In the four years they had been married, they had never encountered any serious problem, because Safiyya was a patient and obedient woman—especially regarding a man she truly loved. As for him, he too wasn’t lacking; he fulfilled all his responsibilities toward her and the children and even added more. He also sincerely loved his wife.
He was a government worker who had spent about ten years in service, and since times had changed, he also imported computers from India and sold them in Nigeria. Because of this, they lived comfortably under Allah’s protection with their two children: Usman, whom they called Nurain, three years old, and Khadija, who they called Nana, one and a half years old.
After finishing his breakfast, he dressed as usual and left for work, leaving her with the children at home since none of them attended school yet. Immediately she bathed the children, carried Nana on her back, and handed Nurain over to her younger sister, Hamida, who came to spend time with them. They all slept for about an hour and a half—she and Nana—then she woke up and went into the kitchen.
He normally came home after Azahar if he hadn’t taken lunch with him. He would eat, then go out again if he had something to do. So she woke up early, finished all the housework, and prepared lunch.
They sat in the living room watching NTA Hausa while eating. She ate from her plate while Hamida fed Nurain. Her phone started ringing in the kitchen. Before she said anything, Hamida stood up and brought her phone, which she had forgotten in the kitchen.
She answered the call with greetings and remained quiet, listening. Even though she didn’t recognize the number, she picked because she heard the voice. It was Mustafa, her husband’s colleague.
Before they even exchanged greetings, he said:
“Do you recognize me, Safiyya? Wallahi, my friend has had a minor accident. We’re right here in the emergency ward of Nassarawa Hospital. He insisted I call you and inform you, but please don’t panic. He only had a slight hit and got frightened. The doctor is attending to him now.”
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un! Subhanallah! Let me come right away.”
Mustafa tried telling her to wait so he would call her again if needed, but she didn’t even listen. She threw the phone onto the couch without ending the call.
She stood up, looked at Hamida while pointing at Nana, and said:
“Hold her for me. Her father had an accident and he’s in the hospital. I’m going to see him.”
Before Hamida could respond, she rushed into the room. She wore her hijab, picked her handbag, and checked inside. She had no money except two hundred naira that he gave her yesterday before leaving, which she used to buy data. She looked at the money and calculated in her head—₦200 would be enough to reach Nassarawa Hospital. She returned it to her bag.
She went to the living room, said goodbye to Hamida, and left.
When she arrived, she met Mustafa in the doctor’s waiting area, who informed her that Mukhtar had been taken inside. She found a seat and sat down, silently praying that he would be fine. She wanted to call his family but decided to wait until she saw his condition first.
Shortly afterward, a doctor called Mustafa. Quickly, she followed him into the doctor’s office.
Mukhtar was lying on the patient’s examination bed, eyes closed as though sleeping. Two doctors and a nurse stood beside him.
The doctor asked Mustafa:
“Are you the one who brought him?”
He nodded.
The doctor continued:
“He has no serious injury—just mild shock and a hit on his right arm. We’ve given him the injection you brought. He’s asleep now. He will be taken for an X-ray, then assigned a room. By tomorrow, if the X-ray looks fine and he has stabilized, you will be discharged.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
The nurse then took them along with another staff member who wheeled Mukhtar to the X-ray room.
Mustafa paid all the bills. After they were assigned a room, Safiyya called his younger brother Saifullahi to inform him of their situation.
When it was close to Asr time, she called Hamida and instructed her to lock the house and take the children to their mother’s place. She would call again in the morning.
They stayed—she, Saifullahi, and his other brother Aminu—until night. Mukhtar woke briefly, ate a little, then fell back asleep.
After Isha prayer in the hospital mosque, they returned to find him still sleeping. Saifullahi said:
“Aunty Safiyya, get up let me take you home. Aminu will stay with him.”
She immediately shook her head:
“No, I’m fine. I’ll sleep here. The children are already at our mother’s house.”
He looked at her, and she reassured him that there was no problem. They left, and she locked the door.
Late at night, she couldn’t sleep. He slept heavily because of the medications. She got up, performed ablution, and started praying. Before completing the first rak’ah, his phone—which Mustafa had given her and which she was charging—started ringing. She continued praying. It rang about five times.
After finishing her prayer, she picked up the phone. It was his mother, Hajiya. She tried calling back but had no airtime. Knowing Mukhtar always had airtime, she picked his phone again. It was locked with his fingerprint, so she used his finger, and it opened.
She called Hajiya immediately.
“Safiyya, where are you people? I’ve been calling! How is he? Aminu said he’s been sleeping… he hasn’t woken up?”
She explained everything. They ended the call. She placed the phone back on charge, finished her prayer, turned off the light, and tried to sleep. For over an hour she tossed restlessly until she got tired and turned on the light again.
She looked at him—he was breathing peacefully. She pulled a chair closer and kept staring at him, counting his breaths, wishing he would wake up safely. Earlier, when he woke up, he refused to open his eyes or talk.
She knew she had no data, and his phone always had data. She used his phone, turned on the data, and connected her own phone. She browsed WhatsApp and Facebook, even watched YouTube videos, spending a long time.
She turned off her data and was about to turn off his when a message popped up on his WhatsApp. She read the first line that appeared:
“missing your beautiful lips my love”
It felt like someone struck her with a hammer in the center of her skull. Instantly, she froze—despite the cool night air, she felt heat coursing through her.
Without thinking, she opened his WhatsApp to read.
The contact name was “Sucre.” She read the name ten times before scrolling further down. She scrolled lower to see if there were similar messages. Her mind went blank as she broke into sweat. After scrolling for long without finding another suspicious message, she scrolled back up to read Sucre’s message.
She tried scrolling further up to find where their conversation started but couldn’t because of the sheer number of messages. So she slowly reviewed their chats.
At first, she thought maybe he was secretly planning to marry someone. But the chats didn’t resemble anything related to marriage—they looked more like conversations with a prostitute.
He didn’t send her his pictures, but Sucre sent him several:
one wearing only nightwear eating ice cream,
another wrapped in just a towel with water running off her body,
another exposing her cleavage,
and even a video wearing only bra and panties, sitting on the bed licking her lips like a hungry witch.
Most of their chats were obscene. It was clear—even sexual acts had likely occurred. He seemed to initiate some of the chats too, not just the girl.
Her eyes stung from tears. She kept scrolling down and saw a picture of them—Mukhtar and Sucre—by a swimming pool; he was holding her from behind, shirtless, wearing only shorts. She wore a bikini. Another photo showed them kissing deeply.
She wiped her tears, placed the phone on her thigh, and held her chest with her other hand. She looked at his face—still peacefully asleep—and stared long and hard. She turned away and wiped more tears.
“Inna lillahi wa Inna ilaihi raji’un.”
She looked at the phone, shocked and heartbroken. She couldn’t continue reading; her chest burned, and tears flowed uncontrollably. She turned off the data, switched off the phone entirely, and placed it on the drawer beside the bed.
She sat back on the chair, slumping like someone pushed down violently.
“Inna lillahi wa Inna ilaihi raji’un.”
She repeated over and over without count.
She grabbed tissue from her bag, blew her nose, wiped her tears, and set it aside.
She lifted her eyes and stared at him full of disbelief. Truly, if someone had told her he was capable of these kinds of chats, she would have sworn on her marriage. He had never done anything to make her suspect him—it made her believe she was the only woman in his heart. Even if he wanted to marry another wife, that wouldn’t hurt her deeply, because she knew he had the right to marry four.
But these messages were not messages of someone seeking marriage.
It was clearly zina he was committing with this girl. Even in the chats, they referred to each other as people committing zina. And the pictures showed they had physically committed it too.
He was a man knowledgeable in religion—he knew the Islamic ruling. So what did this mean?
His WhatsApp contained no similar chats; this was the only woman. All the other chats were strictly work-related.
Description
Four Years of Peaceful Marriage
In the four years they had been married, they had never encountered any serious problem, because Safiyya was a patient and obedient woman—especially regarding a man she truly loved. As for him, he too wasn’t lacking; he fulfilled all his responsibilities toward her and the children and even added more. He also sincerely loved his wife.
He was a government worker who had spent about ten years in service, and since times had changed, he also imported computers from India and sold them in Nigeria. Because of this, they lived comfortably under Allah’s protection with their two children: Usman, whom they called Nurain, three years old, and Khadija, who they called Nana, one and a half years old.
After finishing his breakfast, he dressed as usual and left for work, leaving her with the children at home since none of them attended school yet. Immediately she bathed the children, carried Nana on her back, and handed Nurain over to her younger sister, Hamida, who came to spend time with them. They all slept for about an hour and a half—she and Nana—then she woke up and went into the kitchen.
He normally came home after Azahar if he hadn’t taken lunch with him. He would eat, then go out again if he had something to do. So she woke up early, finished all the housework, and prepared lunch.
They sat in the living room watching NTA Hausa while eating. She ate from her plate while Hamida fed Nurain. Her phone started ringing in the kitchen. Before she said anything, Hamida stood up and brought her phone, which she had forgotten in the kitchen.
She answered the call with greetings and remained quiet, listening. Even though she didn’t recognize the number, she picked because she heard the voice. It was Mustafa, her husband’s colleague.
Before they even exchanged greetings, he said:
“Do you recognize me, Safiyya? Wallahi, my friend has had a minor accident. We’re right here in the emergency ward of Nassarawa Hospital. He insisted I call you and inform you, but please don’t panic. He only had a slight hit and got frightened. The doctor is attending to him now.”
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un! Subhanallah! Let me come right away.”
Mustafa tried telling her to wait so he would call her again if needed, but she didn’t even listen. She threw the phone onto the couch without ending the call.
She stood up, looked at Hamida while pointing at Nana, and said:
“Hold her for me. Her father had an accident and he’s in the hospital. I’m going to see him.”
Before Hamida could respond, she rushed into the room. She wore her hijab, picked her handbag, and checked inside. She had no money except two hundred naira that he gave her yesterday before leaving, which she used to buy data. She looked at the money and calculated in her head—₦200 would be enough to reach Nassarawa Hospital. She returned it to her bag.
She went to the living room, said goodbye to Hamida, and left.
When she arrived, she met Mustafa in the doctor’s waiting area, who informed her that Mukhtar had been taken inside. She found a seat and sat down, silently praying that he would be fine. She wanted to call his family but decided to wait until she saw his condition first.
Shortly afterward, a doctor called Mustafa. Quickly, she followed him into the doctor’s office.
Mukhtar was lying on the patient’s examination bed, eyes closed as though sleeping. Two doctors and a nurse stood beside him.
The doctor asked Mustafa:
“Are you the one who brought him?”
He nodded.
The doctor continued:
“He has no serious injury—just mild shock and a hit on his right arm. We’ve given him the injection you brought. He’s asleep now. He will be taken for an X-ray, then assigned a room. By tomorrow, if the X-ray looks fine and he has stabilized, you will be discharged.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
The nurse then took them along with another staff member who wheeled Mukhtar to the X-ray room.
Mustafa paid all the bills. After they were assigned a room, Safiyya called his younger brother Saifullahi to inform him of their situation.
When it was close to Asr time, she called Hamida and instructed her to lock the house and take the children to their mother’s place. She would call again in the morning.
They stayed—she, Saifullahi, and his other brother Aminu—until night. Mukhtar woke briefly, ate a little, then fell back asleep.
After Isha prayer in the hospital mosque, they returned to find him still sleeping. Saifullahi said:
“Aunty Safiyya, get up let me take you home. Aminu will stay with him.”
She immediately shook her head:
“No, I’m fine. I’ll sleep here. The children are already at our mother’s house.”
He looked at her, and she reassured him that there was no problem. They left, and she locked the door.
Late at night, she couldn’t sleep. He slept heavily because of the medications. She got up, performed ablution, and started praying. Before completing the first rak’ah, his phone—which Mustafa had given her and which she was charging—started ringing. She continued praying. It rang about five times.
After finishing her prayer, she picked up the phone. It was his mother, Hajiya. She tried calling back but had no airtime. Knowing Mukhtar always had airtime, she picked his phone again. It was locked with his fingerprint, so she used his finger, and it opened.
She called Hajiya immediately.
“Safiyya, where are you people? I’ve been calling! How is he? Aminu said he’s been sleeping… he hasn’t woken up?”
She explained everything. They ended the call. She placed the phone back on charge, finished her prayer, turned off the light, and tried to sleep. For over an hour she tossed restlessly until she got tired and turned on the light again.
She looked at him—he was breathing peacefully. She pulled a chair closer and kept staring at him, counting his breaths, wishing he would wake up safely. Earlier, when he woke up, he refused to open his eyes or talk.
She knew she had no data, and his phone always had data. She used his phone, turned on the data, and connected her own phone. She browsed WhatsApp and Facebook, even watched YouTube videos, spending a long time.
She turned off her data and was about to turn off his when a message popped up on his WhatsApp. She read the first line that appeared:
“missing your beautiful lips my love”
It felt like someone struck her with a hammer in the center of her skull. Instantly, she froze—despite the cool night air, she felt heat coursing through her.
Without thinking, she opened his WhatsApp to read.
The contact name was “Sucre.” She read the name ten times before scrolling further down. She scrolled lower to see if there were similar messages. Her mind went blank as she broke into sweat. After scrolling for long without finding another suspicious message, she scrolled back up to read Sucre’s message.
She tried scrolling further up to find where their conversation started but couldn’t because of the sheer number of messages. So she slowly reviewed their chats.
At first, she thought maybe he was secretly planning to marry someone. But the chats didn’t resemble anything related to marriage—they looked more like conversations with a prostitute.
He didn’t send her his pictures, but Sucre sent him several:
one wearing only nightwear eating ice cream,
another wrapped in just a towel with water running off her body,
another exposing her cleavage,
and even a video wearing only bra and panties, sitting on the bed licking her lips like a hungry witch.
Most of their chats were obscene. It was clear—even sexual acts had likely occurred. He seemed to initiate some of the chats too, not just the girl.
Her eyes stung from tears. She kept scrolling down and saw a picture of them—Mukhtar and Sucre—by a swimming pool; he was holding her from behind, shirtless, wearing only shorts. She wore a bikini. Another photo showed them kissing deeply.
She wiped her tears, placed the phone on her thigh, and held her chest with her other hand. She looked at his face—still peacefully asleep—and stared long and hard. She turned away and wiped more tears.
“Inna lillahi wa Inna ilaihi raji’un.”
She looked at the phone, shocked and heartbroken. She couldn’t continue reading; her chest burned, and tears flowed uncontrollably. She turned off the data, switched off the phone entirely, and placed it on the drawer beside the bed.
She sat back on the chair, slumping like someone pushed down violently.
“Inna lillahi wa Inna ilaihi raji’un.”
She repeated over and over without count.
She grabbed tissue from her bag, blew her nose, wiped her tears, and set it aside.
She lifted her eyes and stared at him full of disbelief. Truly, if someone had told her he was capable of these kinds of chats, she would have sworn on her marriage. He had never done anything to make her suspect him—it made her believe she was the only woman in his heart. Even if he wanted to marry another wife, that wouldn’t hurt her deeply, because she knew he had the right to marry four.
But these messages were not messages of someone seeking marriage.
It was clearly zina he was committing with this girl. Even in the chats, they referred to each other as people committing zina. And the pictures showed they had physically committed it too.
He was a man knowledgeable in religion—he knew the Islamic ruling. So what did this mean?
His WhatsApp contained no similar chats; this was the only woman. All the other chats were strictly work-related.