With great difficulty, Umma closed her eyes and whispered, “Innalillahi wa inna ilaihirraji’un…” as tears rolled down her cheeks. Abba, holding back his emotions though his head felt heavy, burst out, “What on earth did you do to him that he divorced you?”
I could not answer, only held tightly to Mami’s hand, trembling all over.
Umma, in a weak and broken voice, said, “You see Fateemah, what I kept warning you about? This stubbornness and pampering isn’t a path that leads anywhere good. Look at what it has brought us now. It wouldn’t be surprising if she never even took her virginity into her husband’s home.”
Mami, angry, retorted, “Your assumption is wrong! He himself wrote that he didn’t impose any waiting period on her. If so, how could he even know whether she is a virgin or not? This is just the cruelty of ungrateful men!”
Abba grabbed the divorce paper from Mami’s hand. His eyes scanned the short writing that pierced his heart with sorrow. He shut his eyes in pain, wondering if this was really the justice Ustaz Ahmad gave him. Despite Aysha’s young age, he pulled her from school and married her to him, and now—just after starting their life together—he divorced her?
Looking at me with red eyes, Abba asked, “So, what did you do to him Aysha? I will not accept mere words, even if my whole body were ears.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, bitterness filling me. Ahmad had caused my parents so much pain. Umma and Mami were crying openly, Abba’s eyes filled but the tears would not fall, though his lips trembled. “Wallahi Abba, I did nothing to him. Call him, ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”
Abba replied firmly, “Calling him is a must!” He rose and left the parlor, phone in hand, his face stiff with anger. Umma followed him quietly, her heart heavy with grief.
Mami comforted me, “Wipe your tears Aysha. I know you did nothing wrong. This is only arrogance and pride, nothing more. Sleep now, you didn’t rest properly last night. I’ll go deal with those gossipers outside.”
She left with a forced smile, biting her lip in frustration. Alone, I wiped my tears and cursed Ahmad in my heart. Sleep never came, only memories of my life and how meeting Ahmad had become a bitter destiny that I wished I could erase forever.
The Story of My Parents
My father’s name is Alhaji Imam Khalil, though his real name is Abdurrahman. He was called Imam after his grandfather. He and his younger sister, Dije (whom we call Umma Dije), grew up in the loving care of their scholar father. Being raised by such a father, they were well-disciplined, respected, and admired wherever they went.
At age 23, my father married my mother, Sa’adatu—his cousin—through a bond of true love. Their marriage was celebrated with joy, and they built a life of mutual respect and pure affection.
Their first child was Yaya Muhammad, followed by Yaya Sadik, Yaya Umar, and Yaya Usman. After Usman’s birth, Abba married another wife—Fateema, my Mami—who was a Fulani from Yola. My father’s family, however, were Fulani from Potiskum.
Though jealousy existed at first, Umma accepted Mami as her sister and co-wife. A year later, Umma gave birth to Yaya Ali, and not long after, to Yaya Hamza. When Hamza was just three months old, he died. Out of compassion, Umma promised to give her next child to Mami to raise, since doctors had confirmed that Mami could not conceive.
When Umma gave birth to a girl (me), she remembered her promise. Despite regretting it in her heart, she handed me over to Mami, declaring, “I give her to you, Fateema, in this world and the Hereafter.” Mami wept with joy, naming me Nana Ayshatu, a name she had always loved.
My Childhood and Upbringing
I grew up spoiled under Mami’s care. She never scolded me, always defending me even when I misbehaved. While Umma tried to discipline me with advice and warnings, she eventually gave up, praying for me instead.
Mami pampered me with beautiful clothes and hairstyles, and I became known for my Fulani features and long hair. Everyone admired me wherever I went.
At ten, I had already memorized the Qur’an. At eleven, I was in junior secondary school.
But when I turned twelve, my life changed drastically. One morning, Mami gathered all my childhood clothes and gave them away. She bought me elegant fabrics, hijabs, and niqabs. From that day, she dressed me in full covering, saying, “Aysha will not marry until she finishes her Masters. I don’t even want her face seen in public.”
Though I longed for freedom, I also loved the elegance of my new attire. It marked the beginning of my journey into womanhood—though little did I know, that same journey would later entangle me with Ahmad, leading to the pain I now carry.
Description
Painful Divorce and Family’s Shock
With great difficulty, Umma closed her eyes and whispered, “Innalillahi wa inna ilaihirraji’un…” as tears rolled down her cheeks. Abba, holding back his emotions though his head felt heavy, burst out, “What on earth did you do to him that he divorced you?”
I could not answer, only held tightly to Mami’s hand, trembling all over.
Umma, in a weak and broken voice, said, “You see Fateemah, what I kept warning you about? This stubbornness and pampering isn’t a path that leads anywhere good. Look at what it has brought us now. It wouldn’t be surprising if she never even took her virginity into her husband’s home.”
Mami, angry, retorted, “Your assumption is wrong! He himself wrote that he didn’t impose any waiting period on her. If so, how could he even know whether she is a virgin or not? This is just the cruelty of ungrateful men!”
Abba grabbed the divorce paper from Mami’s hand. His eyes scanned the short writing that pierced his heart with sorrow. He shut his eyes in pain, wondering if this was really the justice Ustaz Ahmad gave him. Despite Aysha’s young age, he pulled her from school and married her to him, and now—just after starting their life together—he divorced her?
Looking at me with red eyes, Abba asked, “So, what did you do to him Aysha? I will not accept mere words, even if my whole body were ears.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, bitterness filling me. Ahmad had caused my parents so much pain. Umma and Mami were crying openly, Abba’s eyes filled but the tears would not fall, though his lips trembled. “Wallahi Abba, I did nothing to him. Call him, ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”
Abba replied firmly, “Calling him is a must!” He rose and left the parlor, phone in hand, his face stiff with anger. Umma followed him quietly, her heart heavy with grief.
Mami comforted me, “Wipe your tears Aysha. I know you did nothing wrong. This is only arrogance and pride, nothing more. Sleep now, you didn’t rest properly last night. I’ll go deal with those gossipers outside.”
She left with a forced smile, biting her lip in frustration. Alone, I wiped my tears and cursed Ahmad in my heart. Sleep never came, only memories of my life and how meeting Ahmad had become a bitter destiny that I wished I could erase forever.
The Story of My Parents
My father’s name is Alhaji Imam Khalil, though his real name is Abdurrahman. He was called Imam after his grandfather. He and his younger sister, Dije (whom we call Umma Dije), grew up in the loving care of their scholar father. Being raised by such a father, they were well-disciplined, respected, and admired wherever they went.
At age 23, my father married my mother, Sa’adatu—his cousin—through a bond of true love. Their marriage was celebrated with joy, and they built a life of mutual respect and pure affection.
Their first child was Yaya Muhammad, followed by Yaya Sadik, Yaya Umar, and Yaya Usman. After Usman’s birth, Abba married another wife—Fateema, my Mami—who was a Fulani from Yola. My father’s family, however, were Fulani from Potiskum.
Though jealousy existed at first, Umma accepted Mami as her sister and co-wife. A year later, Umma gave birth to Yaya Ali, and not long after, to Yaya Hamza. When Hamza was just three months old, he died. Out of compassion, Umma promised to give her next child to Mami to raise, since doctors had confirmed that Mami could not conceive.
When Umma gave birth to a girl (me), she remembered her promise. Despite regretting it in her heart, she handed me over to Mami, declaring, “I give her to you, Fateema, in this world and the Hereafter.” Mami wept with joy, naming me Nana Ayshatu, a name she had always loved.
My Childhood and Upbringing
I grew up spoiled under Mami’s care. She never scolded me, always defending me even when I misbehaved. While Umma tried to discipline me with advice and warnings, she eventually gave up, praying for me instead.
Mami pampered me with beautiful clothes and hairstyles, and I became known for my Fulani features and long hair. Everyone admired me wherever I went.
At ten, I had already memorized the Qur’an. At eleven, I was in junior secondary school.
But when I turned twelve, my life changed drastically. One morning, Mami gathered all my childhood clothes and gave them away. She bought me elegant fabrics, hijabs, and niqabs. From that day, she dressed me in full covering, saying, “Aysha will not marry until she finishes her Masters. I don’t even want her face seen in public.”
Though I longed for freedom, I also loved the elegance of my new attire. It marked the beginning of my journey into womanhood—though little did I know, that same journey would later entangle me with Ahmad, leading to the pain I now carry.