It was 1:30 AM in the city of Katsina. Rain was pouring down as if from an overturned calabash. The night was cold. You could hear nothing but the relentless sound of the rain. Every now and then, lightning flashed across the sky.
At this moment, when most people were lying peacefully in their beds, sleeping with calm and settled hearts because of the pleasant coldness of the weather…
As for me, I lay on the edge of my bed with tears streaming down my face one after another. My heart had reached its limit from the burden of my husband’s matter. I sat up and increased the brightness of the bedside lamp (dim light).
I fixed my eyes on him, staring intensely. There he was, tall and straight. Very fair-skinned and extremely handsome.
Wherever someone is looking for a man with complete physical perfection—he reaches it. My husband is what people would call a blessing. The kind of man any woman who sees him would say “wow,” because even his body shape seems perfectly chosen. He is not too slim, not chubby. Everything about him looks as if he designed it himself. Most of my friends always say I was incredibly lucky. Whenever we take photos together and people see him, they would say, “Just looking at your husband alone is enough to heal your heart.”
My tears increased because of the pity I felt for myself. Deep inside, I know that it was his handsomeness that I built my marriage upon—out of the four qualities the Prophet advised us to consider before marriage.
The Prophet instructed us to start by considering the person’s religion. But I started with beauty—beauty to the highest degree—without examining his heart. I have spent years crying. Crying out of regret, crying out of sorrow. But today’s tears are DIFFERENT from the previous ones. Because the tears I am shedding now are from longing—genuine, intense longing to be touched.
The humid and rainy season intensely increases women’s desires, while men experience stronger urges during cold weather.
I kept thinking about the months I have spent “hanging.” Yes—hanging, because I am only a wife in name. It has been eight months now, and nothing intimate has happened between us. Some years back, if someone had told me that Baban Amrah and I would end up like this, I would have denied it completely and accused the person of envy.
But here we are, facing a condition so painful it feels like love never brought us together. As if we were never in love. I know, and he knows too, that in Islamic law, a woman can only be patient with a man’s absence for four months—unless she is not married.
But in this era, men leave their wives hanging for years without touching them, without considering the emotional danger they are putting them in.
As for me, only the fear of Allah is making me swallow everything I feel in my body. If not for my knowledge of the punishment of a married woman who commits adultery, I would have fallen into it—especially when other men outside consider me youthful, while my husband sees me as old.
Many women have been destroyed because of this problem. Men are the cause of throwing married women into the calamity of adultery. Islam prohibits a woman from interacting with any man who is not her mahram. Her husband alone is permitted for direct intimacy. Even with her mahrams, there are limits.
But nowadays, men don’t even have time to talk to their wives. They spend all day chasing money. And when they return home, their phone becomes their companion. A woman speaks to her husband, and he answers while his mind is on his phone.
A woman cooks, dresses up, beautifies herself—yet he does not even look at her to notice her effort, let alone praise her so she feels appreciated.
As for me, I have removed that burden from my heart. I stopped dressing up for him. I stopped cooking for praise. I now do everything for my family—for myself.
I left that phase the moment I realized I wouldn’t get what I wanted. So I surrendered and do everything that is my duty as an act of worship. And worship must be done with patience and prayers that it is accepted.
But there is one thing I cannot remove from my mind—the issue of intimacy.
My patience is reaching its end, and it is because my blood is not dry; I am human. I cannot erase desire from my body.
I reached out, picked up the tissue from the bedside.
I began wiping myself. I continued reciting “Hasbunallahu wa ni’imal wakil” aloud until I started to regain calmness.
I kept thinking whether I had done what my heart pushed me to do or if I had continued my endurance.
With strength and determination, I moved closer to him. I lay down and hugged him tightly.
I placed my hand on his hair, stroking it gently with the hope of arousing him.
I spent a long time touching him in different places, but the servant of God remained stiff like a log, even though I was sure he was not sleeping.
With a trembling voice I said, “Baban Amrah, the day before yesterday you yourself said today.”
Without emotion he replied, “I changed it again. Let’s wait until the day after tomorrow, if my body feels better. I’m not feeling well at all; I might even get worse.”
As he finished speaking, a heavy, crushing feeling struck my chest, doubling its weight.
I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t lie down.
For more than an hour, I sat in shock at the humiliation he kept giving me, as if I had been forced on him.
Is it that all women—once they give birth and time passes—start experiencing humiliation and disrespect from their husbands? Or is it just me?
Description
It was 1:30 AM in the city of Katsina. Rain was pouring down as if from an overturned calabash. The night was cold. You could hear nothing but the relentless sound of the rain. Every now and then, lightning flashed across the sky.
At this moment, when most people were lying peacefully in their beds, sleeping with calm and settled hearts because of the pleasant coldness of the weather…
As for me, I lay on the edge of my bed with tears streaming down my face one after another. My heart had reached its limit from the burden of my husband’s matter. I sat up and increased the brightness of the bedside lamp (dim light).
I fixed my eyes on him, staring intensely. There he was, tall and straight. Very fair-skinned and extremely handsome.
Wherever someone is looking for a man with complete physical perfection—he reaches it. My husband is what people would call a blessing. The kind of man any woman who sees him would say “wow,” because even his body shape seems perfectly chosen. He is not too slim, not chubby. Everything about him looks as if he designed it himself. Most of my friends always say I was incredibly lucky. Whenever we take photos together and people see him, they would say, “Just looking at your husband alone is enough to heal your heart.”
My tears increased because of the pity I felt for myself. Deep inside, I know that it was his handsomeness that I built my marriage upon—out of the four qualities the Prophet advised us to consider before marriage.
The Prophet instructed us to start by considering the person’s religion. But I started with beauty—beauty to the highest degree—without examining his heart. I have spent years crying. Crying out of regret, crying out of sorrow. But today’s tears are DIFFERENT from the previous ones. Because the tears I am shedding now are from longing—genuine, intense longing to be touched.
The humid and rainy season intensely increases women’s desires, while men experience stronger urges during cold weather.
I kept thinking about the months I have spent “hanging.” Yes—hanging, because I am only a wife in name. It has been eight months now, and nothing intimate has happened between us. Some years back, if someone had told me that Baban Amrah and I would end up like this, I would have denied it completely and accused the person of envy.
But here we are, facing a condition so painful it feels like love never brought us together. As if we were never in love. I know, and he knows too, that in Islamic law, a woman can only be patient with a man’s absence for four months—unless she is not married.
But in this era, men leave their wives hanging for years without touching them, without considering the emotional danger they are putting them in.
As for me, only the fear of Allah is making me swallow everything I feel in my body. If not for my knowledge of the punishment of a married woman who commits adultery, I would have fallen into it—especially when other men outside consider me youthful, while my husband sees me as old.
Many women have been destroyed because of this problem. Men are the cause of throwing married women into the calamity of adultery. Islam prohibits a woman from interacting with any man who is not her mahram. Her husband alone is permitted for direct intimacy. Even with her mahrams, there are limits.
But nowadays, men don’t even have time to talk to their wives. They spend all day chasing money. And when they return home, their phone becomes their companion. A woman speaks to her husband, and he answers while his mind is on his phone.
A woman cooks, dresses up, beautifies herself—yet he does not even look at her to notice her effort, let alone praise her so she feels appreciated.
As for me, I have removed that burden from my heart. I stopped dressing up for him. I stopped cooking for praise. I now do everything for my family—for myself.
I left that phase the moment I realized I wouldn’t get what I wanted. So I surrendered and do everything that is my duty as an act of worship. And worship must be done with patience and prayers that it is accepted.
But there is one thing I cannot remove from my mind—the issue of intimacy.
My patience is reaching its end, and it is because my blood is not dry; I am human. I cannot erase desire from my body.
I reached out, picked up the tissue from the bedside.
I began wiping myself. I continued reciting “Hasbunallahu wa ni’imal wakil” aloud until I started to regain calmness.
I kept thinking whether I had done what my heart pushed me to do or if I had continued my endurance.
With strength and determination, I moved closer to him. I lay down and hugged him tightly.
I placed my hand on his hair, stroking it gently with the hope of arousing him.
I spent a long time touching him in different places, but the servant of God remained stiff like a log, even though I was sure he was not sleeping.
With a trembling voice I said, “Baban Amrah, the day before yesterday you yourself said today.”
Without emotion he replied, “I changed it again. Let’s wait until the day after tomorrow, if my body feels better. I’m not feeling well at all; I might even get worse.”
As he finished speaking, a heavy, crushing feeling struck my chest, doubling its weight.
I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t lie down.
For more than an hour, I sat in shock at the humiliation he kept giving me, as if I had been forced on him.
Is it that all women—once they give birth and time passes—start experiencing humiliation and disrespect from their husbands? Or is it just me?
Yesterday I turned thirty-five years old.