a VIVO which he switched off—into a small compartment in front of him. Then he leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes briefly, and exhaled.
“What are you thinking, Mahmoud? She’s just like the others. Things seem to be getting worse,” he finally said, his eyes still closed.
“I’ve always advised you to take it easy. Look within your own family—there are many girls who want you. Choose one of them and rest. That way, you won’t have to fear anything. We are all with you.”
He kept shaking his head without opening his eyes, silence stretching until he finally opened them and stared at the seat in front of him.
“Do you think it’s a small matter that made me avoid them all and choose this path? They’re almost all the same—no difference. Their behavior is identical, as though their names were one. They all have one purpose…”
His words were cut short by an incoming call. Both he and Mahmoud glanced at the phone where the name Ramla flashed across the screen. Mahmoud smiled, but he turned his head away as though the call didn’t exist.
“Aren’t you going to pick it up?” Mahmoud asked.
“Leave it,” he replied coldly.
He pressed a button, revealing a small fridge filled with cold drinks—barely a dozen bottles and cans. He picked one, poured into a cup, and drank, ignoring Mahmoud’s nagging. Then he shifted the subject.
“What time is our flight?”
“Right now, we’re heading to the airport. The flight departs in just about an hour.”
“Alright. Before then, let’s stop so I can change my clothes.”
“No problem,” Mahmoud replied, instructing the driver where to go before heading to the airport.
Early Morning in Another Household
She rose slowly from her prayer mat, covering a small yawn with “A’uzu billahi minash shaidanir rajim.” Folding the mat and putting it away, she removed her hijab and checked the wall clock—6:00 a.m. She was glad; she would finish her chores before school. She adjusted her slippery headscarf, slipped on her slippers, and quietly left her room.
The large sitting room was silent, still shrouded in the dimness of dawn. No one stirred—not even the housemaids. She turned on the lights, illuminating the beauty of the furnished parlor, then walked toward the corridor leading to the kitchen.
The grand kitchen was equipped with every tool imaginable. She went straight to the board that displayed the meal timetable for the household. Thursday. She sighed at the heavy list. Yesterday, she had fallen asleep while studying for today’s test and hadn’t planned ahead. Quickly, she fetched all ingredients from the freezer and store, then began cooking with skill and urgency.
After about thirty minutes, she heard footsteps. Smiling, she instantly knew who it was—only one person ever woke to help her. This was the only woman whose bond with her felt natural, who truly cared for her, unlike the mother she longed to feel love from but never did.
It was Inna Laraba, one of the household staff. Beaming, she said:
“Inna Laraba, today too you won’t rest? Yesterday you were barely relieved of that leg pain.”
Laughing warmly, the older woman replied:
“You know I can’t sleep after Fajr prayer. And I knew you’d be here struggling alone.”
They greeted each other affectionately and continued cooking together, chatting happily. Time flew until she realized it was already close to 9:00 a.m. She panicked—yesterday her Aunty Asma’u had warned her the driver would leave at exactly nine.
Hurriedly, she finished setting breakfast on the elegant dining table. Only plates and spoons remained. She rushed to bring them, intending to quickly prepare herself afterward.
Meanwhile, Aunty Asma’u was already ready—dressed in a long material gown, makeup in place, handbag clutched, scarf draped as usual, and large sunglasses covering half her face. She stood by the table when Aisha returned with plates. Smiling politely, Aisha greeted her while arranging the table.
Description
At the Gate
He adjusted his stance beside his Lifan MOTO B model machine, glanced at the wristwatch strapped to his wrist, and re-estimated the minutes he had wasted standing at the gate of the house. Truly, without a major reason, nothing could have kept him waiting this long. The one thing he hated most in life was waiting. He was a man who observed rules and did not subscribe to the Hausa saying of "African Time."
He dropped his hand and turned his gaze toward the solid gate attached to the fence in front of the house, the very door that would connect him to the inside of the compound. As if on cue, the gate began to open, and within seconds, a young lady appeared.
She walked slowly toward him, dressed in a fitted atamfa blouse and skirt that hugged her figure. She covered herself with a scarf that didn’t reach medium length. Slowly, he forced a smile across his face despite her indifferent expression. It didn’t bother him; he was observant. Her face was neither friendly nor harsh—just calm. As usual, she scanned him from afar, the way she always did whenever he visited.
He wore a light blue shirt and medium-priced black jeans, with local handmade shoes bought from the Wambai market. His outfit was neat and suited him perfectly. His hair and beard were well-groomed, which enhanced the natural handsomeness God had given him. Without doubt, Muhammad was the picture of a complete husband material who could be presented anywhere. But there was one thing missing—something that had made her erase him from the list of men worthy of being her husband.
“Good to see you, Princess Zulaiha,” he said with his calm, soothing voice—one of the things Zulaiha admired in him, even though she didn’t think she could allow him into her life. Studying her expression quietly, he waited.
“Good to see you too,” she replied, with a subtle air of indifference.
“I had almost lost hope. I thought I wouldn’t see you today.”
“That was nearly the case, because I was about to go out with Mama. Besides, I didn’t know you were coming. Even now, I only came to tell you… Please, whenever you want to come, you should let me know first before you show up.”
She said it plainly, frowning slightly. He smiled, bent his head, and toyed with the stones scattered around the gate without saying anything. He simply kept smiling while conversing with his own thoughts. Indeed, he knew this day would come—and very soon. It wasn’t new to him; Zulaiha wasn’t the first girl to treat him this way. But he wasn’t in a hurry—he would wait until the day she herself would either declare her feelings or cut ties with him directly. After his reflection, he finally lifted his gaze to her.
“That’s fine… no problem. Forgive me.”
Without responding, she turned back toward the house.
“Greet Mama for me when you get inside.”
“She will hear,” she replied, letting out a little hiss under her breath as she went in and shut the gate firmly.
He shook his head, bit his lower lip, and smiled to himself. Skillfully, he mounted his bike, revved it, and sped out of the street, his heart heavy with thoughts and amazement—an amazement that had troubled him for years. Was life really like this now? He thanked God he had not rushed into making life-changing decisions.
The Encounter
He joined the main road but had barely gone far before he diverted off the tarred road toward a sloping path near a row of black and white cars—at least five in total. Before he could stop, about seven young men in black and white coats approached him. Each wore dark sunglasses that concealed their eyes, giving them an intimidating aura.
One of them held his bike while he dismounted. Another opened the door of one of the biggest, finest cars in the row. Only when he stepped in did the man shut the door for him. The rest got into their cars, while one rode his bike behind them.
“So, is there any change today or are we just continuing?” asked a handsome man, around thirty-four years old, seated in the corner of the car with a magazine in hand. His face showed hints of suppressed laughter.
Ignoring him, he began removing his shoes and wristwatch, placed them along with his phone—a VIVO which he switched off—into a small compartment in front of him. Then he leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes briefly, and exhaled.
“What are you thinking, Mahmoud? She’s just like the others. Things seem to be getting worse,” he finally said, his eyes still closed.
“I’ve always advised you to take it easy. Look within your own family—there are many girls who want you. Choose one of them and rest. That way, you won’t have to fear anything. We are all with you.”
He kept shaking his head without opening his eyes, silence stretching until he finally opened them and stared at the seat in front of him.
“Do you think it’s a small matter that made me avoid them all and choose this path? They’re almost all the same—no difference. Their behavior is identical, as though their names were one. They all have one purpose…”
His words were cut short by an incoming call. Both he and Mahmoud glanced at the phone where the name Ramla flashed across the screen. Mahmoud smiled, but he turned his head away as though the call didn’t exist.
“Aren’t you going to pick it up?” Mahmoud asked.
“Leave it,” he replied coldly.
He pressed a button, revealing a small fridge filled with cold drinks—barely a dozen bottles and cans. He picked one, poured into a cup, and drank, ignoring Mahmoud’s nagging. Then he shifted the subject.
“What time is our flight?”
“Right now, we’re heading to the airport. The flight departs in just about an hour.”
“Alright. Before then, let’s stop so I can change my clothes.”
“No problem,” Mahmoud replied, instructing the driver where to go before heading to the airport.
Early Morning in Another Household
She rose slowly from her prayer mat, covering a small yawn with “A’uzu billahi minash shaidanir rajim.” Folding the mat and putting it away, she removed her hijab and checked the wall clock—6:00 a.m. She was glad; she would finish her chores before school. She adjusted her slippery headscarf, slipped on her slippers, and quietly left her room.
The large sitting room was silent, still shrouded in the dimness of dawn. No one stirred—not even the housemaids. She turned on the lights, illuminating the beauty of the furnished parlor, then walked toward the corridor leading to the kitchen.
The grand kitchen was equipped with every tool imaginable. She went straight to the board that displayed the meal timetable for the household. Thursday. She sighed at the heavy list. Yesterday, she had fallen asleep while studying for today’s test and hadn’t planned ahead. Quickly, she fetched all ingredients from the freezer and store, then began cooking with skill and urgency.
After about thirty minutes, she heard footsteps. Smiling, she instantly knew who it was—only one person ever woke to help her. This was the only woman whose bond with her felt natural, who truly cared for her, unlike the mother she longed to feel love from but never did.
It was Inna Laraba, one of the household staff. Beaming, she said:
“Inna Laraba, today too you won’t rest? Yesterday you were barely relieved of that leg pain.”
Laughing warmly, the older woman replied:
“You know I can’t sleep after Fajr prayer. And I knew you’d be here struggling alone.”
They greeted each other affectionately and continued cooking together, chatting happily. Time flew until she realized it was already close to 9:00 a.m. She panicked—yesterday her Aunty Asma’u had warned her the driver would leave at exactly nine.
Hurriedly, she finished setting breakfast on the elegant dining table. Only plates and spoons remained. She rushed to bring them, intending to quickly prepare herself afterward.
Meanwhile, Aunty Asma’u was already ready—dressed in a long material gown, makeup in place, handbag clutched, scarf draped as usual, and large sunglasses covering half her face. She stood by the table when Aisha returned with plates. Smiling politely, Aisha greeted her while arranging the table.