He came into his house at nine o’clock as he always does, even though tonight he stayed over at his mother’s place near the gate because he started getting down as soon as he arrived. Earlier, after Maghrib prayers, he had gone to where he works in Abuja. He himself had come back from Abuja this week because his driver, Mallam Iliya, had gone to their town — his father was unwell — and so he was away with permission. That’s why everyone at home looked tired and kept asking for hot water and a gentle rub to soothe them back to normal. His own fatigue, and the long trip (he didn’t do long drives often), were obvious — seeing Mallam Iliya drive would make anyone notice how difficult driving can be when you do it yourself.
In a voice full of his usual warmth he greeted when he entered the beautiful sitting room. The children had scribbled paint, marker and pencil everywhere; they had ruined the lovely paintwork that hadn’t been refreshed. The cushions on the chairs were torn and falling apart; even the central coffee table was in a mess. He frowned — such scenes often made him not want to come to Katsina. Coming home and finding the house in such a state upset him, especially seeing how his wife had allowed the children to ruin everything as if the home belonged to someone selling puff-puff. He looked around the room, gave a small sigh, and saw the children’s papers scattered and ruined. He did not call for anyone, knowing his return’s sound would be heard; in this household, when you speak to someone in front of others it can feel like public ridicule.
He walked toward his section of the house, the one you only open for him when he returns — as if from above he suddenly heard someone behind say, “Welcome home, Yaya Ishaq.” He froze for a moment before turning, still holding the laptop bag in his hand. His eyes widened — had she come back this week? She hadn’t been home since his trip. He didn’t show much concern; after a short pause he simply said, “Welcome home.”
She replied while trying to gather the children’s things they had strewn across the sitting room before Yaya Fa’iza would call them in to use the restroom and sleep. She didn’t mind his greeting — she had never seen Ishaq cheerful at home since she grew up; except when at their mother’s house by the gate or when he was with his relatives, he was a difficult man to interact with.
She opened his wardrobe door and went in; she nodded politely when she passed Aunt Binta and tried to keep calm. Aunt Binta always liked to say, “Besides fate, how did Yaya Fa’iza get along with Ishaq?” Ishaq was tall and fair, the pride of their mother’s side — his look had never faded with years. His late father Kabiru was a respected man from Katsina’s elite; even after many years Ishaq’s bearing and connections gave him standing. His height and family status matched his good looks and manners. He had education and piety, and people knew and respected him. Currently he worked as a senior officer at the Federal Inland Revenue Service (FIRS) in Abuja. He had been there for a long time — four years in the Abuja office after starting three years earlier in Katsina, until he was promoted and transferred. He enjoyed work in Abuja, especially under a boss like Dr. Lawal, a man he respected and who seemed like family — someone who might soon become his in-law.
Yaya Fa’iza had only primary schooling and hadn’t even finished the regular primary curriculum. Her formal education was limited to basic religious studies and some other religious texts. Given today’s world, where people expect both religious and western education, she was not the type Ishaq would typically choose. She had trouble hearing and needed things said loudly before she could follow; she was affected by a childhood condition called Madina (a local reference to her hearing difficulty). Despite this, she remained gentle.
While she tidied the sitting room she thought to herself that Fa’iza didn’t know Ishaq would return today — she hadn’t expected it at all — and the household had little food. She had cooked for Amir that afternoon, and now they had finished eating; there wasn’t much left. She gathered the children’s clothes and the torn papers and took them outside to the kitchen trash before returning to the children’s room to tell her sister the news that her husband had come back.
She entered, greeting them, and knew she might not be heard. Amir, lying down, answered. Anum had already fallen asleep; Mustapha had also slept. Ahmad was in her arms while she prepared to change his diaper for a bath. The children’s room had three small beds: Amir’s, Anum’s, and Mustapha’s. Ahmad, still breastfeeding, slept beside Fa’iza; she hadn’t moved him. There were three drawers where the children kept their school and home items. Hafsatu came in and sat by Amir’s bed while Fa’iza, focused on putting a diaper on Ahmad, was startled to find Hafsatu already there. Hafsatu teased Amir about leaving their things scattered: “How many times must I tell you not to drop your things everywhere?” Amir, a boy of about six, sheepishly said, “Aunty Hafsatu, Mama doesn’t know you came in; please tell her.” Hafsatu said gently, “I’ll tell her — now sleep,” and encouraged them to pray before bedtime. Fa’iza, finishing with Ahmad, joined and prayed with the children — impressively, Amir could recite quietly. Fa’iza worked hard to ensure her children kept those small lessons, not letting them slip.
Fa’iza then left the room, laid Ahmad on her royal bed and noticed he was a little feverish; the bedroom itself was slightly messy — a big wardrobe and a small toilet door — but seeing the state of the room made her uneasy despite her strength. She was about to leave when she almost bumped into Hafsatu, who said, “I didn’t know you would come in.” Hafsatu asked quietly, “Do you think Ishaq will return today?” Fa’iza, a bit startled, answered, “I don’t know.” Hafsatu replied, “I was just in the sitting room before coming here,” and Fa’iza headed out, smoothing her maroon Atamfa dress as she walked.
Fa’iza reached the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out some oil and drinks, put glasses on a small tray and headed toward Ishaq’s wing. She pushed the door open and entered with her greeting, even though she knew he might not be in the sitting room. In his wing there was a sitting room and two bedrooms; overall, his side of the house was the nicest, with large elegant chairs in honey tones, honey-colored curtains and matching cushions. A pleasant scent — one of the perfumes Ishaq favored — filled the room.
She placed the tray on the center table then went to one of the bedrooms she knew Ishaq used. With a greeting she pushed the door open and found him standing in front of a mirror finishing dressing in soft white sleeping clothes, trousers and a shirt. A phone was in his hand; he spoke calmly and softly. Seeing him, Fa’iza turned to leave and reached for the door, her hand on the handle, when unexpectedly she heard his voice calling her in that gentle tone he always used.
Description
He Arrives Home at Nine
He came into his house at nine o’clock as he always does, even though tonight he stayed over at his mother’s place near the gate because he started getting down as soon as he arrived. Earlier, after Maghrib prayers, he had gone to where he works in Abuja. He himself had come back from Abuja this week because his driver, Mallam Iliya, had gone to their town — his father was unwell — and so he was away with permission. That’s why everyone at home looked tired and kept asking for hot water and a gentle rub to soothe them back to normal. His own fatigue, and the long trip (he didn’t do long drives often), were obvious — seeing Mallam Iliya drive would make anyone notice how difficult driving can be when you do it yourself.
In a voice full of his usual warmth he greeted when he entered the beautiful sitting room. The children had scribbled paint, marker and pencil everywhere; they had ruined the lovely paintwork that hadn’t been refreshed. The cushions on the chairs were torn and falling apart; even the central coffee table was in a mess. He frowned — such scenes often made him not want to come to Katsina. Coming home and finding the house in such a state upset him, especially seeing how his wife had allowed the children to ruin everything as if the home belonged to someone selling puff-puff. He looked around the room, gave a small sigh, and saw the children’s papers scattered and ruined. He did not call for anyone, knowing his return’s sound would be heard; in this household, when you speak to someone in front of others it can feel like public ridicule.
He walked toward his section of the house, the one you only open for him when he returns — as if from above he suddenly heard someone behind say, “Welcome home, Yaya Ishaq.” He froze for a moment before turning, still holding the laptop bag in his hand. His eyes widened — had she come back this week? She hadn’t been home since his trip. He didn’t show much concern; after a short pause he simply said, “Welcome home.”
She replied while trying to gather the children’s things they had strewn across the sitting room before Yaya Fa’iza would call them in to use the restroom and sleep. She didn’t mind his greeting — she had never seen Ishaq cheerful at home since she grew up; except when at their mother’s house by the gate or when he was with his relatives, he was a difficult man to interact with.
She opened his wardrobe door and went in; she nodded politely when she passed Aunt Binta and tried to keep calm. Aunt Binta always liked to say, “Besides fate, how did Yaya Fa’iza get along with Ishaq?” Ishaq was tall and fair, the pride of their mother’s side — his look had never faded with years. His late father Kabiru was a respected man from Katsina’s elite; even after many years Ishaq’s bearing and connections gave him standing. His height and family status matched his good looks and manners. He had education and piety, and people knew and respected him. Currently he worked as a senior officer at the Federal Inland Revenue Service (FIRS) in Abuja. He had been there for a long time — four years in the Abuja office after starting three years earlier in Katsina, until he was promoted and transferred. He enjoyed work in Abuja, especially under a boss like Dr. Lawal, a man he respected and who seemed like family — someone who might soon become his in-law.
Yaya Fa’iza had only primary schooling and hadn’t even finished the regular primary curriculum. Her formal education was limited to basic religious studies and some other religious texts. Given today’s world, where people expect both religious and western education, she was not the type Ishaq would typically choose. She had trouble hearing and needed things said loudly before she could follow; she was affected by a childhood condition called Madina (a local reference to her hearing difficulty). Despite this, she remained gentle.
While she tidied the sitting room she thought to herself that Fa’iza didn’t know Ishaq would return today — she hadn’t expected it at all — and the household had little food. She had cooked for Amir that afternoon, and now they had finished eating; there wasn’t much left. She gathered the children’s clothes and the torn papers and took them outside to the kitchen trash before returning to the children’s room to tell her sister the news that her husband had come back.
She entered, greeting them, and knew she might not be heard. Amir, lying down, answered. Anum had already fallen asleep; Mustapha had also slept. Ahmad was in her arms while she prepared to change his diaper for a bath. The children’s room had three small beds: Amir’s, Anum’s, and Mustapha’s. Ahmad, still breastfeeding, slept beside Fa’iza; she hadn’t moved him. There were three drawers where the children kept their school and home items. Hafsatu came in and sat by Amir’s bed while Fa’iza, focused on putting a diaper on Ahmad, was startled to find Hafsatu already there. Hafsatu teased Amir about leaving their things scattered: “How many times must I tell you not to drop your things everywhere?” Amir, a boy of about six, sheepishly said, “Aunty Hafsatu, Mama doesn’t know you came in; please tell her.” Hafsatu said gently, “I’ll tell her — now sleep,” and encouraged them to pray before bedtime. Fa’iza, finishing with Ahmad, joined and prayed with the children — impressively, Amir could recite quietly. Fa’iza worked hard to ensure her children kept those small lessons, not letting them slip.
Fa’iza then left the room, laid Ahmad on her royal bed and noticed he was a little feverish; the bedroom itself was slightly messy — a big wardrobe and a small toilet door — but seeing the state of the room made her uneasy despite her strength. She was about to leave when she almost bumped into Hafsatu, who said, “I didn’t know you would come in.” Hafsatu asked quietly, “Do you think Ishaq will return today?” Fa’iza, a bit startled, answered, “I don’t know.” Hafsatu replied, “I was just in the sitting room before coming here,” and Fa’iza headed out, smoothing her maroon Atamfa dress as she walked.
Fa’iza reached the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out some oil and drinks, put glasses on a small tray and headed toward Ishaq’s wing. She pushed the door open and entered with her greeting, even though she knew he might not be in the sitting room. In his wing there was a sitting room and two bedrooms; overall, his side of the house was the nicest, with large elegant chairs in honey tones, honey-colored curtains and matching cushions. A pleasant scent — one of the perfumes Ishaq favored — filled the room.
She placed the tray on the center table then went to one of the bedrooms she knew Ishaq used. With a greeting she pushed the door open and found him standing in front of a mirror finishing dressing in soft white sleeping clothes, trousers and a shirt. A phone was in his hand; he spoke calmly and softly. Seeing him, Fa’iza turned to leave and reached for the door, her hand on the handle, when unexpectedly she heard his voice calling her in that gentle tone he always used.