Baban Ali (Engineer Bashir Ahmad) called me by my real name—something he had never done even at the peak of his disrespect when he married Amira. Back then, he always called me “Ma’una”, whether in public or private, no matter how cold or stern he was. Sometimes, in his shy moments, he even called me “Husna.”
“ASMA’U! ASMA’U! ASMA’U! How many times have I called your name?” he shouted.
Before he could finish, I cut him short:
“Three times, ENGINEER BASHIR AHMAD.”
Because I am not one to stay quiet. Maybe age has softened me, but when pushed, the Ma’u he knew sixteen years ago will resurface—not just Asma’u, mother of Aliyu, Jafar, Farida, Abdallah, Ahmad, and Muhammad.
I straightened up and stared at him, watching the disbelief on his face as I called his full name. He shook his head, visibly battling with his conscience. Part of him wanted to insist, the other part warning him I could resist—and if he backed down, I might despise him, but if he pushed further, he’d only be granting me power.
And then there was Amira. If he failed now, she would think Asma’u had triumphed over both of them.
So, he hardened his face—already naturally stern—and fixed me with the same intimidating glare that silenced many people, though not me. In a harsh voice, he declared:
“For the last time, ASMA’U, I command you to resign from your job, pack up, and move with the children back to Gombe…”
I quickly cut him off:
“I told you, I will not leave my job or return to Gombe simply because you are bringing your wife to Lagos.”
“Then choose—your marriage or your job,” he barked, his voice sharp with anger.
Inside, I marveled at his audacity. Today, I had decided to face him without fear, so I said:
“If it is because of your wife you want me to quit my work, then I choose my job, Bashir.”
“You said that?”
“Yes.”
“Then go—I DIVORCE YOU, ONE. If you like, stay with your work.”
A shiver ran through me. That word—divorce—was the most bitter sound I had ever heard in my entire life. This day became the darkest in my history.
“Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un, Bashir, are you serious?” I asked in a broken voice.
“Oh, you don’t believe me? Then I’ll give you another—TWO. Not that I cannot complete the three, but let me leave you with one chance. Enjoy your job,” he spat, storming out.
My strength failed me; I collapsed backward onto the bed. If not for God’s mercy, I might have fallen to the floor and never stood again.
“Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un. Allahumma ajirni fi musibati wa akhlifni khairan minha,” I found myself reciting, as my breath grew shallow. My hands fumbled desperately for my inhaler in my handbag. Only after long pulls did my breathing calm, though my mind remained locked in shock.
Tears refused to fall. What was the point of crying? Would it change anything?
Me, Asma’u—divorced by Bashir? I had only dreamt such a thing, but here it was, reality.
As I lay there stunned, the door opened. It wasn’t the children; they were still in school. Bashir returned, his voice cold as steel:
“Why are you still lying there? By tomorrow, Amira will need her clothes ready for the weekend. I’ve given you until the end of today to pack your things and leave for Gombe. That’s final.”
His words struck harder than venom. Then he turned and walked away.
Somehow, I pulled myself up, slipped on my hijab, and thought: I must find somewhere to lay my head before this day ends.
Since Bashir could cast me out, abandoning me on the streets, then surely I could at least seek a roof. Across from our flat stood another apartment, recently vacated by one of Bashir’s colleagues. I knew it was empty.
But instead, I turned to the next house—where Bashir’s boss, whom I called “Baba” (because he shared my father’s name), lived. I rang the bell. His second wife answered, and I entered, finding him in the sitting room watching the news.
“Hajia Ma’un Bashir,” he teased me, as everyone in the estate did. Only a few knew me as “Maman Aliyu.”
“What happened?” he asked, noticing the distress on my face.
I hadn’t cried yet, but the panic was written all over me. I dropped to my knees before him:
“Baba, please give me the flat opposite. Let me rent it. I need somewhere tonight.”
“I don’t understand. What happened to your house? Where is Bashir?” he asked, firing questions at me.
With difficulty, I whispered:
“Baba… Bashir DIVORCED me. Twice. And he said I must pack and leave today.”
The words broke me, and I finally burst into tears. Baba and his wife were struck with shock, raining exclamations and prayers.
“Asma’u, he divorced you? What did you do to him?” they asked.
Description
“ASMA’U”
Baban Ali (Engineer Bashir Ahmad) called me by my real name—something he had never done even at the peak of his disrespect when he married Amira. Back then, he always called me “Ma’una”, whether in public or private, no matter how cold or stern he was. Sometimes, in his shy moments, he even called me “Husna.”
“ASMA’U! ASMA’U! ASMA’U! How many times have I called your name?” he shouted.
Before he could finish, I cut him short:
“Three times, ENGINEER BASHIR AHMAD.”
Because I am not one to stay quiet. Maybe age has softened me, but when pushed, the Ma’u he knew sixteen years ago will resurface—not just Asma’u, mother of Aliyu, Jafar, Farida, Abdallah, Ahmad, and Muhammad.
I straightened up and stared at him, watching the disbelief on his face as I called his full name. He shook his head, visibly battling with his conscience. Part of him wanted to insist, the other part warning him I could resist—and if he backed down, I might despise him, but if he pushed further, he’d only be granting me power.
And then there was Amira. If he failed now, she would think Asma’u had triumphed over both of them.
So, he hardened his face—already naturally stern—and fixed me with the same intimidating glare that silenced many people, though not me. In a harsh voice, he declared:
“For the last time, ASMA’U, I command you to resign from your job, pack up, and move with the children back to Gombe…”
I quickly cut him off:
“I told you, I will not leave my job or return to Gombe simply because you are bringing your wife to Lagos.”
“Then choose—your marriage or your job,” he barked, his voice sharp with anger.
Inside, I marveled at his audacity. Today, I had decided to face him without fear, so I said:
“If it is because of your wife you want me to quit my work, then I choose my job, Bashir.”
“You said that?”
“Yes.”
“Then go—I DIVORCE YOU, ONE. If you like, stay with your work.”
A shiver ran through me. That word—divorce—was the most bitter sound I had ever heard in my entire life. This day became the darkest in my history.
“Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un, Bashir, are you serious?” I asked in a broken voice.
“Oh, you don’t believe me? Then I’ll give you another—TWO. Not that I cannot complete the three, but let me leave you with one chance. Enjoy your job,” he spat, storming out.
My strength failed me; I collapsed backward onto the bed. If not for God’s mercy, I might have fallen to the floor and never stood again.
“Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un. Allahumma ajirni fi musibati wa akhlifni khairan minha,” I found myself reciting, as my breath grew shallow. My hands fumbled desperately for my inhaler in my handbag. Only after long pulls did my breathing calm, though my mind remained locked in shock.
Tears refused to fall. What was the point of crying? Would it change anything?
Me, Asma’u—divorced by Bashir? I had only dreamt such a thing, but here it was, reality.
As I lay there stunned, the door opened. It wasn’t the children; they were still in school. Bashir returned, his voice cold as steel:
“Why are you still lying there? By tomorrow, Amira will need her clothes ready for the weekend. I’ve given you until the end of today to pack your things and leave for Gombe. That’s final.”
His words struck harder than venom. Then he turned and walked away.
Somehow, I pulled myself up, slipped on my hijab, and thought: I must find somewhere to lay my head before this day ends.
Since Bashir could cast me out, abandoning me on the streets, then surely I could at least seek a roof. Across from our flat stood another apartment, recently vacated by one of Bashir’s colleagues. I knew it was empty.
But instead, I turned to the next house—where Bashir’s boss, whom I called “Baba” (because he shared my father’s name), lived. I rang the bell. His second wife answered, and I entered, finding him in the sitting room watching the news.
“Hajia Ma’un Bashir,” he teased me, as everyone in the estate did. Only a few knew me as “Maman Aliyu.”
“What happened?” he asked, noticing the distress on my face.
I hadn’t cried yet, but the panic was written all over me. I dropped to my knees before him:
“Baba, please give me the flat opposite. Let me rent it. I need somewhere tonight.”
“I don’t understand. What happened to your house? Where is Bashir?” he asked, firing questions at me.
With difficulty, I whispered:
“Baba… Bashir DIVORCED me. Twice. And he said I must pack and leave today.”
The words broke me, and I finally burst into tears. Baba and his wife were struck with shock, raining exclamations and prayers.
“Asma’u, he divorced you? What did you do to him?” they asked.