The word she spoke to me struck like a clap of thunder; my body suddenly went cold. I stood up from in front of the mirror and returned to the bed, sitting in deep emotional pain. I felt as if my seat could no longer hold me, so I leaned back and closed my eyes. Despite all my effort to hold back my tears, it was no use—they slipped down the side of my face. From my left eye, the tears even slid down the bridge of my nose.
He gave a slight smile, for his only joy seemed to be seeing Hafsat in distress, despite the love he had for her. Whenever he remembered how she had stood and told him she was a prostitute, he felt like burying his head in shame.
He looked at me.
“Get up, you’re just lying there,” he said.
I sighed and, in a soft voice, replied, “If I had known we were going to a beauty contest, I wouldn’t have wasted my time preparing for this trip. Go and give the award you’ve prepared; I surrender.”
He was silent for a while, perhaps weighing my words, before he finally walked out, saying, “When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting in the car—if I’m still allowed to give orders.”
I didn’t want to get up, but I had no choice. I returned to the mirror. I wore a black jallabiya with red stripes, its short sleeves also red. I covered myself with a matching scarf, and my shoes and purse were all red as well. I sprayed on perfume, looked at the mirror, and smiled slightly at my appearance—I looked beautiful, even if my heart still ached from his earlier words.
I went to the driver’s side where he was seated and, in a calm voice, said, “Let me greet Gwagwal and the others.”
He looked at me and our eyes met briefly before I quickly turned away, folding my arms across my chest.
“Go on then, why are you standing there making noise?” he said.
“I was just waiting for your permission,” I replied.
I went to greet everyone, telling them I’d be back, and they were happy to hear I was visiting Fadima. I could tell they wanted their sister to be respected. When I came back, I got into the front seat as he opened the door for me.
We arrived at a beautiful, spacious house with lovely flowers. I followed him inside to a well-decorated living room. A large framed photo of the two of them leaned against the wall—it looked almost like they were of Arab or Indian descent.
“Sit down, let me call her,” he said before walking away, calling out, “Sweety…”
Jealousy made me want to cover my ears. I sank into the grey leather couch, looking around. Many things there were unfamiliar to me; I’d never seen them before. My gaze finally rested on a huge TV showing Indian dancers. It wasn’t the dancing that caught me—it was pure bitterness burning inside me.
I told myself to be patient—one day, my time would come.
They came in holding hands, looking so alike that my chest tightened with an urge to strike them. Another thought whispered, Get up and strangle her.
“A’uzubillahi minash shaitanir rajim,” I recited three times, then prayed silently for patience and strength.
As they reached me, I stood, my heart suddenly light, smiling warmly—smiles I didn’t even know I could still make. I extended my hand.
“May Allah’s peace, mercy, and blessings be upon you,” I greeted.
She shook my hand and replied with the same greeting.
We sat down, and she said, “I always wish you’d visit so we can greet each other.”
“Well, here I am today,” I said.
She went towards the kitchen while he picked up the remote and flipped channels before going into his room. She returned with a cup and juice box, setting them on a stool before me. I sipped slowly while watching TV, but the juice quickly lost its sweetness and tasted bitter, so I put it down.
About ten minutes later, she came back, and so did he. She went to her room, and he approached me. I glanced at the wall clock, which had their picture on it, and said, “Since we’ve exchanged greetings, I’ll be heading home.”
“This is home too,” he replied.
Their maid began setting the dining table. Fadima came out, saying, “Honey, come eat.”
He looked at me. “Come, let’s eat.”
“I’ve already eaten,” I said.
“Oh no, you must eat,” she insisted.
We sat together. She asked if she should serve us; I said I didn’t know their style, so he served her and himself. Then he told me to serve myself. He winked at her, and she playfully hit him, which he caught and kissed in the center of her hand. She squealed, and I turned away, my phone ringing in my purse.
I stepped aside to answer—it was my brother Umar. He told me our mother (Inna) was at his house and wanted to speak to me before leaving. She advised me:
“Hafsatu, stay in your home, be patient no matter what, and protect your dignity. God has blessed you with an honorable husband—cover his faults and yours.”
I broke into tears, forgetting where I was. Memories of my late mother’s pleas to guard my honor flooded back. I promised her I’d never leave Abubakar’s home except through death.
Abubakar had been watching me. After my call ended, he said sarcastically, “You just hate hearing the truth—that’s why you’re crying. Do whatever you want.”
I fell silent while he returned to Fadima. They chatted in Fulfulde, laughing, while I leaned back and closed my eyes, wondering how I ended up with such misfortune among so many brides.
By Asr prayer time, he went to the mosque, and she went to her room without a glance at me. I asked their maid where I could make ablution, found the tap outside, prayed, and returned.
Later, she dressed beautifully in green with red accents, smelling of bridal perfume. Abubakar told her the house was also mine now and that she should guide me around, but she frowned and replied in Fulfulde. I tried to calm the situation, and we eventually left.
We stopped at Hashim’s house, then went to his parents’. His mother’s warmth contrasted with his sister Rukayya’s indifference. Their grandmother (Daada) insisted we sit, and his father advised me to be patient, obedient, and respectful to the family.
On the way home, we stopped at a supermarket. He carried two shopping bags to my room. I saw they were full of sweets, told him to share since they were many, but he said he knew better.
Five days later, around 9 PM, he told me to prepare—we’d be leaving for Kano in the morning. I was overjoyed, thanking God that I could finally resume my studies.
Description
The word she spoke to me struck like a clap of thunder; my body suddenly went cold. I stood up from in front of the mirror and returned to the bed, sitting in deep emotional pain. I felt as if my seat could no longer hold me, so I leaned back and closed my eyes. Despite all my effort to hold back my tears, it was no use—they slipped down the side of my face. From my left eye, the tears even slid down the bridge of my nose.
He gave a slight smile, for his only joy seemed to be seeing Hafsat in distress, despite the love he had for her. Whenever he remembered how she had stood and told him she was a prostitute, he felt like burying his head in shame.
He looked at me.
“Get up, you’re just lying there,” he said.
I sighed and, in a soft voice, replied, “If I had known we were going to a beauty contest, I wouldn’t have wasted my time preparing for this trip. Go and give the award you’ve prepared; I surrender.”
He was silent for a while, perhaps weighing my words, before he finally walked out, saying, “When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting in the car—if I’m still allowed to give orders.”
I didn’t want to get up, but I had no choice. I returned to the mirror. I wore a black jallabiya with red stripes, its short sleeves also red. I covered myself with a matching scarf, and my shoes and purse were all red as well. I sprayed on perfume, looked at the mirror, and smiled slightly at my appearance—I looked beautiful, even if my heart still ached from his earlier words.
I went to the driver’s side where he was seated and, in a calm voice, said, “Let me greet Gwagwal and the others.”
He looked at me and our eyes met briefly before I quickly turned away, folding my arms across my chest.
“Go on then, why are you standing there making noise?” he said.
“I was just waiting for your permission,” I replied.
I went to greet everyone, telling them I’d be back, and they were happy to hear I was visiting Fadima. I could tell they wanted their sister to be respected. When I came back, I got into the front seat as he opened the door for me.
We arrived at a beautiful, spacious house with lovely flowers. I followed him inside to a well-decorated living room. A large framed photo of the two of them leaned against the wall—it looked almost like they were of Arab or Indian descent.
“Sit down, let me call her,” he said before walking away, calling out, “Sweety…”
Jealousy made me want to cover my ears. I sank into the grey leather couch, looking around. Many things there were unfamiliar to me; I’d never seen them before. My gaze finally rested on a huge TV showing Indian dancers. It wasn’t the dancing that caught me—it was pure bitterness burning inside me.
I told myself to be patient—one day, my time would come.
They came in holding hands, looking so alike that my chest tightened with an urge to strike them. Another thought whispered, Get up and strangle her.
“A’uzubillahi minash shaitanir rajim,” I recited three times, then prayed silently for patience and strength.
As they reached me, I stood, my heart suddenly light, smiling warmly—smiles I didn’t even know I could still make. I extended my hand.
“May Allah’s peace, mercy, and blessings be upon you,” I greeted.
She shook my hand and replied with the same greeting.
We sat down, and she said, “I always wish you’d visit so we can greet each other.”
“Well, here I am today,” I said.
She went towards the kitchen while he picked up the remote and flipped channels before going into his room. She returned with a cup and juice box, setting them on a stool before me. I sipped slowly while watching TV, but the juice quickly lost its sweetness and tasted bitter, so I put it down.
About ten minutes later, she came back, and so did he. She went to her room, and he approached me. I glanced at the wall clock, which had their picture on it, and said, “Since we’ve exchanged greetings, I’ll be heading home.”
“This is home too,” he replied.
Their maid began setting the dining table. Fadima came out, saying, “Honey, come eat.”
He looked at me. “Come, let’s eat.”
“I’ve already eaten,” I said.
“Oh no, you must eat,” she insisted.
We sat together. She asked if she should serve us; I said I didn’t know their style, so he served her and himself. Then he told me to serve myself. He winked at her, and she playfully hit him, which he caught and kissed in the center of her hand. She squealed, and I turned away, my phone ringing in my purse.
I stepped aside to answer—it was my brother Umar. He told me our mother (Inna) was at his house and wanted to speak to me before leaving. She advised me:
“Hafsatu, stay in your home, be patient no matter what, and protect your dignity. God has blessed you with an honorable husband—cover his faults and yours.”
I broke into tears, forgetting where I was. Memories of my late mother’s pleas to guard my honor flooded back. I promised her I’d never leave Abubakar’s home except through death.
Abubakar had been watching me. After my call ended, he said sarcastically, “You just hate hearing the truth—that’s why you’re crying. Do whatever you want.”
I fell silent while he returned to Fadima. They chatted in Fulfulde, laughing, while I leaned back and closed my eyes, wondering how I ended up with such misfortune among so many brides.
By Asr prayer time, he went to the mosque, and she went to her room without a glance at me. I asked their maid where I could make ablution, found the tap outside, prayed, and returned.
Later, she dressed beautifully in green with red accents, smelling of bridal perfume. Abubakar told her the house was also mine now and that she should guide me around, but she frowned and replied in Fulfulde. I tried to calm the situation, and we eventually left.
We stopped at Hashim’s house, then went to his parents’. His mother’s warmth contrasted with his sister Rukayya’s indifference. Their grandmother (Daada) insisted we sit, and his father advised me to be patient, obedient, and respectful to the family.
On the way home, we stopped at a supermarket. He carried two shopping bags to my room. I saw they were full of sweets, told him to share since they were many, but he said he knew better.
Five days later, around 9 PM, he told me to prepare—we’d be leaving for Kano in the morning. I was overjoyed, thanking God that I could finally resume my studies.