They sat in a luxurious living room, beautifully furnished with high-quality furniture. Anyone who entered that living room would never want to leave. A sweet fragrance and cool breeze filled the air. The family consisted of six members, plus a little girl playing on the floor. Bob Marley’s music was blasting from a giant plasma TV as though he was there in person.
Everyone was silent, none of them in a happy mood. Ahmad, sunk into a soft couch, was nodding his head in a drug-induced daze. It was clear he was not in his right senses. He sang along with the song, ignoring everyone else, as no one dared to tell him to stop. He listened to no one.
Their elderly mother sighed deeply, her face full of worry, and said:
“Ahmad, you are our eldest son. Look at how you’ve reduced yourself to being completely useless. We’ve grown tired of traveling all the way from Lagos to Kaduna just to talk to you about one thing you refuse to listen to. Since that’s the case, this evening we will return.”
A wide smile spread across Ahmad’s handsome face. He stood up and shouted, “Wow! Mama the Mama, thank God! Today you’ll leave? Perfect, that’s what I want! Finally I’ll have freedom. These past two days you’ve been disturbing me.”
“Shut up!” his father thundered. “Useless child without manners!”
But Ahmad replied, “I know you, Daddy. You’ve never liked me.” He sat back down and continued singing Bob Marley’s song until suddenly the channel switched to an advertisement for a body lotion.
Ahmad roared with laughter, pointing at the TV, his drunkenness mixing with madness:
“Hey! Move that nonsense away from here. Don’t bring us effeminate men. We didn’t come to see weaklings. Here in Nigeria we have our own lotion, Habiba! Yes, Habiba’s cream is what we use. It makes our lips shine! Much better than yours.”
Everyone in the room burst into laughter. Even Daddy shook his head and said:
“Ahmad, you with your fair skin and Arab blood, in whose house do you think you’re applying this so-called Habiba lotion? Do you even know Habiba is just a small company?”
Mummy sighed, “May Allah guide you.”
Ahmad pouted his lips, adjusted his crazy jeans, and sank back into the couch.
Aamna and the Restaurant Drama
A shiny red Honda parked in front of a restaurant. A beautiful young lady stepped out, handkerchief in hand, wiping her sweat. She clapped her hands and sang cheerfully:
“Welcome, my sweetheart… my treasure, my darling!”
A very thin young man came out of the car, his neck long like an umbrella stand, his waist fragile as if it might snap. His mouth jutted forward as though the wind might carry it away. He tried to act like a big man. As he opened his mouth, four huge front teeth jutted out.
He frowned at her and said, “I see you lack manners. I love you and you claim to love me, yet you disrespect me? Look at me well. Do you think you’re my match? You’re just a poor girl, and you dare call me your darling?”
The fair and beautiful girl replied gently, “I was only joking, wallahi. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
But he barked at her, “Shut up! Your parents didn’t train you well. You’re senseless!”
Anger rose in the girl. “Listen, mister. I tolerated you, but don’t push me. I was joking as lovers do.”
“What kind of joke is that?” he retorted.
She fired back, “Then take your joke to your father’s house, Kamalu!”
His eyes widened. “What did you just say?”
“I said it’s in your father’s house, Kamalu!”
Fuming, Kamalu shouted, “It’s over between us!”
Aamna sneered, “Good! I don’t want you either. Who would want a useless man like you? Marrying you would only bring insults. Better I sleep on a mattress of broken bottles than lie with you. And those ugly teeth of yours—better to kiss rust than your mouth.”
“They’re just like your father’s teeth!” he barked back.
But Aamna walked away into the restaurant, continuing her work.
Inside, she slyly stole three slices of meat from the kitchen and ate them outside. When fried rice was served to a customer who barely touched it, she swooped in, ate the rest, and even drank his unopened soda.
The customer, Alhaji, shouted, “Hey! I wasn’t done!” But she ignored him. Pretending to clean, she lingered around him, hoping to grab more food. When Alhaji complained, she apologized sweetly, blaming her hearing problem. Later, he ordered another meal, and she served him with exaggerated politeness—yet kept hiding to watch him so she could pounce on the leftovers again.
Her friend Siyama noticed and laughed. “Allah guide you, Aamna.” True to form, as soon as Alhaji left some food, Aamna devoured it, satisfied, and whispered to herself, “At least working here keeps me full, if nothing else.”
Poverty, Family Conflicts, and Bitter Rivalries
An old, white-bearded man hurried into his shabby rented house. Poverty was written all over him. Inside, he angrily called out:
“Aishatu! What nonsense is this? Wasting my money again! I just saw soap foam flowing in the street. Are you trying to ruin me with all this omo? Every day you waste money washing. From now on, no more excess. Even cooking oil—everyone gets one spoon each, no more!”
Kicking aside a pot, he yelled, “Where are Aamna and Sweety Zuhra?”
Aishatu ignored him. He pressed further:
“And still no news of Aamna’s marriage? Wallahi, had I known this is how she’d turn out, I’d never have let her go to school. I wasted money for her to reach HND. What use is a woman’s education? A woman’s duty is marriage, cooking, and children. Now she just does as she pleases.”
He sighed bitterly, remembering how he once left the village for the city in search of a better life. “Look at me now—pension too small, poverty everywhere. This city has ruined us.”
Aishatu replied, “I told you back then. Aamna was in SS3 in the village when you dragged us here. Now she’s grown, refuses marriage, and we keep feeding her for nothing. The city spoiled her.”
The old man shook his head, “At least Zuhra is better. But Aamna? She still talks like a villager. Even school couldn’t change her.” He stormed out, his old robe flapping.
Later, Aamna wept bitterly, pointing at another young woman, cursing her loudly:
“May the devil kiss you, Saratu! Wicked betrayer! You will never know peace in life!”
Saratu only smiled, jingling her car keys. “I’m stronger than you. You’re just a poor girl. Do you think Deeni, the wealthy son of a legislator, would choose you? You, who serve food in a restaurant? Even councillors wouldn’t marry you. These days men only marry women with money. Beauty isn’t enough. Get out of Deeni’s way, you’re not in his class.”
Description
The Troubled Family Gathering
They sat in a luxurious living room, beautifully furnished with high-quality furniture. Anyone who entered that living room would never want to leave. A sweet fragrance and cool breeze filled the air. The family consisted of six members, plus a little girl playing on the floor. Bob Marley’s music was blasting from a giant plasma TV as though he was there in person.
Everyone was silent, none of them in a happy mood. Ahmad, sunk into a soft couch, was nodding his head in a drug-induced daze. It was clear he was not in his right senses. He sang along with the song, ignoring everyone else, as no one dared to tell him to stop. He listened to no one.
Their elderly mother sighed deeply, her face full of worry, and said:
“Ahmad, you are our eldest son. Look at how you’ve reduced yourself to being completely useless. We’ve grown tired of traveling all the way from Lagos to Kaduna just to talk to you about one thing you refuse to listen to. Since that’s the case, this evening we will return.”
A wide smile spread across Ahmad’s handsome face. He stood up and shouted, “Wow! Mama the Mama, thank God! Today you’ll leave? Perfect, that’s what I want! Finally I’ll have freedom. These past two days you’ve been disturbing me.”
“Shut up!” his father thundered. “Useless child without manners!”
But Ahmad replied, “I know you, Daddy. You’ve never liked me.” He sat back down and continued singing Bob Marley’s song until suddenly the channel switched to an advertisement for a body lotion.
Ahmad roared with laughter, pointing at the TV, his drunkenness mixing with madness:
“Hey! Move that nonsense away from here. Don’t bring us effeminate men. We didn’t come to see weaklings. Here in Nigeria we have our own lotion, Habiba! Yes, Habiba’s cream is what we use. It makes our lips shine! Much better than yours.”
Everyone in the room burst into laughter. Even Daddy shook his head and said:
“Ahmad, you with your fair skin and Arab blood, in whose house do you think you’re applying this so-called Habiba lotion? Do you even know Habiba is just a small company?”
Mummy sighed, “May Allah guide you.”
Ahmad pouted his lips, adjusted his crazy jeans, and sank back into the couch.
Aamna and the Restaurant Drama
A shiny red Honda parked in front of a restaurant. A beautiful young lady stepped out, handkerchief in hand, wiping her sweat. She clapped her hands and sang cheerfully:
“Welcome, my sweetheart… my treasure, my darling!”
A very thin young man came out of the car, his neck long like an umbrella stand, his waist fragile as if it might snap. His mouth jutted forward as though the wind might carry it away. He tried to act like a big man. As he opened his mouth, four huge front teeth jutted out.
He frowned at her and said, “I see you lack manners. I love you and you claim to love me, yet you disrespect me? Look at me well. Do you think you’re my match? You’re just a poor girl, and you dare call me your darling?”
The fair and beautiful girl replied gently, “I was only joking, wallahi. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
But he barked at her, “Shut up! Your parents didn’t train you well. You’re senseless!”
Anger rose in the girl. “Listen, mister. I tolerated you, but don’t push me. I was joking as lovers do.”
“What kind of joke is that?” he retorted.
She fired back, “Then take your joke to your father’s house, Kamalu!”
His eyes widened. “What did you just say?”
“I said it’s in your father’s house, Kamalu!”
Fuming, Kamalu shouted, “It’s over between us!”
Aamna sneered, “Good! I don’t want you either. Who would want a useless man like you? Marrying you would only bring insults. Better I sleep on a mattress of broken bottles than lie with you. And those ugly teeth of yours—better to kiss rust than your mouth.”
“They’re just like your father’s teeth!” he barked back.
But Aamna walked away into the restaurant, continuing her work.
Inside, she slyly stole three slices of meat from the kitchen and ate them outside. When fried rice was served to a customer who barely touched it, she swooped in, ate the rest, and even drank his unopened soda.
The customer, Alhaji, shouted, “Hey! I wasn’t done!” But she ignored him. Pretending to clean, she lingered around him, hoping to grab more food. When Alhaji complained, she apologized sweetly, blaming her hearing problem. Later, he ordered another meal, and she served him with exaggerated politeness—yet kept hiding to watch him so she could pounce on the leftovers again.
Her friend Siyama noticed and laughed. “Allah guide you, Aamna.” True to form, as soon as Alhaji left some food, Aamna devoured it, satisfied, and whispered to herself, “At least working here keeps me full, if nothing else.”
Poverty, Family Conflicts, and Bitter Rivalries
An old, white-bearded man hurried into his shabby rented house. Poverty was written all over him. Inside, he angrily called out:
“Aishatu! What nonsense is this? Wasting my money again! I just saw soap foam flowing in the street. Are you trying to ruin me with all this omo? Every day you waste money washing. From now on, no more excess. Even cooking oil—everyone gets one spoon each, no more!”
Kicking aside a pot, he yelled, “Where are Aamna and Sweety Zuhra?”
Aishatu ignored him. He pressed further:
“And still no news of Aamna’s marriage? Wallahi, had I known this is how she’d turn out, I’d never have let her go to school. I wasted money for her to reach HND. What use is a woman’s education? A woman’s duty is marriage, cooking, and children. Now she just does as she pleases.”
He sighed bitterly, remembering how he once left the village for the city in search of a better life. “Look at me now—pension too small, poverty everywhere. This city has ruined us.”
Aishatu replied, “I told you back then. Aamna was in SS3 in the village when you dragged us here. Now she’s grown, refuses marriage, and we keep feeding her for nothing. The city spoiled her.”
The old man shook his head, “At least Zuhra is better. But Aamna? She still talks like a villager. Even school couldn’t change her.” He stormed out, his old robe flapping.
Later, Aamna wept bitterly, pointing at another young woman, cursing her loudly:
“May the devil kiss you, Saratu! Wicked betrayer! You will never know peace in life!”
Saratu only smiled, jingling her car keys. “I’m stronger than you. You’re just a poor girl. Do you think Deeni, the wealthy son of a legislator, would choose you? You, who serve food in a restaurant? Even councillors wouldn’t marry you. These days men only marry women with money. Beauty isn’t enough. Get out of Deeni’s way, you’re not in his class.”