Peeking through the gate, she wanted to see if anyone was in the compound, though she knew it wasn’t likely. It was Friday, and at this hour all the men—young and old—were in the mosque where Baba Mallam taught the evening lesson. The women were inside their homes. On Thursdays and Fridays, the girls usually had time to help their parents, since on school days they only managed to eat, pray, and then rush off to Islamiyya. By the time they returned, it would already be evening prayers, then Qur’an recitation between Maghrib and Isha, followed by homework, washing uniforms, or other chores until around 10 p.m. when everyone retired to bed to avoid missing Fajr prayer and school. Nobody was allowed to be woken twice; the second time always came with a beating. That was one of the strict household rules set by BABA MALLAM and BABA SA’IDU.
Her thoughts returned as she scanned her neighborhood. It was quiet—no noise, no children outside. She spotted the door of a beautiful mosque and frowned at the sight of slippers lined outside. She already knew there was evening Qur’an class going on, which was why she didn’t dare pass directly in front of the mosque. Instead, she took a longer path to avoid those bullies inside who always tormented her.
She adjusted the black school bag slung loosely on her back, one hand gripping it while the other swung free. She was about fifteen years old, tall, slim, with striking eyes and a long face. From the way she moved her lips, you could tell she was talkative and feisty. She wore her school uniform—blue trousers with a white shirt, a white hijab, and a white headscarf. On her feet were school shoes with socks.
At first glance, anyone could tell she looked worn out: her face pale, lips dry, and her stance at the small brown gate of their house hesitant, as though debating whether to enter. She hissed loudly and muttered:
“I’m not afraid to enter this house. I am AMINA. Amina, who should I fear? I just hate noise, hate quarrels, and most of all I don’t want my sister to see me. She’s the only one I avoid—always looking for a fight.”
Scratching her head, she wondered whether to go to HANNE’s house instead.
“No, I won’t,” she answered herself quickly. “That woman will only go and report me to my sister Abida.”
Her eyes shifted to a big gate not far from theirs, attached to the mosque building, freshly painted with Arabic inscriptions:
SHEIK YUNUS ABDURRAHMAN BAZANGA MOSQUE
The surprising thing was that from outside, both their house and the mosque’s adjoining building looked identical—same paint, same design, same gates, like one big compound. The only difference was that the mosque side was bigger and more decorated, while Amina’s home lacked such luxuries. Summoning courage, she pushed open her own gate and entered.
Inside the yard was a single Sienna car, usually used to take them to school whenever the bigger bus wasn’t available. Most of the time, Aba didn’t park his car there; he usually stopped first at Baba Mallam’s side. Even her brother Ja’afar hardly parked there. Their lives revolved around Baba Mallam’s household, which had become like a pillar supporting them.
Inside the House and Hidden Tensions
She entered through a long interlocked corridor lined with four locked rooms, probably belonging to the men or guests. Another door led to the main compound where she greeted loudly, but no one answered. She saw HAMIDA at the tap, washing uniforms. Nearby was the kitchen, and on another side four bathrooms—two for bathing, two for toilet. In front of her stood four bedrooms: one belonged to Aba with a parlor, another large one for everyone before marriage, another for their mother with a parlor and bathroom, and finally the sister’s room, also spacious.
At the entrance was a large canopy giving shade, with a giant umbrella tree standing tall. The whole place was neat, the compound fully interlocked, and laundry lines heavy with uniforms. After surveying everything, she sighed in relief—her elder sister wasn’t in the yard, meaning she could sneak to her room to rest before facing the endless scolding of the household.
Her mind drifted to Zainab Isa, a classmate. Amina had lent her ₦50 earlier, planning to collect it today, but Zainab hadn’t shown up at school. After dismissal, when their driver Mallam Idi came, Amina avoided him, pretending not to see Hamida and Jawaad calling her. She slipped away, spent her leftover lunch money, and went straight to Zainab’s house. Sadly, she found it locked. A boy outside told her Zainab had traveled to Zaria with her family that morning. Furious, Amina cursed under her breath, regretting wasting her time.
Hungry, thirsty, and prayerless, she dragged herself home, too exhausted to respond even to Hamida’s questions. Hamida had stopped washing, staring at her in disbelief at her boldness.
“Where were you, Amina? We kept looking for you after school,” Hamida asked. “Don’t you fear? Aba and Yaya are always talking about you, but it seems you enjoy the trouble.”
Amina ignored her and entered. Inside their shared room, her elder sisters, ZULAIHAT and ZEENATU, stared at her with scorn.
“Where do you think you’re coming from after school?” Zulaihat snapped.
“She won’t tell you,” Zeenatu sneered. “This stubborn mule only knows beatings. Today Ja’afar and Nasir came asking about her, and we told them everything. When they catch her, she’ll learn her lesson.”
Clash with Her Sisters
Amina’s vision blurred with hunger and anger. She didn’t want to enter their room, knowing it would only lead to insults. She muttered to herself and tried heading toward her mother’s room instead.
“Beatings don’t kill,” she said under her breath. “Even if I were beaten to death, there would still be a trace of me left. I’m no coward.”
Zeinatu overheard and leapt up angrily, ready to fight. Hamida tried to intervene, suggesting Amina should explain where she had been so she could defend her before Ja’afar. But Amina snapped, dropping her bag and glaring at Hamida with her big eyes.
“Hamida, Hamida, Hamida—how many times have I called you? Three times. That means this is a serious warning. Stay out of my life. Who asked you to defend me before Ja’afar? What’s your business with me? Everyone already sees me as guilty—Aba, Yaya, all of them. The only ones who care about me are Baba Mallam, Hajiya Baba, and maybe Mama. So don’t waste your breath. I, AMINA SA’IDU GUSAU, am like a tree planted by God. Neither beatings nor curses can uproot me. If you want trouble, wait until I’ve eaten. Then you’ll see me in full force.”
She shook her waist defiantly like a wrestler preparing for a match. Zeinatu stormed out, swearing she would break Amina’s mouth. Hamida just shook her head, whispering:
“God help you, Amina. When Ja’afar gets you, you’ll regret this.”
Amina hissed, picked up her bag, and muttered:
“Let him come. If beatings could kill me, I’d have been dead long ago. Nothing new today.”
Just then, she felt a heavy blow slam into her back, knocking her forward onto her bag. Shocked, she looked back—already knowing the hand behind that unforgettable beating. It was one strike that felt like ten, the kind of blow no one could ever forget.
Description
Amina’s Hesitation at the Gate
Peeking through the gate, she wanted to see if anyone was in the compound, though she knew it wasn’t likely. It was Friday, and at this hour all the men—young and old—were in the mosque where Baba Mallam taught the evening lesson. The women were inside their homes. On Thursdays and Fridays, the girls usually had time to help their parents, since on school days they only managed to eat, pray, and then rush off to Islamiyya. By the time they returned, it would already be evening prayers, then Qur’an recitation between Maghrib and Isha, followed by homework, washing uniforms, or other chores until around 10 p.m. when everyone retired to bed to avoid missing Fajr prayer and school. Nobody was allowed to be woken twice; the second time always came with a beating. That was one of the strict household rules set by BABA MALLAM and BABA SA’IDU.
Her thoughts returned as she scanned her neighborhood. It was quiet—no noise, no children outside. She spotted the door of a beautiful mosque and frowned at the sight of slippers lined outside. She already knew there was evening Qur’an class going on, which was why she didn’t dare pass directly in front of the mosque. Instead, she took a longer path to avoid those bullies inside who always tormented her.
She adjusted the black school bag slung loosely on her back, one hand gripping it while the other swung free. She was about fifteen years old, tall, slim, with striking eyes and a long face. From the way she moved her lips, you could tell she was talkative and feisty. She wore her school uniform—blue trousers with a white shirt, a white hijab, and a white headscarf. On her feet were school shoes with socks.
At first glance, anyone could tell she looked worn out: her face pale, lips dry, and her stance at the small brown gate of their house hesitant, as though debating whether to enter. She hissed loudly and muttered:
“I’m not afraid to enter this house. I am AMINA. Amina, who should I fear? I just hate noise, hate quarrels, and most of all I don’t want my sister to see me. She’s the only one I avoid—always looking for a fight.”
Scratching her head, she wondered whether to go to HANNE’s house instead.
“No, I won’t,” she answered herself quickly. “That woman will only go and report me to my sister Abida.”
Her eyes shifted to a big gate not far from theirs, attached to the mosque building, freshly painted with Arabic inscriptions:
SHEIK YUNUS ABDURRAHMAN BAZANGA MOSQUE
The surprising thing was that from outside, both their house and the mosque’s adjoining building looked identical—same paint, same design, same gates, like one big compound. The only difference was that the mosque side was bigger and more decorated, while Amina’s home lacked such luxuries. Summoning courage, she pushed open her own gate and entered.
Inside the yard was a single Sienna car, usually used to take them to school whenever the bigger bus wasn’t available. Most of the time, Aba didn’t park his car there; he usually stopped first at Baba Mallam’s side. Even her brother Ja’afar hardly parked there. Their lives revolved around Baba Mallam’s household, which had become like a pillar supporting them.
Inside the House and Hidden Tensions
She entered through a long interlocked corridor lined with four locked rooms, probably belonging to the men or guests. Another door led to the main compound where she greeted loudly, but no one answered. She saw HAMIDA at the tap, washing uniforms. Nearby was the kitchen, and on another side four bathrooms—two for bathing, two for toilet. In front of her stood four bedrooms: one belonged to Aba with a parlor, another large one for everyone before marriage, another for their mother with a parlor and bathroom, and finally the sister’s room, also spacious.
At the entrance was a large canopy giving shade, with a giant umbrella tree standing tall. The whole place was neat, the compound fully interlocked, and laundry lines heavy with uniforms. After surveying everything, she sighed in relief—her elder sister wasn’t in the yard, meaning she could sneak to her room to rest before facing the endless scolding of the household.
Her mind drifted to Zainab Isa, a classmate. Amina had lent her ₦50 earlier, planning to collect it today, but Zainab hadn’t shown up at school. After dismissal, when their driver Mallam Idi came, Amina avoided him, pretending not to see Hamida and Jawaad calling her. She slipped away, spent her leftover lunch money, and went straight to Zainab’s house. Sadly, she found it locked. A boy outside told her Zainab had traveled to Zaria with her family that morning. Furious, Amina cursed under her breath, regretting wasting her time.
Hungry, thirsty, and prayerless, she dragged herself home, too exhausted to respond even to Hamida’s questions. Hamida had stopped washing, staring at her in disbelief at her boldness.
“Where were you, Amina? We kept looking for you after school,” Hamida asked. “Don’t you fear? Aba and Yaya are always talking about you, but it seems you enjoy the trouble.”
Amina ignored her and entered. Inside their shared room, her elder sisters, ZULAIHAT and ZEENATU, stared at her with scorn.
“Where do you think you’re coming from after school?” Zulaihat snapped.
“She won’t tell you,” Zeenatu sneered. “This stubborn mule only knows beatings. Today Ja’afar and Nasir came asking about her, and we told them everything. When they catch her, she’ll learn her lesson.”
Clash with Her Sisters
Amina’s vision blurred with hunger and anger. She didn’t want to enter their room, knowing it would only lead to insults. She muttered to herself and tried heading toward her mother’s room instead.
“Beatings don’t kill,” she said under her breath. “Even if I were beaten to death, there would still be a trace of me left. I’m no coward.”
Zeinatu overheard and leapt up angrily, ready to fight. Hamida tried to intervene, suggesting Amina should explain where she had been so she could defend her before Ja’afar. But Amina snapped, dropping her bag and glaring at Hamida with her big eyes.
“Hamida, Hamida, Hamida—how many times have I called you? Three times. That means this is a serious warning. Stay out of my life. Who asked you to defend me before Ja’afar? What’s your business with me? Everyone already sees me as guilty—Aba, Yaya, all of them. The only ones who care about me are Baba Mallam, Hajiya Baba, and maybe Mama. So don’t waste your breath. I, AMINA SA’IDU GUSAU, am like a tree planted by God. Neither beatings nor curses can uproot me. If you want trouble, wait until I’ve eaten. Then you’ll see me in full force.”
She shook her waist defiantly like a wrestler preparing for a match. Zeinatu stormed out, swearing she would break Amina’s mouth. Hamida just shook her head, whispering:
“God help you, Amina. When Ja’afar gets you, you’ll regret this.”
Amina hissed, picked up her bag, and muttered:
“Let him come. If beatings could kill me, I’d have been dead long ago. Nothing new today.”
Just then, she felt a heavy blow slam into her back, knocking her forward onto her bag. Shocked, she looked back—already knowing the hand behind that unforgettable beating. It was one strike that felt like ten, the kind of blow no one could ever forget.