It was a newly developing neighborhood, still quiet because not many people lived there yet. There were unfinished buildings still under construction, along with some freshly built houses that families had only recently moved into.
One of the houses stood out—a large family house painted in a soft milk color. The design clearly showed it was built as a family home. The spacious compound had a huge mango tree at the center, full of fruit though not yet ripe. The house had two flats: a large, impressive main flat and a smaller one at the side that looked like boys’ quarters.
It wasn’t the type of mansion owned by the super-rich, but rather a decent, well-kept home of a strong, middle-class family. Two cars were parked in the compound: a neat milk-colored bus and a grey Sienna that the gatekeeper was washing. Judging by the way he carefully cleaned it while humming along with a song playing on a small plastic radio, the car clearly belonged to the head of the house.
The door of the smaller flat opened. A young man stepped out—dark-skinned, average height, slim, dressed in a brown jallabiya. Keys dangled in his hand as he put on his sandals and walked toward the main flat. He greeted as he entered.
The sitting room was wide and spacious. An elderly man, about 59 or 60 years old, sat on a chair with a newspaper in hand. He was dark, hefty, and unmistakably the head of the family. Beside him sat his wife, Hajiya Balaraba, a plump woman in her forties, elegantly dressed in lace, sipping tea.
On the carpet, five children were gathered, having breakfast—bread, eggs, and tea. Three girls: Amal, 14, Asiya, 13, and Aneela, 11. And two boys: Muhammad, 11, and the youngest, Mudasir, just 6. All wore neat school uniforms, their round, chubby faces a reflection of their father’s genes and proof of healthy living.
From the kitchen emerged another woman, a strikingly beautiful dark-skinned lady in her late thirties. She wore a lovely long atampa gown with stonework and carried a tray of dishes. Making eye contact with the young man, she said,
“These children will make you late for your program, Ya Hamad.”
At the mention of his name, the children turned in unison and greeted cheerfully, “Good morning, Ya Hamad!” Without replying, he walked straight to his father, greeted him respectfully—“Good morning, Abba”—then turned to the woman beside him: “Good morning, Mum.”
Just then, another woman pulled the coffee table closer, set a tray before her husband, and said,
“Your food is ready, Daddy Hamad.”
The man folded his newspaper, handed it to her, and reached into his pocket. Taking out some money, he gave it to Hamad, saying,
“Take this and settle their school fees.”
Then he turned to his wife and asked, “Why are the older girls upstairs when it’s time for school?”
Quickly she answered, “They’ve already prepared, they just went upstairs for a while. Nanaa! Hawwa!”
Two tall young women descended the staircase. They looked so alike one might mistake them for twins. Nanaa, 26, was in her final year at BUK studying Mass Communication, while Hawwa, 24, was in 300-level studying International Relations at the same university. Hawwa resembled Hamad the most. Both wore matching lemon-green hijabs, their faces showing displeasure. They hated attending Qur’anic classes (hadda), especially at their age, but their father had made it clear—no one would ever skip hadda, no matter how educated they became.
The children said their goodbyes to their parents and left for school. Hamad followed, saying,
“Let me drop them off, Abba.”
Their father gave him a simple nod, as usual, for he wasn’t a man of many words.
Later, while they were still in the sitting room, finishing up, the second wife, Mum, cleared her throat and said,
“Alhaji, I wanted to remind you. Nanaa’s wedding is right after Sallah, just about three weeks away. Time is short. You had promised to give us money for the kitchen items this week. If I get it now, Zainab and I can go to the market today. Right, Zainab?”
Zainab, the other wife—often called Mami—nodded in agreement.
“Yes, that’s true, Abban Hamad.”
Alhaji took a sip of water, set the cup down, and pulled two bundles of ₦1,000 notes from his pocket. Handing them over, he said,
“Find another woman to accompany you. Zainab will stay back—she has kitchen duties. And since today is Sunday, I’ll be at home.”
With that, he rose and went upstairs. The women followed him with their eyes. Only when he disappeared into his room did Mum scoff under her breath,
“Alhaji, Alhaji… I’ve never seen a man so stubborn in my life.”
She got up angrily and stormed upstairs into her wing, which had its own rooms alongside Zainab’s and the children’s.
Mami quietly gathered the dishes, took them to the kitchen, instructed the maid Uwani to clean the living room, and went upstairs. She first entered her husband’s room briefly, then came out and went directly to the daughters’ room.
The room was neat, well-furnished with three beds, each with its own side, plus wardrobes fixed into the wall. She stepped inside and froze.
Sitting on the floor at the center bed, facing the wall, was a girl. She was leaning forward, her head resting on her knees, long black silky hair cascading like Indian silk across the tiles, almost touching the ground. Her skin was pale and her bare feet shone unnaturally white, her toenails long and gleaming like polished ivory.
“Du’a.”
The name slipped from Mami’s lips. The girl lifted her head slightly, though she didn’t turn to face her.
Mami stood still, watching silently. Finally, in a low, soft voice, she said,
“When you’re done crying, fix your hair, cover it with a hijab, and go to your father. He’s calling for you in his room.”
With that, Mami turned and left, gently closing the door behind her.
Description
Tudun Yola, Kano!
It was a newly developing neighborhood, still quiet because not many people lived there yet. There were unfinished buildings still under construction, along with some freshly built houses that families had only recently moved into.
One of the houses stood out—a large family house painted in a soft milk color. The design clearly showed it was built as a family home. The spacious compound had a huge mango tree at the center, full of fruit though not yet ripe. The house had two flats: a large, impressive main flat and a smaller one at the side that looked like boys’ quarters.
It wasn’t the type of mansion owned by the super-rich, but rather a decent, well-kept home of a strong, middle-class family. Two cars were parked in the compound: a neat milk-colored bus and a grey Sienna that the gatekeeper was washing. Judging by the way he carefully cleaned it while humming along with a song playing on a small plastic radio, the car clearly belonged to the head of the house.
The door of the smaller flat opened. A young man stepped out—dark-skinned, average height, slim, dressed in a brown jallabiya. Keys dangled in his hand as he put on his sandals and walked toward the main flat. He greeted as he entered.
The sitting room was wide and spacious. An elderly man, about 59 or 60 years old, sat on a chair with a newspaper in hand. He was dark, hefty, and unmistakably the head of the family. Beside him sat his wife, Hajiya Balaraba, a plump woman in her forties, elegantly dressed in lace, sipping tea.
On the carpet, five children were gathered, having breakfast—bread, eggs, and tea. Three girls: Amal, 14, Asiya, 13, and Aneela, 11. And two boys: Muhammad, 11, and the youngest, Mudasir, just 6. All wore neat school uniforms, their round, chubby faces a reflection of their father’s genes and proof of healthy living.
From the kitchen emerged another woman, a strikingly beautiful dark-skinned lady in her late thirties. She wore a lovely long atampa gown with stonework and carried a tray of dishes. Making eye contact with the young man, she said,
“These children will make you late for your program, Ya Hamad.”
At the mention of his name, the children turned in unison and greeted cheerfully, “Good morning, Ya Hamad!” Without replying, he walked straight to his father, greeted him respectfully—“Good morning, Abba”—then turned to the woman beside him: “Good morning, Mum.”
Just then, another woman pulled the coffee table closer, set a tray before her husband, and said,
“Your food is ready, Daddy Hamad.”
The man folded his newspaper, handed it to her, and reached into his pocket. Taking out some money, he gave it to Hamad, saying,
“Take this and settle their school fees.”
Then he turned to his wife and asked, “Why are the older girls upstairs when it’s time for school?”
Quickly she answered, “They’ve already prepared, they just went upstairs for a while. Nanaa! Hawwa!”
Two tall young women descended the staircase. They looked so alike one might mistake them for twins. Nanaa, 26, was in her final year at BUK studying Mass Communication, while Hawwa, 24, was in 300-level studying International Relations at the same university. Hawwa resembled Hamad the most. Both wore matching lemon-green hijabs, their faces showing displeasure. They hated attending Qur’anic classes (hadda), especially at their age, but their father had made it clear—no one would ever skip hadda, no matter how educated they became.
The children said their goodbyes to their parents and left for school. Hamad followed, saying,
“Let me drop them off, Abba.”
Their father gave him a simple nod, as usual, for he wasn’t a man of many words.
Later, while they were still in the sitting room, finishing up, the second wife, Mum, cleared her throat and said,
“Alhaji, I wanted to remind you. Nanaa’s wedding is right after Sallah, just about three weeks away. Time is short. You had promised to give us money for the kitchen items this week. If I get it now, Zainab and I can go to the market today. Right, Zainab?”
Zainab, the other wife—often called Mami—nodded in agreement.
“Yes, that’s true, Abban Hamad.”
Alhaji took a sip of water, set the cup down, and pulled two bundles of ₦1,000 notes from his pocket. Handing them over, he said,
“Find another woman to accompany you. Zainab will stay back—she has kitchen duties. And since today is Sunday, I’ll be at home.”
With that, he rose and went upstairs. The women followed him with their eyes. Only when he disappeared into his room did Mum scoff under her breath,
“Alhaji, Alhaji… I’ve never seen a man so stubborn in my life.”
She got up angrily and stormed upstairs into her wing, which had its own rooms alongside Zainab’s and the children’s.
Mami quietly gathered the dishes, took them to the kitchen, instructed the maid Uwani to clean the living room, and went upstairs. She first entered her husband’s room briefly, then came out and went directly to the daughters’ room.
The room was neat, well-furnished with three beds, each with its own side, plus wardrobes fixed into the wall. She stepped inside and froze.
Sitting on the floor at the center bed, facing the wall, was a girl. She was leaning forward, her head resting on her knees, long black silky hair cascading like Indian silk across the tiles, almost touching the ground. Her skin was pale and her bare feet shone unnaturally white, her toenails long and gleaming like polished ivory.
“Du’a.”
The name slipped from Mami’s lips. The girl lifted her head slightly, though she didn’t turn to face her.
Mami stood still, watching silently. Finally, in a low, soft voice, she said,
“When you’re done crying, fix your hair, cover it with a hijab, and go to your father. He’s calling for you in his room.”
With that, Mami turned and left, gently closing the door behind her.