Right from the moment you approach the corner of the house, you can already hear the pounding sounds of pestles and the joyful shouts of women singing in excitement. Some even blow whistles while laughing and pounding corn or millet meant for making tuwo.
I stepped into the compound to see for myself what was happening. About ten women were divided into groups, each pounding in large wooden mortars — at least four in total. Under the shade of a dalbejiya tree, a few elderly women sat chatting while one of them was busy selling something. Another woman nearby was fanning a fire under two paint buckets, while her companion stirred something in a pot that looked like noodles, sweating heavily from the heat. Children, covered in dust, played joyfully around them.
Anyone who doesn’t know Babban Gida in the town of Dilau might swear this was a celebration — a wedding or naming ceremony — but it was not. All the people you could see were residents of the compound. The men of the house were away in the city working for money, while only a few were at local gatherings with other men of the village. Most of the children had been sent on errands or to help with chores.
To understand the relationship between everyone in this household is not easy. They are all related — cousins, siblings, in-laws, and even grandchildren who have also married and multiplied.
One of the household members is Malam Buhari, who lives there with his three wives and ten children. His first wife, Yalwa, often called Baba Yalwa, has five children — three boys and two girls. The sons are married, and their wives also live in the compound. The second wife, Dahara, had four children, but only one — Ummukulsoom — survived, as the others died shortly after birth. Dahara herself died during childbirth when Ummu was three years old. The third wife, Asabe, has four children — three girls and one boy, the youngest.
Malam Buhari’s trade is weaving mats and mafitai (Fulani sleeping mats), which earned him the nickname Mai Kaba. Almost everyone in the house used to do the same work, though many have stopped, leaving only a few women still weaving. Malam Buhari himself is devoted to it; he often takes his goods to Kaduna or Zaria to sell, or sometimes sends them through his sister Laraba, who lives there. Through this craft, and through farming during the rainy season, he sustains his large family.
One afternoon, about seven young girls, likely aged fifteen or so, entered the compound together carrying paint buckets full of water. The women pounding greeted them warmly as they passed, and each girl headed to her section. Baba Yalwa, sweating beside the cooking fire, covered her pot of noodles to sell and said,
“Hadiza, where did you leave your mother?”
Hadiza, frowning as she dropped her bucket, replied, “Baba Yalwa, she’s at the back. That crazy boyfriend of hers, Basiru, stopped her, saying he’s leaving for school.”
Baba Yalwa twisted her lips. “Ah, that girl! Maybe he’s the one spoiling her, that’s why they cling to each other like glue.”
The women burst into laughter, even the daughters-in-law joined in. Before anyone could say more, Ummu entered the compound and greeted them. As if on cue, all eyes turned to her, trying to see any sign of what Baba Yalwa had mentioned.
Ummu felt humiliated. Quietly, she went toward Baba Yalwa at the fireplace.
“So you’ve finished your shamelessness now?” Baba Yalwa said sharply.
Shocked, Ummu looked up, her eyes already filling with tears. “Shamelessness, Baba?”
“Oh, so you’re questioning me now?”
Ummu slowly shook her head, signaling no.
“Take this water to Hanne,” Baba Yalwa snapped. “She swore I was the one cooking the noodles since you were busy with that boy. If you knew you’d be fooling around, you wouldn’t have promised to fetch my water. That boy’s done with you; he’s found a better girl in the city.”
Rashida, who was stirring kunun tsamiya to sell, interjected, “Baba Yalwa, that talk doesn’t hold. Since his parents rejected the marriage, maybe they just want peace.”
Baba Yalwa scoffed, placing her pot down. “His eyes are blind! He doesn’t realize she’s from a poor family. We’ll see how it ends.”
The women laughed again, throwing more harsh words at Ummu. She said nothing, carried the water to Hanne’s room, poured it out, and left. She returned to her section, took off her soaked hijab, her heart burning with pain and pity for herself.
Truly, many orphans face harder lives than hers. Losing a mother is a deep wound no one can truly heal. But one cannot challenge Allah’s decree. After her mother’s death, Ummukulsoom was raised by her grandmother, Innayo, Malam Buhari’s mother.
Ummukulsoom’s Childhood and Suffering
As mentioned earlier, Ummukulsoom’s mother — the second wife — died when Ummu was three years old. She had previously lost four children before Ummu. Her death during childbirth left Ummu as a full orphan. Her grandmother Innayo then took her in and spoiled her with affection. Innayo couldn’t stand hearing Ummu cry; if she did, everyone in the house felt her anger — even Malam Buhari’s other wives and children.
Because of this special treatment, everyone in the house began to resent Ummu. Even Malam Buhari noticed and was troubled by it, as his wives often complained that his mother favored Ummu over their own children. Whenever he tried to talk to his mother about it, she’d get angry, forcing him to apologize to keep the peace.
Unfortunately, when Ummu was nine, Innayo died. Ummu was devastated — whenever she needed something or was punished unfairly, she would cry in loneliness, calling out for her grandmother. This deep grief drew Malam Buhari closer to her. Though his late wife’s family asked to take Ummu, he refused, insisting she stay with her siblings.
Because his work required frequent travel, Malam Buhari often left Ummu in the care of his wives, entrusting her especially to Baba Yalwa, the senior wife. They all promised to care for her faithfully — but once he left, everything changed.
Ummukulsoom faced unbearable suffering — endless chores beyond her strength, frequent beatings, and insults from Baba Yalwa and her children. Even when she complained to her father, things only got worse after he left again. Still, she continued her education alongside Nusaiba, despite constant bullying and unfair treatment.
She noticed the favoritism clearly — the other wives’ children could rest or play while she worked endlessly. If a quarrel arose, she was always blamed, even when innocent. The only time she felt joy was when her father was home; that was when no one dared hurt her.
From childhood, Basiru — the neighbor’s son — had always shown her care. Even after her grandmother’s death, he comforted her when others beat her. If she cried, he’d defend her, even fighting those who bullied her. His parents warned him against it, but he never stopped.
As they grew older, Basiru completed primary school and went to secondary school. He was strikingly handsome, taking after his Fulani mother, and soon became the crush of many girls in town. That troubled Ummu deeply, though she couldn’t explain why. Her feelings for him had grown stronger than she understood.
Life went on. Ummu finished primary school amid all the hardship and abuse. While most girls in their household were married off immediately after primary school — or even before — Malam Buhari made a bold decision: he would send his daughters, including Ummu, to secondary school.
It was unusual in their community, but his travels to the city had opened his eyes. He’d seen children going to school and wanted the same for his daughters — Azima, Nusaiba, and Ummuk
ulsoom — who had just completed primary education.
Description
Scene at the Compound
Right from the moment you approach the corner of the house, you can already hear the pounding sounds of pestles and the joyful shouts of women singing in excitement. Some even blow whistles while laughing and pounding corn or millet meant for making tuwo.
I stepped into the compound to see for myself what was happening. About ten women were divided into groups, each pounding in large wooden mortars — at least four in total. Under the shade of a dalbejiya tree, a few elderly women sat chatting while one of them was busy selling something. Another woman nearby was fanning a fire under two paint buckets, while her companion stirred something in a pot that looked like noodles, sweating heavily from the heat. Children, covered in dust, played joyfully around them.
Anyone who doesn’t know Babban Gida in the town of Dilau might swear this was a celebration — a wedding or naming ceremony — but it was not. All the people you could see were residents of the compound. The men of the house were away in the city working for money, while only a few were at local gatherings with other men of the village. Most of the children had been sent on errands or to help with chores.
To understand the relationship between everyone in this household is not easy. They are all related — cousins, siblings, in-laws, and even grandchildren who have also married and multiplied.
One of the household members is Malam Buhari, who lives there with his three wives and ten children. His first wife, Yalwa, often called Baba Yalwa, has five children — three boys and two girls. The sons are married, and their wives also live in the compound. The second wife, Dahara, had four children, but only one — Ummukulsoom — survived, as the others died shortly after birth. Dahara herself died during childbirth when Ummu was three years old. The third wife, Asabe, has four children — three girls and one boy, the youngest.
Malam Buhari’s trade is weaving mats and mafitai (Fulani sleeping mats), which earned him the nickname Mai Kaba. Almost everyone in the house used to do the same work, though many have stopped, leaving only a few women still weaving. Malam Buhari himself is devoted to it; he often takes his goods to Kaduna or Zaria to sell, or sometimes sends them through his sister Laraba, who lives there. Through this craft, and through farming during the rainy season, he sustains his large family.
One afternoon, about seven young girls, likely aged fifteen or so, entered the compound together carrying paint buckets full of water. The women pounding greeted them warmly as they passed, and each girl headed to her section. Baba Yalwa, sweating beside the cooking fire, covered her pot of noodles to sell and said,
“Hadiza, where did you leave your mother?”
Hadiza, frowning as she dropped her bucket, replied, “Baba Yalwa, she’s at the back. That crazy boyfriend of hers, Basiru, stopped her, saying he’s leaving for school.”
Baba Yalwa twisted her lips. “Ah, that girl! Maybe he’s the one spoiling her, that’s why they cling to each other like glue.”
The women burst into laughter, even the daughters-in-law joined in. Before anyone could say more, Ummu entered the compound and greeted them. As if on cue, all eyes turned to her, trying to see any sign of what Baba Yalwa had mentioned.
Ummu felt humiliated. Quietly, she went toward Baba Yalwa at the fireplace.
“So you’ve finished your shamelessness now?” Baba Yalwa said sharply.
Shocked, Ummu looked up, her eyes already filling with tears. “Shamelessness, Baba?”
“Oh, so you’re questioning me now?”
Ummu slowly shook her head, signaling no.
“Take this water to Hanne,” Baba Yalwa snapped. “She swore I was the one cooking the noodles since you were busy with that boy. If you knew you’d be fooling around, you wouldn’t have promised to fetch my water. That boy’s done with you; he’s found a better girl in the city.”
Rashida, who was stirring kunun tsamiya to sell, interjected, “Baba Yalwa, that talk doesn’t hold. Since his parents rejected the marriage, maybe they just want peace.”
Baba Yalwa scoffed, placing her pot down. “His eyes are blind! He doesn’t realize she’s from a poor family. We’ll see how it ends.”
The women laughed again, throwing more harsh words at Ummu. She said nothing, carried the water to Hanne’s room, poured it out, and left. She returned to her section, took off her soaked hijab, her heart burning with pain and pity for herself.
Truly, many orphans face harder lives than hers. Losing a mother is a deep wound no one can truly heal. But one cannot challenge Allah’s decree. After her mother’s death, Ummukulsoom was raised by her grandmother, Innayo, Malam Buhari’s mother.
Ummukulsoom’s Childhood and Suffering
As mentioned earlier, Ummukulsoom’s mother — the second wife — died when Ummu was three years old. She had previously lost four children before Ummu. Her death during childbirth left Ummu as a full orphan. Her grandmother Innayo then took her in and spoiled her with affection. Innayo couldn’t stand hearing Ummu cry; if she did, everyone in the house felt her anger — even Malam Buhari’s other wives and children.
Because of this special treatment, everyone in the house began to resent Ummu. Even Malam Buhari noticed and was troubled by it, as his wives often complained that his mother favored Ummu over their own children. Whenever he tried to talk to his mother about it, she’d get angry, forcing him to apologize to keep the peace.
Unfortunately, when Ummu was nine, Innayo died. Ummu was devastated — whenever she needed something or was punished unfairly, she would cry in loneliness, calling out for her grandmother. This deep grief drew Malam Buhari closer to her. Though his late wife’s family asked to take Ummu, he refused, insisting she stay with her siblings.
Because his work required frequent travel, Malam Buhari often left Ummu in the care of his wives, entrusting her especially to Baba Yalwa, the senior wife. They all promised to care for her faithfully — but once he left, everything changed.
Ummukulsoom faced unbearable suffering — endless chores beyond her strength, frequent beatings, and insults from Baba Yalwa and her children. Even when she complained to her father, things only got worse after he left again. Still, she continued her education alongside Nusaiba, despite constant bullying and unfair treatment.
She noticed the favoritism clearly — the other wives’ children could rest or play while she worked endlessly. If a quarrel arose, she was always blamed, even when innocent. The only time she felt joy was when her father was home; that was when no one dared hurt her.
From childhood, Basiru — the neighbor’s son — had always shown her care. Even after her grandmother’s death, he comforted her when others beat her. If she cried, he’d defend her, even fighting those who bullied her. His parents warned him against it, but he never stopped.
As they grew older, Basiru completed primary school and went to secondary school. He was strikingly handsome, taking after his Fulani mother, and soon became the crush of many girls in town. That troubled Ummu deeply, though she couldn’t explain why. Her feelings for him had grown stronger than she understood.
Life went on. Ummu finished primary school amid all the hardship and abuse. While most girls in their household were married off immediately after primary school — or even before — Malam Buhari made a bold decision: he would send his daughters, including Ummu, to secondary school.
It was unusual in their community, but his travels to the city had opened his eyes. He’d seen children going to school and wanted the same for his daughters — Azima, Nusaiba, and Ummuk
ulsoom — who had just completed primary education.