After paying for the fruits she bought, she hung her handbag on her shoulder, picked up her heavy bags, and walked away. But the young girl didn’t give up — she ran after her, calling, “Aunty! Aunty!” The woman turned quickly, and unfortunately, one of her shopping bags slipped from her hand and spilled its contents — bangles, necklaces, and shoes scattered all over the ground.
The girl dropped the stick she was holding and knelt down, saying, “Oh, you didn’t hold the bag well,” as she began gathering the items and putting them back in the bag. When she finished, she lifted the bag and placed it on her head, saying, “Let me help you carry it, Aunty.”
The woman, who wasn’t even her mother yet could feel a strange fondness for her, smiled and said, “Just leave it, my dear.”
But the girl frowned and insisted, “No, Aunty, I must help you.”
The woman smiled again, placed one of the bags down, opened her purse, took out ₦500, and handed it to her, saying, “Here, young girl, take this and go.”
The girl’s eyes welled up as she said, “No, I must help you.”
Laughing softly, the woman said, “Alright then, let’s go, my daughter.”
As they walked, the girl’s eyes were fixed on the bag of fruits in the woman’s hand — that was the main reason she wanted to help her. When they reached the roadside, the woman thanked her warmly and asked, “What’s your name, my daughter?”
The girl replied, “My name is Rabi’atu, but my parents and everyone in our area call me Ikraam. My uncle Lado said they should name me Rabi’a after his sister who died and wouldn’t come back, but my mom wanted to name me after her own mother. I don’t even like that Uncle Lado — he’s wicked. He hates my mom, my dad, and even me. His wife Shatu too is mean — if my mom sends me to her, she pinches me before I get home. And that their naughty daughter…”
The woman burst into laughter and interrupted her, saying, “Oh my! Ikraam, I only asked your name.”
Ikraam pouted and replied, “I told you — my real name is Rabi’a, but my mom, dad, and neighbors call me Ikraam. My teacher at school calls me Rabi’a because she says we must use our real names at school. And one day, one girl in our class—”
The woman laughed again, watching her closely. “Alright, I understand, Ikraam. Now go home before someone starts looking for you.”
Ikraam frowned, playing with the string of her skirt. “Aunty, you didn’t give me any banana from the bag I saw earlier.”
The woman chuckled, “Oh, I didn’t know you wanted some, Ikraam.” She opened the fruit bag and handed her some bananas and apples.
Ikraam grinned, flashing her white teeth. “Aunty, you haven’t told me your name.”
The woman turned and smiled. “My name is Hajiya Amina, but people call me Mami.”
Ikraam smiled brightly. “Then I won’t call you Hajiya Amina — I’ll call you Mami too.”
The woman chuckled, “Alright, my daughter.”
She gave Ikraam the fruit bag and asked, “So what brought you to the market, Ikraam?”
Before the girl could answer, the woman’s phone rang. She pulled it out, answered, and said, “Oh, sorry! I just saw your car passing; I didn’t realize it was you.”
She hung up and smiled at Ikraam. “Alright, my daughter, go home now. May God bless you.”
Ikraam said, “But you haven’t left yet either. Should I stop a taxi for you?”
The woman laughed and patted her head. “Someone’s coming to pick me up.”
Before she finished speaking, a sleek car pulled up beside them.
Ikraam’s eyes widened. “You’re entering that car?”
Before the woman could respond, the driver stepped out. “Sorry, Mami, I kept you waiting. There was traffic on the way.”
Mami smiled. “Oh, I just came out of the market — you didn’t delay much.”
He bent down to pick up one of the bags, but Ikraam quickly grabbed it first and asked, “Aunty, who is that?”
The young man raised his head and looked at her. She turned to Mami for an answer.
Mami laughed and said, “He’s my son.”
Ikraam gasped and covered her mouth. “That huge boy is your son?”
Mami laughed harder while her son gave Ikraam a once-over — from head to toe. Her skirt and blouse were made from worn-out Ankara, but they looked clean and well-kept. She wore a tilted black cap and bathroom slippers.
He shook his head, loaded the bags in the car, and as he turned to tell Mami to get in, he bumped into Ikraam.
“Ouch! Can’t you see, boy?” she said, rubbing her forehead.
Before he could reply, she added, “Move aside — I just want to look inside the car.”
She peeked inside, then giggled. “It doesn’t smell like my Uncle Bala’s car — his seats are all torn and it stinks. Do you spray perfume in cars too?”
Laughing, Mami entered the car. “Go home, Ikraam.”
Ikraam started running off, but Mami called her back, pulled out ₦1,000, and handed it to her.
“Here, take this and go home safely.”
Ikraam smiled widely, nodded, and ran off.
~ Ikraam by Khaleesat Haiydar ~
At Home
Mami watched her go, shaking her head with a smile. “Let’s go, my son,” she said.
Her son tucked his phone into his pocket, got in the car, and reversed. Looking through the mirror, he asked, “Where did you even meet that little girl, Mami?”
Mami laughed. “She just followed me out of the market. I don’t even know her.”
He said nothing more and focused on driving.
By around 5 p.m., Ikraam arrived home carrying the bowl her mother sent her to fill. She peeked inside the house quietly — her mother, Ammi, was sitting by the fire cooking.
Ammi shouted, “You dare peek at me like that! Today, only God can separate me from you in this house!”
Terrified, Ikraam screamed and threw herself to the ground, rolling and crying, “Oh my God!” She flailed and kicked.
A meat seller nearby, who was sitting at the end of the street, yelled, “You foolish girl! You stopped your nonsense for a while, now you’re back to it?”
She got up and ran without looking back, afraid he might chase and beat her. She ran to a neighbor’s house and threw herself to the ground again, wailing.
The neighbor’s mother peered out. “So you’re back to your madness again, Ikraam? Get up and go home, you troublesome girl!”
A butcher passing by with his tray of meat stopped. “Who beat you, Rabi’a?”
Through tears, she replied, “It was Ammi.”
He grabbed her hand gently. “Oh, Aisha again? What did she beat you for this time?”
Another neighbor said, “Honestly, Baba, nobody did anything to her. It’s just Ikraam’s mischief again — she hasn’t caused a scene in two days.”
Baba sighed. “We should be patient with children. She’s just a little innocent girl — what does she know?”
He led her home, knocked at the door, and called out.
Ammi came out with a scarf tied loosely over her shoulder. “Good evening, Baba.”
He ignored the greeting. “Aisha, what did this girl do to you?”
Ammi said, “I swear, Baba, I did nothing to her. I sent her to the market since two o’clock, and she just returned now. When I scolded her, she ran out screaming.”
Baba sighed. “She’s just a child, Aisha. Please be patient with her.”
Ammi nodded. “Thank you, Baba.”
He turned to Ikraam. “Go inside, and listen to your mother next time.”
Ikraam nodded, wiping her tears, and went in quietly.
Later, while Ammi cooked, Ikraam sat near the fire, tossing small sticks into it and making smoke rise.
When her mother noticed, she barked, “Get away before I hit you with that wood!”
Ikraam sulked and went to sit by her room door, wiping her face.
When Ammi finished cooking, she told her, “Go bathe before nightfall.”
Ikraam obeyed, took off her clothes, and hung them on the rope.
Ammi shouted, “What kind of girl takes off her clothes outside before bathing?”
Ikraam pouted. “I forgot.”
She filled her bucket halfway and went to bathe. Afterward, she ate a little food while complaining, “Ammi, the food is hot.”
Her mother ignored her until she cooled it down.
When Ammi went to bathe, Ikraam quietly took her slippers and ran outside toward the market again — cheerful, mischievous, and full of energy as always.
Description
The Market Encounter
After paying for the fruits she bought, she hung her handbag on her shoulder, picked up her heavy bags, and walked away. But the young girl didn’t give up — she ran after her, calling, “Aunty! Aunty!” The woman turned quickly, and unfortunately, one of her shopping bags slipped from her hand and spilled its contents — bangles, necklaces, and shoes scattered all over the ground.
The girl dropped the stick she was holding and knelt down, saying, “Oh, you didn’t hold the bag well,” as she began gathering the items and putting them back in the bag. When she finished, she lifted the bag and placed it on her head, saying, “Let me help you carry it, Aunty.”
The woman, who wasn’t even her mother yet could feel a strange fondness for her, smiled and said, “Just leave it, my dear.”
But the girl frowned and insisted, “No, Aunty, I must help you.”
The woman smiled again, placed one of the bags down, opened her purse, took out ₦500, and handed it to her, saying, “Here, young girl, take this and go.”
The girl’s eyes welled up as she said, “No, I must help you.”
Laughing softly, the woman said, “Alright then, let’s go, my daughter.”
As they walked, the girl’s eyes were fixed on the bag of fruits in the woman’s hand — that was the main reason she wanted to help her. When they reached the roadside, the woman thanked her warmly and asked, “What’s your name, my daughter?”
The girl replied, “My name is Rabi’atu, but my parents and everyone in our area call me Ikraam. My uncle Lado said they should name me Rabi’a after his sister who died and wouldn’t come back, but my mom wanted to name me after her own mother. I don’t even like that Uncle Lado — he’s wicked. He hates my mom, my dad, and even me. His wife Shatu too is mean — if my mom sends me to her, she pinches me before I get home. And that their naughty daughter…”
The woman burst into laughter and interrupted her, saying, “Oh my! Ikraam, I only asked your name.”
Ikraam pouted and replied, “I told you — my real name is Rabi’a, but my mom, dad, and neighbors call me Ikraam. My teacher at school calls me Rabi’a because she says we must use our real names at school. And one day, one girl in our class—”
The woman laughed again, watching her closely. “Alright, I understand, Ikraam. Now go home before someone starts looking for you.”
Ikraam frowned, playing with the string of her skirt. “Aunty, you didn’t give me any banana from the bag I saw earlier.”
The woman chuckled, “Oh, I didn’t know you wanted some, Ikraam.” She opened the fruit bag and handed her some bananas and apples.
Ikraam grinned, flashing her white teeth. “Aunty, you haven’t told me your name.”
The woman turned and smiled. “My name is Hajiya Amina, but people call me Mami.”
Ikraam smiled brightly. “Then I won’t call you Hajiya Amina — I’ll call you Mami too.”
The woman chuckled, “Alright, my daughter.”
She gave Ikraam the fruit bag and asked, “So what brought you to the market, Ikraam?”
Before the girl could answer, the woman’s phone rang. She pulled it out, answered, and said, “Oh, sorry! I just saw your car passing; I didn’t realize it was you.”
She hung up and smiled at Ikraam. “Alright, my daughter, go home now. May God bless you.”
Ikraam said, “But you haven’t left yet either. Should I stop a taxi for you?”
The woman laughed and patted her head. “Someone’s coming to pick me up.”
Before she finished speaking, a sleek car pulled up beside them.
Ikraam’s eyes widened. “You’re entering that car?”
Before the woman could respond, the driver stepped out. “Sorry, Mami, I kept you waiting. There was traffic on the way.”
Mami smiled. “Oh, I just came out of the market — you didn’t delay much.”
He bent down to pick up one of the bags, but Ikraam quickly grabbed it first and asked, “Aunty, who is that?”
The young man raised his head and looked at her. She turned to Mami for an answer.
Mami laughed and said, “He’s my son.”
Ikraam gasped and covered her mouth. “That huge boy is your son?”
Mami laughed harder while her son gave Ikraam a once-over — from head to toe. Her skirt and blouse were made from worn-out Ankara, but they looked clean and well-kept. She wore a tilted black cap and bathroom slippers.
He shook his head, loaded the bags in the car, and as he turned to tell Mami to get in, he bumped into Ikraam.
“Ouch! Can’t you see, boy?” she said, rubbing her forehead.
Before he could reply, she added, “Move aside — I just want to look inside the car.”
She peeked inside, then giggled. “It doesn’t smell like my Uncle Bala’s car — his seats are all torn and it stinks. Do you spray perfume in cars too?”
Laughing, Mami entered the car. “Go home, Ikraam.”
Ikraam started running off, but Mami called her back, pulled out ₦1,000, and handed it to her.
“Here, take this and go home safely.”
Ikraam smiled widely, nodded, and ran off.
~ Ikraam by Khaleesat Haiydar ~
At Home
Mami watched her go, shaking her head with a smile. “Let’s go, my son,” she said.
Her son tucked his phone into his pocket, got in the car, and reversed. Looking through the mirror, he asked, “Where did you even meet that little girl, Mami?”
Mami laughed. “She just followed me out of the market. I don’t even know her.”
He said nothing more and focused on driving.
By around 5 p.m., Ikraam arrived home carrying the bowl her mother sent her to fill. She peeked inside the house quietly — her mother, Ammi, was sitting by the fire cooking.
Ammi shouted, “You dare peek at me like that! Today, only God can separate me from you in this house!”
Terrified, Ikraam screamed and threw herself to the ground, rolling and crying, “Oh my God!” She flailed and kicked.
A meat seller nearby, who was sitting at the end of the street, yelled, “You foolish girl! You stopped your nonsense for a while, now you’re back to it?”
She got up and ran without looking back, afraid he might chase and beat her. She ran to a neighbor’s house and threw herself to the ground again, wailing.
The neighbor’s mother peered out. “So you’re back to your madness again, Ikraam? Get up and go home, you troublesome girl!”
A butcher passing by with his tray of meat stopped. “Who beat you, Rabi’a?”
Through tears, she replied, “It was Ammi.”
He grabbed her hand gently. “Oh, Aisha again? What did she beat you for this time?”
Another neighbor said, “Honestly, Baba, nobody did anything to her. It’s just Ikraam’s mischief again — she hasn’t caused a scene in two days.”
Baba sighed. “We should be patient with children. She’s just a little innocent girl — what does she know?”
He led her home, knocked at the door, and called out.
Ammi came out with a scarf tied loosely over her shoulder. “Good evening, Baba.”
He ignored the greeting. “Aisha, what did this girl do to you?”
Ammi said, “I swear, Baba, I did nothing to her. I sent her to the market since two o’clock, and she just returned now. When I scolded her, she ran out screaming.”
Baba sighed. “She’s just a child, Aisha. Please be patient with her.”
Ammi nodded. “Thank you, Baba.”
He turned to Ikraam. “Go inside, and listen to your mother next time.”
Ikraam nodded, wiping her tears, and went in quietly.
Later, while Ammi cooked, Ikraam sat near the fire, tossing small sticks into it and making smoke rise.
When her mother noticed, she barked, “Get away before I hit you with that wood!”
Ikraam sulked and went to sit by her room door, wiping her face.
When Ammi finished cooking, she told her, “Go bathe before nightfall.”
Ikraam obeyed, took off her clothes, and hung them on the rope.
Ammi shouted, “What kind of girl takes off her clothes outside before bathing?”
Ikraam pouted. “I forgot.”
She filled her bucket halfway and went to bathe. Afterward, she ate a little food while complaining, “Ammi, the food is hot.”
Her mother ignored her until she cooled it down.
When Ammi went to bathe, Ikraam quietly took her slippers and ran outside toward the market again — cheerful, mischievous, and full of energy as always.