She collected the shared food portion from Aisha’s hand and said,
“Bring it here so I can dish it out for them. Take something refreshing to them before I serve their food, okay?”
Aisha replied, “Alright, Umma.” She began arranging items on the tray — very chilled zobo drink, four chilled sachet waters, and two cups.
She greeted at Abba’s living room, where they were deeply engrossed in a “long time no see” conversation. They answered her happily. She went to the table, placed the tray, pulled it slightly towards them, and knelt on both knees while pouring the zobo into cups. She greeted the visitor,
“Uncle, good afternoon.”
He looked at her.
“I’m fine, Uncle’s daughter.”
His heart suddenly pounded hard, but he masked it and asked, “How is your studies?”
She said, “Alhamdulillah. How was your trip?”
“Very fine,” he replied. “What is your name?”
She stood up, handed them their drinks, and answered, “My name is Aisha.”
He turned to Abba, “So how many children do you have now, Mustapha?”
With a cheerful smile, Abba said, “Four.”
Aisha stepped out and returned with the food. Her mother followed her in cheerfully and greeted Alhaji Sadiq Usman, a man from Katsina. She sat and served them food while saying,
“Today at least I have seen Alhaji Sadiq K.T.”
Alhaji Sadiq looked at Abba and said,
“Friend, you mean you also talk about me all the time?”
“Very much,” Abba replied. “You know you’re not a friend one can ever forget.”
They all laughed.
Alhaji Sadiq’s Troubled Thoughts
Lying in the comfortable guest lodge in Dutse, Alhaji Sadiq was lost in deep thoughts. Without doubt, Aisha — Mustapha’s daughter — was the girl he kept seeing in his Istihara dreams; she was also the girl Malam Mamuda had described as the future mother of his children.
He remembered a discussion with Malam Mamuda, who told him that the girl destined to bear his children lived in a faraway town from Katsina, and that his Istihara showed many challenges ahead — challenges similar to what always happened to any woman he married. He knew that not everyone would ever agree to give him their daughter once they knew who he was — Alhaji Sadiq K.T.
He paced the room, thinking,
Should I tell my friend my problem? If I do, will he ever give me his daughter Aisha? What should I do now?
He performed ablution in the bathroom, removed his sleepwear, wore a jallabiya, and stood for prayer, seeking Allah’s guidance and solution. In his sleep that night, he saw the same girl sitting with two beautiful children that resembled him.
In the morning, he stepped out wearing spotless white boyel fabric, with a white cap and white slippers. His familiar elegant fragrance filled the air.
Alhaji Sadiq was a handsome, tall Katsina man with a commanding presence. His skin glowed with health and care. He headed to his friend’s house, which wasn’t far from the roadside mosque.
Aisha, wearing a long hijab, was approaching. He stopped his car and lowered the window.
“Where are you going, Aisha?”
She looked towards the car and smiled softly.
“Good morning, Uncle.”
“Good morning, Aisha. Where to?”
“I’m going to my Hadith class.”
“Where is your father?”
“He’s at home. I just heard him say he’s coming to see you.”
“Come in, let me drop you.”
“It’s not far, Uncle, and it’s inside an alley. Cars don’t enter, only bikes.”
He handed her a new ₦500 note. “Take a bike.”
“No, leave it. Abba already gave me money.”
“Just take mine too.”
She accepted. “Thank you.”
He drove off while she walked on, thinking about the money he gave them yesterday — ₦50,000. He said he couldn’t get them souvenirs, so he bought sweets instead.
Truly, Uncle is kind, she thought. Especially because of the help he offered their father. She realized having children was his deep wish.
He rode a bike toward his friend’s house but soon saw Sadiq’s car arriving. They welcomed each other happily, calling each other Friend, just like during their BUK days.
“Where were you heading?”
“To your place.”
“Well, if you had gotten there, we’d still return — I want to drink kunu.”
They laughed and entered the house. Umma had made kunun tsamiya with kosai. He ate happily.
“It’s been so long since I enjoyed something like this. I love these foods, but I don’t get them.”
“How?” Abba asked. “Your wife doesn’t prepare them for you?”
He hissed softly.
“You know our women — once they feel you have money, they relax. You must then hire a big man to be cooking for you and pay him.”
“Allah help us,” Abba said.
“Amin.”
Abba continued, “Have you ever sought religious help for your infertility? And what did the doctors say about your wife?”
Sadiq adjusted himself. He had many friends, but Mustapha was different — trustworthy, deep thinker, and his advice always beneficial. That made him finally confide in him.
“Friend, do you know something strange? Everywhere we visit for medical checks, they say Jummai cannot conceive because of her past use of birth control pills that damaged her womb. Even in Egypt, they said her uterus was tampered with due to a past abortion she had. I was shocked. But she denied it and cried, saying they framed her. And because she is my relative, I covered it up.”
Abba asked, “So why didn’t you remarry?”
He gave a faint, sorrowful smile.
“My elder friend gave me his daughter, Murja — a very beautiful and well-behaved girl. We married. Sadly, exactly two weeks later, she died during Subh prayer. After forty days, I married her younger sister. Shockingly, she also died ten days after the wedding.”
Abba gasped.
“Did they run any tests to know the cause of death?”
“Doctors found no poison, no beating, no suffocation — nothing. Months later, I met another girl during an errand. Something in her character drew me in. My family supported it. Even Jummai prepared my wedding boxes as her contribution — she also wanted me to have a child.”
He continued,
“After the wedding, I spent seven days with my bride. On the ninth day, during intimacy, she suddenly stopped moving. She was dead.”
He went silent, breathing heavily as the memory shook him.
“Wallahi, Mustapha, I cannot describe the trauma.”
Abba, shocked, said, “Subhanallah. Didn’t you seek prayers? Even though death is from Allah.”
He removed his cap and placed it aside.
“You haven’t heard anything yet,” he said.
He explained further how they went to Malam Mamuda, who described the girl destined for him — young, slender, fair-skinned, living far from Katsina. He said Sadiq would eventually have children, but challenges would occur along the way.
Sadiq narrated all his failed marriages:
Rukayya in Kano — died after eleven days.
Another — died after nine days.
Rumors spread that his wealth came from occultism, and people avoided him.
Then he narrated how, in Kaduna, he saw a girl selling groundnuts. She had the exact features described by the Malam. He followed her home, introduced himself, proposed, and married her. She, too, died after nine days.
Fear consumed him, and he vowed never to marry again. He continued living with Jummai, a wealthy woman who loved luxury and looked down on the poor.
Description
Aisha Serves the Guests
She collected the shared food portion from Aisha’s hand and said,
“Bring it here so I can dish it out for them. Take something refreshing to them before I serve their food, okay?”
Aisha replied, “Alright, Umma.” She began arranging items on the tray — very chilled zobo drink, four chilled sachet waters, and two cups.
She greeted at Abba’s living room, where they were deeply engrossed in a “long time no see” conversation. They answered her happily. She went to the table, placed the tray, pulled it slightly towards them, and knelt on both knees while pouring the zobo into cups. She greeted the visitor,
“Uncle, good afternoon.”
He looked at her.
“I’m fine, Uncle’s daughter.”
His heart suddenly pounded hard, but he masked it and asked, “How is your studies?”
She said, “Alhamdulillah. How was your trip?”
“Very fine,” he replied. “What is your name?”
She stood up, handed them their drinks, and answered, “My name is Aisha.”
He turned to Abba, “So how many children do you have now, Mustapha?”
With a cheerful smile, Abba said, “Four.”
Aisha stepped out and returned with the food. Her mother followed her in cheerfully and greeted Alhaji Sadiq Usman, a man from Katsina. She sat and served them food while saying,
“Today at least I have seen Alhaji Sadiq K.T.”
Alhaji Sadiq looked at Abba and said,
“Friend, you mean you also talk about me all the time?”
“Very much,” Abba replied. “You know you’re not a friend one can ever forget.”
They all laughed.
Alhaji Sadiq’s Troubled Thoughts
Lying in the comfortable guest lodge in Dutse, Alhaji Sadiq was lost in deep thoughts. Without doubt, Aisha — Mustapha’s daughter — was the girl he kept seeing in his Istihara dreams; she was also the girl Malam Mamuda had described as the future mother of his children.
He remembered a discussion with Malam Mamuda, who told him that the girl destined to bear his children lived in a faraway town from Katsina, and that his Istihara showed many challenges ahead — challenges similar to what always happened to any woman he married. He knew that not everyone would ever agree to give him their daughter once they knew who he was — Alhaji Sadiq K.T.
He paced the room, thinking,
Should I tell my friend my problem? If I do, will he ever give me his daughter Aisha? What should I do now?
He performed ablution in the bathroom, removed his sleepwear, wore a jallabiya, and stood for prayer, seeking Allah’s guidance and solution. In his sleep that night, he saw the same girl sitting with two beautiful children that resembled him.
In the morning, he stepped out wearing spotless white boyel fabric, with a white cap and white slippers. His familiar elegant fragrance filled the air.
Alhaji Sadiq was a handsome, tall Katsina man with a commanding presence. His skin glowed with health and care. He headed to his friend’s house, which wasn’t far from the roadside mosque.
Aisha, wearing a long hijab, was approaching. He stopped his car and lowered the window.
“Where are you going, Aisha?”
She looked towards the car and smiled softly.
“Good morning, Uncle.”
“Good morning, Aisha. Where to?”
“I’m going to my Hadith class.”
“Where is your father?”
“He’s at home. I just heard him say he’s coming to see you.”
“Come in, let me drop you.”
“It’s not far, Uncle, and it’s inside an alley. Cars don’t enter, only bikes.”
He handed her a new ₦500 note. “Take a bike.”
“No, leave it. Abba already gave me money.”
“Just take mine too.”
She accepted. “Thank you.”
He drove off while she walked on, thinking about the money he gave them yesterday — ₦50,000. He said he couldn’t get them souvenirs, so he bought sweets instead.
Truly, Uncle is kind, she thought. Especially because of the help he offered their father. She realized having children was his deep wish.
He rode a bike toward his friend’s house but soon saw Sadiq’s car arriving. They welcomed each other happily, calling each other Friend, just like during their BUK days.
“Where were you heading?”
“To your place.”
“Well, if you had gotten there, we’d still return — I want to drink kunu.”
They laughed and entered the house. Umma had made kunun tsamiya with kosai. He ate happily.
“It’s been so long since I enjoyed something like this. I love these foods, but I don’t get them.”
“How?” Abba asked. “Your wife doesn’t prepare them for you?”
He hissed softly.
“You know our women — once they feel you have money, they relax. You must then hire a big man to be cooking for you and pay him.”
“Allah help us,” Abba said.
“Amin.”
Abba continued, “Have you ever sought religious help for your infertility? And what did the doctors say about your wife?”
Sadiq adjusted himself. He had many friends, but Mustapha was different — trustworthy, deep thinker, and his advice always beneficial. That made him finally confide in him.
“Friend, do you know something strange? Everywhere we visit for medical checks, they say Jummai cannot conceive because of her past use of birth control pills that damaged her womb. Even in Egypt, they said her uterus was tampered with due to a past abortion she had. I was shocked. But she denied it and cried, saying they framed her. And because she is my relative, I covered it up.”
Abba asked, “So why didn’t you remarry?”
He gave a faint, sorrowful smile.
“My elder friend gave me his daughter, Murja — a very beautiful and well-behaved girl. We married. Sadly, exactly two weeks later, she died during Subh prayer. After forty days, I married her younger sister. Shockingly, she also died ten days after the wedding.”
Abba gasped.
“Did they run any tests to know the cause of death?”
“Doctors found no poison, no beating, no suffocation — nothing. Months later, I met another girl during an errand. Something in her character drew me in. My family supported it. Even Jummai prepared my wedding boxes as her contribution — she also wanted me to have a child.”
He continued,
“After the wedding, I spent seven days with my bride. On the ninth day, during intimacy, she suddenly stopped moving. She was dead.”
He went silent, breathing heavily as the memory shook him.
“Wallahi, Mustapha, I cannot describe the trauma.”
Abba, shocked, said, “Subhanallah. Didn’t you seek prayers? Even though death is from Allah.”
He removed his cap and placed it aside.
“You haven’t heard anything yet,” he said.
He explained further how they went to Malam Mamuda, who described the girl destined for him — young, slender, fair-skinned, living far from Katsina. He said Sadiq would eventually have children, but challenges would occur along the way.
Sadiq narrated all his failed marriages:
Rukayya in Kano — died after eleven days.
Another — died after nine days.
Rumors spread that his wealth came from occultism, and people avoided him.
Then he narrated how, in Kaduna, he saw a girl selling groundnuts. She had the exact features described by the Malam. He followed her home, introduced himself, proposed, and married her. She, too, died after nine days.
Fear consumed him, and he vowed never to marry again. He continued living with Jummai, a wealthy woman who loved luxury and looked down on the poor.