Kneeling in the courtyard was a young girl, no more than fourteen. Sweat clung to her skin under the blistering afternoon sun. Her arms were raised above her head, each palm balancing a worn football boot.
A twitch — barely more than a flinch — sent the left boot sliding. She caught it in a panic, but in saving it, she lost the one on her right hand.
The man with the whip didn’t hesitate. The long leather lash cracked across her hands, pain exploding through her fingers. She dropped the other boot and crumpled to the ground.
He struck again. And again. And again.
She screamed, voice breaking between sobs:
> “Mama! Mama!! Mama!!!”
From inside one of the rooms, her mother pressed both hands to her face. Tears slid hot down her cheeks as she whispered desperate prayers for her child.
A Brother Steps In
Without warning, the whip was yanked away.
The man turned sharply, ready to strike whoever dared interrupt — but stopped.
Standing before him was a younger man with striking features: large eyes beneath thick brows, a straight nose, well-shaped lips, and skin the color of light chocolate, glowing in the sunlight.
This was Junaidu.
And the man with the whip — his own older brother, Ja’afar.
Junaidu had been half-asleep in his room when the noise drew him out. Now he stood, glaring, the whip hanging from his hand.
> “For God’s sake, Ja’afar — is this right? If you must punish her, do it when you’re in your senses. Look at your eyes — you’re drunk again! You could have injured her. And I swear, she’s done nothing serious. What did she do to you?”
The Accusation
Ja’afar staggered slightly, his speech slow:
> “Are you my mate?”
Junaidu didn’t rise to the bait.
> “Just tell me — what happened?”
Ja’afar jabbed a finger toward the girl.
> “I told her to clean my room. Jalila said she refused. And when I went inside, not a broom had touched it. Jalila had to leave for her exam, so I found her sweeping instead. She defied me. Even insulted Jalila. So I taught her a lesson.”
Junaidu’s gut told him the truth lay elsewhere — likely in the schemes of Umma and Jalila, who had long resented the girl.
The Buy-Off
Ja’afar reached for the whip again. Junaidu blocked him.
> “Leave it. She’ll clean tomorrow. Or Jalila will.”
Ja’afar’s eyes narrowed.
> “Give me twenty naira, and I’ll leave it.”
Junaidu sighed, handed over the money, and watched his brother stumble away.
Turning to the girl, he crouched and gently lifted her chin. Her tear-streaked face was delicate, framed by neatly tied hair.
> “Huda,” he said softly.
She glanced at him once — then bolted into her mother’s room.
Umma’s Fury
As Junaidu turned to leave, Umma appeared, Anty Zainab trailing behind.
Umma marched up to him, her voice sharp as a blade:
> “You dare side with that girl? You’re no son of mine!”
She unleashed a torrent of insults, while Anty Zainab added her own venom toward Huda’s mother. The two women disappeared into Umma’s room, leaving Junaidu in silence.
A Mother’s Worry
Inside Mama’s small room, Huda lay across her lap, sobbing.
> “Why didn’t you clean Ja’afar’s room?” Mama asked gently.
Huda sniffled.
> “Mama, Jalila lied. She swore she’d make him beat me because I wouldn’t wash her school uniform yesterday.”
Mama’s heart sank. This wasn’t the first time Jalila had set traps for Huda — and Umma always backed her.
Kaka’s Warning
Months earlier, Mama had gone to Kaka, Baba Bashir, with her concerns.
Kaka had warned Baba plainly:
> “If that girl is beaten again by Umma or Jalila, I will not forgive you.”
Fearful of his father’s anger, Baba had decreed that Huda should never be beaten or sent hawking again. Her only task was to sweep the courtyard; Jalila would handle the heavier chores.
Umma had taken the restriction as an insult. She began ordering Huda to sweep over and over, sometimes three times a day, just to spite her.
The Insult
One afternoon, Mama saw Jalila returning from school, gum snapping between her teeth.
> “Jalila,” Mama said, “why do you make Ja’afar beat Huda unfairly? She’s your sister. Live in peace with her.”
Before Jalila could reply, Umma emerged.
> “Don’t lecture my daughter! You think you’re so holy?”
Jalila stepped forward, voice sharp:
> “She’s not my sister. Go find her real family. You brought a bastard into this house.”
Mama’s palm cracked across Jalila’s cheek. Jalila, in blind rage, raised her hand to strike back — but Junaidu was suddenly there, gripping her wrist.
The Last Straw
> “Jalila,” he warned, “never speak to her like that again. Even if you don’t love her, you will respect her.”
Umma shoved him, shouting for him to release her daughter.
The commotion drew Baba to the courtyard. His eyes took in the scene — and his voice came down like thunder:
> “I warned you all. If I hear such words again, you will leave this house.”
Jalila’s mouth closed, but her eyes burned with silent promise.
That night, Mama stroked Huda’s hair as she whispered:
> “Be patient, my child. This house may be filled with those who wish you harm, but God sees all things. Keep doing what is right.”
In the shadows of the room, Huda’s tears glistened — not just from pain, but from the knowledge that her story in this house was far from over.
Description
The Girl in the Sun
Kneeling in the courtyard was a young girl, no more than fourteen. Sweat clung to her skin under the blistering afternoon sun. Her arms were raised above her head, each palm balancing a worn football boot.
A twitch — barely more than a flinch — sent the left boot sliding. She caught it in a panic, but in saving it, she lost the one on her right hand.
The man with the whip didn’t hesitate. The long leather lash cracked across her hands, pain exploding through her fingers. She dropped the other boot and crumpled to the ground.
He struck again. And again. And again.
She screamed, voice breaking between sobs:
> “Mama! Mama!! Mama!!!”
From inside one of the rooms, her mother pressed both hands to her face. Tears slid hot down her cheeks as she whispered desperate prayers for her child.
A Brother Steps In
Without warning, the whip was yanked away.
The man turned sharply, ready to strike whoever dared interrupt — but stopped.
Standing before him was a younger man with striking features: large eyes beneath thick brows, a straight nose, well-shaped lips, and skin the color of light chocolate, glowing in the sunlight.
This was Junaidu.
And the man with the whip — his own older brother, Ja’afar.
Junaidu had been half-asleep in his room when the noise drew him out. Now he stood, glaring, the whip hanging from his hand.
> “For God’s sake, Ja’afar — is this right? If you must punish her, do it when you’re in your senses. Look at your eyes — you’re drunk again! You could have injured her. And I swear, she’s done nothing serious. What did she do to you?”
The Accusation
Ja’afar staggered slightly, his speech slow:
> “Are you my mate?”
Junaidu didn’t rise to the bait.
> “Just tell me — what happened?”
Ja’afar jabbed a finger toward the girl.
> “I told her to clean my room. Jalila said she refused. And when I went inside, not a broom had touched it. Jalila had to leave for her exam, so I found her sweeping instead. She defied me. Even insulted Jalila. So I taught her a lesson.”
Junaidu’s gut told him the truth lay elsewhere — likely in the schemes of Umma and Jalila, who had long resented the girl.
The Buy-Off
Ja’afar reached for the whip again. Junaidu blocked him.
> “Leave it. She’ll clean tomorrow. Or Jalila will.”
Ja’afar’s eyes narrowed.
> “Give me twenty naira, and I’ll leave it.”
Junaidu sighed, handed over the money, and watched his brother stumble away.
Turning to the girl, he crouched and gently lifted her chin. Her tear-streaked face was delicate, framed by neatly tied hair.
> “Huda,” he said softly.
She glanced at him once — then bolted into her mother’s room.
Umma’s Fury
As Junaidu turned to leave, Umma appeared, Anty Zainab trailing behind.
Umma marched up to him, her voice sharp as a blade:
> “You dare side with that girl? You’re no son of mine!”
She unleashed a torrent of insults, while Anty Zainab added her own venom toward Huda’s mother. The two women disappeared into Umma’s room, leaving Junaidu in silence.
A Mother’s Worry
Inside Mama’s small room, Huda lay across her lap, sobbing.
> “Why didn’t you clean Ja’afar’s room?” Mama asked gently.
Huda sniffled.
> “Mama, Jalila lied. She swore she’d make him beat me because I wouldn’t wash her school uniform yesterday.”
Mama’s heart sank. This wasn’t the first time Jalila had set traps for Huda — and Umma always backed her.
Kaka’s Warning
Months earlier, Mama had gone to Kaka, Baba Bashir, with her concerns.
Kaka had warned Baba plainly:
> “If that girl is beaten again by Umma or Jalila, I will not forgive you.”
Fearful of his father’s anger, Baba had decreed that Huda should never be beaten or sent hawking again. Her only task was to sweep the courtyard; Jalila would handle the heavier chores.
Umma had taken the restriction as an insult. She began ordering Huda to sweep over and over, sometimes three times a day, just to spite her.
The Insult
One afternoon, Mama saw Jalila returning from school, gum snapping between her teeth.
> “Jalila,” Mama said, “why do you make Ja’afar beat Huda unfairly? She’s your sister. Live in peace with her.”
Before Jalila could reply, Umma emerged.
> “Don’t lecture my daughter! You think you’re so holy?”
Jalila stepped forward, voice sharp:
> “She’s not my sister. Go find her real family. You brought a bastard into this house.”
Mama’s palm cracked across Jalila’s cheek. Jalila, in blind rage, raised her hand to strike back — but Junaidu was suddenly there, gripping her wrist.
The Last Straw
> “Jalila,” he warned, “never speak to her like that again. Even if you don’t love her, you will respect her.”
Umma shoved him, shouting for him to release her daughter.
The commotion drew Baba to the courtyard. His eyes took in the scene — and his voice came down like thunder:
> “I warned you all. If I hear such words again, you will leave this house.”
Jalila’s mouth closed, but her eyes burned with silent promise.
That night, Mama stroked Huda’s hair as she whispered:
> “Be patient, my child. This house may be filled with those who wish you harm, but God sees all things. Keep doing what is right.”
In the shadows of the room, Huda’s tears glistened — not just from pain, but from the knowledge that her story in this house was far from over.