Even the only person she thought hated her—Hanna’s stepmother, Iya Abu—felt deep pity for her today. She burst into tears and held Hanna tightly, comforting her. It took great effort before the women were able to separate Hanna from her father’s mat and take her back inside the house.
Hanna cried so much that she felt her chest would tear open, yet tears refused to fall. She became silent, went into her room, and lay down. Only she and her Creator knew what she felt in her heart—something heavy, like a stone, blocking her chest. Even crying felt too small for what she carried.
She looked east, west, north, and south, and saw no one who could rescue her from the deep sorrow she was sinking in—except Allah. She remembered Haisam’s advice on the last day he escorted them to the park, so she searched her bag, brought out her prayer beads, and began reciting prayers. She stopped talking completely.
People came into her room one after another, greeting her. She only looked at them quietly. She even admired those who cried, because she herself wanted to cry but couldn’t. She closed her eyes hoping her heart would cool down, but she couldn’t pray; she would simply step out into the middle of the compound and then return before dawn to bathe.
Apart from that, Hanna did nothing except fast. No food, no water. Days passed and she still refused to eat. Only Iya Salma and the others tried to force her to take a little. She drank only to avoid collapsing, feeling as if they were pouring bitter herbs into her mouth—her tongue had lost its sense of taste.
After the charity prayers of the seventh day, everyone left. Only Hanna and Iya Abu remained. Her siblings were all married and gone to their husbands’ homes. Only death brought them home. And now, for the first time, Hanna began to shed actual tears.
Every day she cried alone in her room. A whole week passed, then two. Iya Abu grew tired of feeding her. One early morning around 6:30, she began banging on Hanna’s door violently.
Hanna, who had been lying on her prayer mat since dawn after praying and reciting beads, woke up frightened. She rushed to open the door. There stood Iya Abu, full of anger and insults. Hanna’s heart dropped—she knew trouble had come again.
Iya Abu said,
“Hanna, I swear I’m done wasting my life on you. I’ve fed you with my own money for two whole weeks. Look there—that cassava I sent someone to buy is what I’ll cook and start selling in the market. Your useless father left nothing except that black, stubborn donkey in the store. I won’t let you sit here and rot. I’ll be feeding my children from the money I make selling cassava and using that donkey as transport.
From today, feed yourself. They’re even saying we should divide the inheritance and I must vacate this house. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And don’t ever eat from my pot again. If you touch my food, I’ll beat you until you vomit it.”
Hanna lowered her head, tears falling silently, and said only, “Okay, I understand.”
Iya Abu walked away, leaving Hanna standing there, frozen, hopeless.
Hanna began sleeping hungry every day, surviving only on water. Hoping Iya Abu would pity her, she kept quiet, but hunger nearly blinded her. She finally decided to go to her father’s younger brother, Malam Uba. She told him she had nothing to eat and asked if she could come daily for even one bowl of food.
He scoffed and said she had grown too big, “a school girl,” and food was expensive. Then advised her to marry Alhaji Bilya, the wealthy old man of the town who had three wives and dozens of children—some older than her, some her age.
A burning pain filled Hanna’s chest. She knew the old man: a man with leprosy already eating into his hands and lips. She knew then that her uncle did not care for her at all.
When she refused, he shouted at her,
“So you think you’re better than other girls? Others even have secrets hidden in their marriages. He himself said he wants you. I was just waiting for mourning to finish. Since you refuse, go find your own food. Nobody will feed you. Leave my house!”
Hanna ran out in tears.
She went to the primary school and was lucky to meet Alhaji, the education officer. She greeted him, and he told her he had already forwarded her job application and the local council chairman approved, but the secretary said they couldn’t take her because teachers were enough. Other schools would get new staff, but not this one.
Hanna felt devastated.
“Sir, does that mean I can’t even get a cleaning job at the local government office?” she asked.
He replied,
“You’re too educated for that, Hanna. Keep praying. Oh! I forgot to tell you—your exam results are out. But they withheld the results from F.G.G.C. Kazaure because your performance was too high—even some got nine distinctions. They want to investigate properly before releasing them.”
Description
Hanna’s Pain and Loneliness
Even the only person she thought hated her—Hanna’s stepmother, Iya Abu—felt deep pity for her today. She burst into tears and held Hanna tightly, comforting her. It took great effort before the women were able to separate Hanna from her father’s mat and take her back inside the house.
Hanna cried so much that she felt her chest would tear open, yet tears refused to fall. She became silent, went into her room, and lay down. Only she and her Creator knew what she felt in her heart—something heavy, like a stone, blocking her chest. Even crying felt too small for what she carried.
She looked east, west, north, and south, and saw no one who could rescue her from the deep sorrow she was sinking in—except Allah. She remembered Haisam’s advice on the last day he escorted them to the park, so she searched her bag, brought out her prayer beads, and began reciting prayers. She stopped talking completely.
People came into her room one after another, greeting her. She only looked at them quietly. She even admired those who cried, because she herself wanted to cry but couldn’t. She closed her eyes hoping her heart would cool down, but she couldn’t pray; she would simply step out into the middle of the compound and then return before dawn to bathe.
Apart from that, Hanna did nothing except fast. No food, no water. Days passed and she still refused to eat. Only Iya Salma and the others tried to force her to take a little. She drank only to avoid collapsing, feeling as if they were pouring bitter herbs into her mouth—her tongue had lost its sense of taste.
After the charity prayers of the seventh day, everyone left. Only Hanna and Iya Abu remained. Her siblings were all married and gone to their husbands’ homes. Only death brought them home. And now, for the first time, Hanna began to shed actual tears.
Every day she cried alone in her room. A whole week passed, then two. Iya Abu grew tired of feeding her. One early morning around 6:30, she began banging on Hanna’s door violently.
Hanna, who had been lying on her prayer mat since dawn after praying and reciting beads, woke up frightened. She rushed to open the door. There stood Iya Abu, full of anger and insults. Hanna’s heart dropped—she knew trouble had come again.
Iya Abu said,
“Hanna, I swear I’m done wasting my life on you. I’ve fed you with my own money for two whole weeks. Look there—that cassava I sent someone to buy is what I’ll cook and start selling in the market. Your useless father left nothing except that black, stubborn donkey in the store. I won’t let you sit here and rot. I’ll be feeding my children from the money I make selling cassava and using that donkey as transport.
From today, feed yourself. They’re even saying we should divide the inheritance and I must vacate this house. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And don’t ever eat from my pot again. If you touch my food, I’ll beat you until you vomit it.”
Hanna lowered her head, tears falling silently, and said only, “Okay, I understand.”
Iya Abu walked away, leaving Hanna standing there, frozen, hopeless.
Hanna began sleeping hungry every day, surviving only on water. Hoping Iya Abu would pity her, she kept quiet, but hunger nearly blinded her. She finally decided to go to her father’s younger brother, Malam Uba. She told him she had nothing to eat and asked if she could come daily for even one bowl of food.
He scoffed and said she had grown too big, “a school girl,” and food was expensive. Then advised her to marry Alhaji Bilya, the wealthy old man of the town who had three wives and dozens of children—some older than her, some her age.
A burning pain filled Hanna’s chest. She knew the old man: a man with leprosy already eating into his hands and lips. She knew then that her uncle did not care for her at all.
When she refused, he shouted at her,
“So you think you’re better than other girls? Others even have secrets hidden in their marriages. He himself said he wants you. I was just waiting for mourning to finish. Since you refuse, go find your own food. Nobody will feed you. Leave my house!”
Hanna ran out in tears.
She went to the primary school and was lucky to meet Alhaji, the education officer. She greeted him, and he told her he had already forwarded her job application and the local council chairman approved, but the secretary said they couldn’t take her because teachers were enough. Other schools would get new staff, but not this one.
Hanna felt devastated.
“Sir, does that mean I can’t even get a cleaning job at the local government office?” she asked.
He replied,
“You’re too educated for that, Hanna. Keep praying. Oh! I forgot to tell you—your exam results are out. But they withheld the results from F.G.G.C. Kazaure because your performance was too high—even some got nine distinctions. They want to investigate properly before releasing them.”