Around 7:00 p.m., a big black SUV was moving along Ahmadu Bello Way in Abuja. Inside sat a distinguished elderly man, at least 65 years old. He wore a white kaftan with trousers, and on his head a pointed red cap with a long white feather attached at the side. On his feet were classy black Prada sandals, and beside him leaned a long walking stick resting against the seat.
He was very fair-skinned, the kind often described as “yellow.” His beard wasn’t too full but neatly grown. Suddenly, his Samsung Galaxy Fold began to ring. Reaching into the front pocket of his kaftan, he pulled it out and opened it. Seeing the saved name “ACHALOUGO”, he pressed the button and placed it on his ear.
On the other end came the voice of an elderly woman speaking in Igbo:
> “Mgbede á»ma, nwa m nwoke” (“Good evening, my husband”).
The man nodded and replied in Igbo too:
> “Kedu ka ị mere? How are you?”
The woman answered, “Fine, Nwoke (my husband). Are you free so we can talk?”
Quickly, he said, “Yes, yes Nwunye (my wife). What is it? Your voice sounds worried, what’s wrong?”
In a troubled tone she said, “This is after 7, and Ziora has still not returned from school.”
The man went silent, as if calculating something, then glanced at the Rolex strapped on his wrist—it was almost 7:30 now. He asked, “Have you sent Obinna to look for her?”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice cracking. “They went to the school, but she wasn’t there, not even in her department. Her phone isn’t connecting.”
He sighed deeply, trying to calm her down. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back.”
But she snapped back with tension, “This is always what you say—don’t worry this, don’t worry that! Every day, Ziora keeps getting worse. Why are you spoiling this girl so much? Why, why, why—”
“Biko Nwunye (please, my wife),” he raised his hand, signaling her to stop. She went silent.
The man continued, “Let me think. Our only daughter hasn’t come home yet. Do you think this is the time for fighting? Whatever it is, we’ll handle it when she’s back. Calm down and think—where could she have gone at this hour?”
He pulled the phone from his ear and cut the call, tapping his foot in thought. Then he turned to his driver, speaking Hausa but in the accent of an Igbo man:
> “Babasani.”
The elderly driver immediately answered, “Na’am, Oga.”
The man asked, “Can you think of any place Amrah might be found at this time?”
The driver paused, then said, “Well, Oga, you know Amrah loves dancing. I once took her to a place where they usually dance like that. But I’m not sure if we’ll find her there now.”
Knowing his daughter, the man ordered, “Take me there.”
At once, Baba Sani made a U-turn and they headed in that direction.
The Dance Hall Discovery
They arrived at a grand building with a gym-like setting. Mirrors lined the walls, and huge speakers blasted music. The cold air from massive AC units filled the room. Young girls crowded the place, most in gym outfits—long pants and half vests. Many were clearly not Muslim, some with hair extensions and others wearing cross necklaces.
Some were cycling while clapping loudly. Two girls without head coverings, dressed in shorts and vests, clapped and hyped up a dancer on the raised platform called the 360.
“Go Ziora! Go girl! Go Ziora! Ehhh give ’em!” they shouted.
On the platform danced a tall girl wearing a black cap. Her face was hidden, but long straight hair flowed down to her waist. She wore a black designer Alo gym top shaped like a singlet, tightly holding her moderate-sized breasts in place, and matching black tight pants that reached her ankles. On her feet were Nike sneakers with white Nike socks. Her yellow-toned skin glowed flawlessly.
The music kept playing, and her dancing was extraordinary—so flexible, comparable to Shakira herself. The crowd screamed, hyping her louder, for she was clearly one of the best dancers in the class.
Suddenly, the hall doors opened. A beautiful fair-skinned woman entered, dressed in an adire bubu. On her head was a short stylish attachment just touching her shoulders. Her fingernails were polished bright red. Though clearly upset, her beauty was striking.
She covered her ears briefly against the loud music, but as her eyes swept across the hall, her heart raced. A mother always recognizes her child, no matter the crowd. Her gaze locked on the dancing girl, and her anger surged.
Forgetting the noise, she stormed into the crowd, pushing through until she reached the two girls clapping for Ziora. She gave them a sharp glare, silencing them instantly. Then she marched straight to the 360 stage.
Just as the music stopped, she struck her daughter’s backside with a heavy blow. Shocked, the girl turned, and the mother angrily knocked off her cap.
“Is this the school I sent you to? Look at me well, Ziora!”
The girl’s beautiful hair fell loose—thick, black, and European-like. She avoided her mother’s gaze, too ashamed. Her features mirrored her mother’s: a long nose, small lips naturally pink, rounded eyes with long lashes, perfect brows, and flawless skin. She pressed her sore backside where she had been struck, wincing.
The mother glared at her furiously. “Is this the school I sent you to? When was the last time you attended lectures? All this while you’ve been here?”
Ziora stayed silent, fueling her mother’s rage. Turning to the silent crowd, the mother declared, “My daughter is a responsible child from a reputable family!”
The girls glanced at each other awkwardly, doubting she even knew her daughter well.
When she was about to continue, Ziora, almost in tears, whispered, “Mommy, you’re embarrassing meee…”
Her soft, sweet girly voice caught everyone’s attention.
“Oh, now you know how to speak!” her mother snapped. Then to the crowd: “I will not sit idle while you spoil my daughter and ruin the home training I gave her. My daughter will go to school. She will not become a dancer like you—”
Before she could finish, Ziora tugged at her hand, pleading softly in English:
> “Mommyyyy, let’s just gooo.”
Pointing at the crowd, the mother warned, “If I see my daughter here again, I will shut this place down!”
The Family Confrontation
Pulling Ziora by the hand, she dragged her out. But Ziora, stubbornly, protested, “Mommy, my baggg!” She yanked her hand free, grabbed a huge handbag from the corner, and returned.
“I want to change my clothes,” she added, but her mother barked, “My friend, I said let’s go!”
They stepped out of the building just as the father got out of the SUV. Looking at his wife, he demanded, “Why is she dressed like this, Nwunye? Where is her dignity?”
Before the mother could speak, Ziora snapped, “Daddy, I told Mommy I wanted to change, but she didn’t let me. She dragged me out like this—what’s my business?”
Both parents stared at her. Then her elder brother, Obinna—who had driven their mother there—stormed out and shouted, “Are you stupid, Ziora? You did wrong and now you’re being rude!”
Terrified, she quickly hid behind her mother.
“Don’t touch her, Obinna,” said the father calmly. “Let’s just go home. Amrah!”
Slowly, she emerged, unable to meet her brother’s eyes. The father pointed to his car. “Get in.”
She rushed into her father’s SUV, preferring his protection to her mother and brother’s scolding. Her father took her bag and pulled out an abaya from it.
“Put this on,” he ordered. “This should be the last time I see you dressed like this. What did your Ustaz tell you about exposing your body?”
Quietly, she answered, “It’s haram—it’s forbidden in Islam for a lady to expose her body.”
“And when you do haram,” he asked, “how do you ask Allah for forgiveness?”
She quickly replied, “Astagfirullah.”
Her mother hissed, entered the other car with Obinna, and they drove off.
Inside the SUV, her father still held her bag. She pleaded shyly, “Why are you searching my bag, Daddy?”
Ignoring her, he searched. He found her school books, but none had notes inside. Then, suddenly, he pulled out a lighter.
Looking at it seriously, he turned to her. “What are you doing with a lighter, Baby?”
Her lips trembled. “Daddy, no! I swear I don’t smoke. It belongs to my friend Mirabel. Daddy, I don’t smoke—smell my mouth.”
She leaned forward, opening her small adorable mouth with tiny white teeth. Her father leaned close—truly, there was no smell of smoke.
He knew well about smoking and drinking; he had lived that life before converting to Islam. So he believed her.
“I believe you,” he said softly.
She beamed, looking extra adorable. “You see, Daddy? You always tell the truth. But Mommy—she lies! She’d say she smelled smoke even when she didn’t. Daddy, my Mommy can lie.”
Her father almost laughed but restrained himself. That was his daughter Amrah—so carefree, so innocent.
Gently, he warned, “Stop calling your Mom a liar.”
But she insisted, “Daddy, wallahi, Mommy lies a lot!”
Description
A Father’s Worry
Around 7:00 p.m., a big black SUV was moving along Ahmadu Bello Way in Abuja. Inside sat a distinguished elderly man, at least 65 years old. He wore a white kaftan with trousers, and on his head a pointed red cap with a long white feather attached at the side. On his feet were classy black Prada sandals, and beside him leaned a long walking stick resting against the seat.
He was very fair-skinned, the kind often described as “yellow.” His beard wasn’t too full but neatly grown. Suddenly, his Samsung Galaxy Fold began to ring. Reaching into the front pocket of his kaftan, he pulled it out and opened it. Seeing the saved name “ACHALOUGO”, he pressed the button and placed it on his ear.
On the other end came the voice of an elderly woman speaking in Igbo:
> “Mgbede á»ma, nwa m nwoke” (“Good evening, my husband”).
The man nodded and replied in Igbo too:
> “Kedu ka ị mere? How are you?”
The woman answered, “Fine, Nwoke (my husband). Are you free so we can talk?”
Quickly, he said, “Yes, yes Nwunye (my wife). What is it? Your voice sounds worried, what’s wrong?”
In a troubled tone she said, “This is after 7, and Ziora has still not returned from school.”
The man went silent, as if calculating something, then glanced at the Rolex strapped on his wrist—it was almost 7:30 now. He asked, “Have you sent Obinna to look for her?”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice cracking. “They went to the school, but she wasn’t there, not even in her department. Her phone isn’t connecting.”
He sighed deeply, trying to calm her down. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back.”
But she snapped back with tension, “This is always what you say—don’t worry this, don’t worry that! Every day, Ziora keeps getting worse. Why are you spoiling this girl so much? Why, why, why—”
“Biko Nwunye (please, my wife),” he raised his hand, signaling her to stop. She went silent.
The man continued, “Let me think. Our only daughter hasn’t come home yet. Do you think this is the time for fighting? Whatever it is, we’ll handle it when she’s back. Calm down and think—where could she have gone at this hour?”
He pulled the phone from his ear and cut the call, tapping his foot in thought. Then he turned to his driver, speaking Hausa but in the accent of an Igbo man:
> “Babasani.”
The elderly driver immediately answered, “Na’am, Oga.”
The man asked, “Can you think of any place Amrah might be found at this time?”
The driver paused, then said, “Well, Oga, you know Amrah loves dancing. I once took her to a place where they usually dance like that. But I’m not sure if we’ll find her there now.”
Knowing his daughter, the man ordered, “Take me there.”
At once, Baba Sani made a U-turn and they headed in that direction.
The Dance Hall Discovery
They arrived at a grand building with a gym-like setting. Mirrors lined the walls, and huge speakers blasted music. The cold air from massive AC units filled the room. Young girls crowded the place, most in gym outfits—long pants and half vests. Many were clearly not Muslim, some with hair extensions and others wearing cross necklaces.
Some were cycling while clapping loudly. Two girls without head coverings, dressed in shorts and vests, clapped and hyped up a dancer on the raised platform called the 360.
“Go Ziora! Go girl! Go Ziora! Ehhh give ’em!” they shouted.
On the platform danced a tall girl wearing a black cap. Her face was hidden, but long straight hair flowed down to her waist. She wore a black designer Alo gym top shaped like a singlet, tightly holding her moderate-sized breasts in place, and matching black tight pants that reached her ankles. On her feet were Nike sneakers with white Nike socks. Her yellow-toned skin glowed flawlessly.
The music kept playing, and her dancing was extraordinary—so flexible, comparable to Shakira herself. The crowd screamed, hyping her louder, for she was clearly one of the best dancers in the class.
Suddenly, the hall doors opened. A beautiful fair-skinned woman entered, dressed in an adire bubu. On her head was a short stylish attachment just touching her shoulders. Her fingernails were polished bright red. Though clearly upset, her beauty was striking.
She covered her ears briefly against the loud music, but as her eyes swept across the hall, her heart raced. A mother always recognizes her child, no matter the crowd. Her gaze locked on the dancing girl, and her anger surged.
Forgetting the noise, she stormed into the crowd, pushing through until she reached the two girls clapping for Ziora. She gave them a sharp glare, silencing them instantly. Then she marched straight to the 360 stage.
Just as the music stopped, she struck her daughter’s backside with a heavy blow. Shocked, the girl turned, and the mother angrily knocked off her cap.
“Is this the school I sent you to? Look at me well, Ziora!”
The girl’s beautiful hair fell loose—thick, black, and European-like. She avoided her mother’s gaze, too ashamed. Her features mirrored her mother’s: a long nose, small lips naturally pink, rounded eyes with long lashes, perfect brows, and flawless skin. She pressed her sore backside where she had been struck, wincing.
The mother glared at her furiously. “Is this the school I sent you to? When was the last time you attended lectures? All this while you’ve been here?”
Ziora stayed silent, fueling her mother’s rage. Turning to the silent crowd, the mother declared, “My daughter is a responsible child from a reputable family!”
The girls glanced at each other awkwardly, doubting she even knew her daughter well.
When she was about to continue, Ziora, almost in tears, whispered, “Mommy, you’re embarrassing meee…”
Her soft, sweet girly voice caught everyone’s attention.
“Oh, now you know how to speak!” her mother snapped. Then to the crowd: “I will not sit idle while you spoil my daughter and ruin the home training I gave her. My daughter will go to school. She will not become a dancer like you—”
Before she could finish, Ziora tugged at her hand, pleading softly in English:
> “Mommyyyy, let’s just gooo.”
Pointing at the crowd, the mother warned, “If I see my daughter here again, I will shut this place down!”
The Family Confrontation
Pulling Ziora by the hand, she dragged her out. But Ziora, stubbornly, protested, “Mommy, my baggg!” She yanked her hand free, grabbed a huge handbag from the corner, and returned.
“I want to change my clothes,” she added, but her mother barked, “My friend, I said let’s go!”
They stepped out of the building just as the father got out of the SUV. Looking at his wife, he demanded, “Why is she dressed like this, Nwunye? Where is her dignity?”
Before the mother could speak, Ziora snapped, “Daddy, I told Mommy I wanted to change, but she didn’t let me. She dragged me out like this—what’s my business?”
Both parents stared at her. Then her elder brother, Obinna—who had driven their mother there—stormed out and shouted, “Are you stupid, Ziora? You did wrong and now you’re being rude!”
Terrified, she quickly hid behind her mother.
“Don’t touch her, Obinna,” said the father calmly. “Let’s just go home. Amrah!”
Slowly, she emerged, unable to meet her brother’s eyes. The father pointed to his car. “Get in.”
She rushed into her father’s SUV, preferring his protection to her mother and brother’s scolding. Her father took her bag and pulled out an abaya from it.
“Put this on,” he ordered. “This should be the last time I see you dressed like this. What did your Ustaz tell you about exposing your body?”
Quietly, she answered, “It’s haram—it’s forbidden in Islam for a lady to expose her body.”
“And when you do haram,” he asked, “how do you ask Allah for forgiveness?”
She quickly replied, “Astagfirullah.”
Her mother hissed, entered the other car with Obinna, and they drove off.
Inside the SUV, her father still held her bag. She pleaded shyly, “Why are you searching my bag, Daddy?”
Ignoring her, he searched. He found her school books, but none had notes inside. Then, suddenly, he pulled out a lighter.
Looking at it seriously, he turned to her. “What are you doing with a lighter, Baby?”
Her lips trembled. “Daddy, no! I swear I don’t smoke. It belongs to my friend Mirabel. Daddy, I don’t smoke—smell my mouth.”
She leaned forward, opening her small adorable mouth with tiny white teeth. Her father leaned close—truly, there was no smell of smoke.
He knew well about smoking and drinking; he had lived that life before converting to Islam. So he believed her.
“I believe you,” he said softly.
She beamed, looking extra adorable. “You see, Daddy? You always tell the truth. But Mommy—she lies! She’d say she smelled smoke even when she didn’t. Daddy, my Mommy can lie.”
Her father almost laughed but restrained himself. That was his daughter Amrah—so carefree, so innocent.
Gently, he warned, “Stop calling your Mom a liar.”
But she insisted, “Daddy, wallahi, Mommy lies a lot!”