With calmness and dignity, she walked gently to deliver a speech that had long been written in her special speech archive for many years. Ever since the announcer (MC) mentioned her name, her mind grew restless, her heart broke, and her eyes filled with tears. She was an elderly woman, about 65 years old, fair-skinned, elegant, with a radiant beauty that revealed she had lived in comfort, rest, and abundance for a long time. She looked almost like an Arab woman in beauty and adornment.
She was dressed in a golden lace outfit with a matching veil that covered her entire body. Taking the microphone from the MC, she climbed the steps slowly. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses that concealed her tears. With a soft voice, she began:
> “In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate… Indeed, praise and gratitude belong to Allah, the Lord of Prophet Isa, Musa, Harun, and Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him… Truly, today I am filled with joy and happiness because of witnessing the fulfillment of this matter. No one did this for us except Allah, the Self-Sufficient, the Everlasting, who owns everything and needs nothing from anyone. That is why we must continue praising Him and sanctifying Him until our last breath. This foundation (Abwabul Khair Foundation) I dedicate entirely to my late husband, Alhaji Ahmad Rufa’i, and our only son, Anaam Ahmad Rufa’i. May Allah bless it…”
All of these words she rendered in clean, fluent English, without noise or mistakes. After she finished, she descended as photographers and videographers rushed to capture her. She could not grasp or pay attention to any of the speeches that followed because her heart was heavy and lost in thought.
When everything ended, she still couldn’t find peace of mind despite being used to such feelings. Her driver opened the car door for her; she sat in the owner’s corner, watching people through the tinted glass, her heart full of deep worries. She didn’t even notice when they reached home until Malam Bala, the driver, spoke:
> “Your Highness, we have arrived…”
She opened her eyes and saw her magnificent mansion filled with every kind of luxury. Though the house was massive, her wealth and abundance did not bring her inner peace.
Bala’s voice once again pulled her back:
> “Your Highness…”
She slowly picked up her handbag, stepped out of the car, and walked inside. The house was quiet, from the large living room downstairs to her room upstairs. When she entered her bedroom, she immediately noticed it had been tampered with—everything scattered, unlike the neat state she had left it.
Sitting on the edge of her large Italian-designed bed, she held her head, breathing heavily, knowing something was wrong. Suddenly, the door opened, and a young lady, about 28 years old, walked in. Clearly, she was one of the housemaids.
> “Peace be upon you…” the girl greeted, her head lowered. She was dressed in a blue atamfa (wrapper and blouse) with a white hijab that reached her knees.
> “And peace be upon you too, Imaan. Is there a problem?”
> “No, mommy, nothing. I only saw you had returned, so I came to greet you and see if you needed anything.”
With a faint smile, she replied:
> “Thank you, Imaan. But I don’t need anything now. You may go.”
As Imaan turned to leave, the woman called her back:
> “Imaan, let me ask you—did Anaam enter this bedroom?”
Imaan paused for two minutes, then shook her head.
> “I didn’t see him, honestly. But it’s possible he came in while I was away.”
> “He came in. No one else would dare enter my bedroom this way except him. You may go.”
Imaan left, but even when she returned to her own room, she felt uneasy. Her heart ached for her mistress (mommy). How could an only son fail to bring joy to his mother? Instead, he caused her constant sorrow. Truly, one must always pray for righteous children, day and night, to avoid bearing a destructive offspring.
She knew her mistress was a kind, patient woman who treated everyone well, even neighbors. Indeed, she was convinced now that money and wealth were not the true essence of life. Anaam troubled his mother beyond measure. He was stubborn, disobedient, and heartless, as if he had deaf ears.
Lost in thought, she remained sad until it was time for the afternoon prayer (Zuhr). She performed ablution, prayed her obligatory and voluntary prayers, and then read the Qur’an, as was her daily practice after each prayer. In her supplication, she prayed especially for her mistress, asking Allah to grant her peace of mind. She could not understand why Anaam, who had been blessed with beauty, wealth, and everything, behaved so recklessly. She often felt deep sorrow when she compared her mistress’s noble background with Anaam’s arrogance. Their mutual hatred was obvious—just as she despised him, he too loathed her.
After her prayers, she rose and went to the kitchen to prepare food for mommy.
Anaam and Najla
Hand in hand, he walked with her out of the hotel into the parking lot. He was tall, dark, handsome, wearing a red long-sleeved T-shirt, black trousers, and a cap. He led her to his luxurious jeep worth nearly 80 million naira. She was fair, plump, and radiant, dressed in a red gown adorned with accessories, exuding the fragrance of a bride.
> “My… where are we heading?” she asked seductively.
He fastened his seat belt, put on his black glasses, and replied:
> “Today is my woman’s birthday. I can’t be calm. Tell me what you want.”
> “Thank you, my love. I don’t want anything. I just want you.”
He smiled, started the car, and they drove to a beautiful relaxation spot. But soon, he noticed two young men, one of whom couldn’t stop staring at Najla.
She whispered:
> “My… thank you for everything.”
> “Don’t mention it, my love,” he replied while scrolling on his phone. “We should go into the boutique. I need clothes.”
They shopped heavily—dresses, bags, shoes—spending over half a million naira. As they returned to the car, the man who had been staring at Najla approached, asking for her phone number.
Anaam burst out angrily:
> “Hey, are you stupid? Can’t you see she’s with me?”
> “So what? She’s a woman, not your wife. I have the right to admire her too.”
> “You lie. You have no right. Who is your father?”
Fuming, Anaam grabbed a bottle from his car and struck the man violently. Blood gushed out as people gathered. Najla dragged him into the car, terrified. She knew this was not the end—Anaam was hot-tempered and loved fights. They returned to the hotel where he lived most of his life anyway.
Mommy’s Endless Worry
Back at home, Mommy was restless, pacing the sitting room with her phone in hand, trying to call Anaam. His line didn’t connect—he had put it on flight mode.
> “Mommy, is everything alright?” Imaan asked, worried.
Mommy sat down and sighed heavily:
> “Anaam broke a bottle on someone’s head…”
> “Innalillahi…” Imaan exclaimed, covering her mouth. Truly, Anaam had no compassion. He had long been a source of grief to his mother, and still showed no signs of change.
> “My only problem in this world is Anaam. Today’s trouble differs from tomorrow’s…”
> “Mommy, be patient. Insha Allah, one day it will just be a story. Allah will guide him.”
Mommy fell silent, consumed with sadness. The whole day passed, yet Anaam’s phone remained unreachable. She struggled to sleep that night.
The next morning, Imaan began her chores—cleaning Mommy’s section, preparing her meals—since Mommy’s health was too fragile. She then moved to Anaam’s section. Assuming he wasn’t home, she entered his bedroom without hesitation.
But the moment she stepped in, she was struck by thick smoke and a foul odor. Quickly, she switched on the light. There he was, sitting on the bed, legs stretched, smoking shisha, half-naked under a duvet, glaring at her with hatred—the same hatred she also felt toward him.
Description
The Emotional Speech
With calmness and dignity, she walked gently to deliver a speech that had long been written in her special speech archive for many years. Ever since the announcer (MC) mentioned her name, her mind grew restless, her heart broke, and her eyes filled with tears. She was an elderly woman, about 65 years old, fair-skinned, elegant, with a radiant beauty that revealed she had lived in comfort, rest, and abundance for a long time. She looked almost like an Arab woman in beauty and adornment.
She was dressed in a golden lace outfit with a matching veil that covered her entire body. Taking the microphone from the MC, she climbed the steps slowly. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses that concealed her tears. With a soft voice, she began:
> “In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate… Indeed, praise and gratitude belong to Allah, the Lord of Prophet Isa, Musa, Harun, and Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him… Truly, today I am filled with joy and happiness because of witnessing the fulfillment of this matter. No one did this for us except Allah, the Self-Sufficient, the Everlasting, who owns everything and needs nothing from anyone. That is why we must continue praising Him and sanctifying Him until our last breath. This foundation (Abwabul Khair Foundation) I dedicate entirely to my late husband, Alhaji Ahmad Rufa’i, and our only son, Anaam Ahmad Rufa’i. May Allah bless it…”
All of these words she rendered in clean, fluent English, without noise or mistakes. After she finished, she descended as photographers and videographers rushed to capture her. She could not grasp or pay attention to any of the speeches that followed because her heart was heavy and lost in thought.
When everything ended, she still couldn’t find peace of mind despite being used to such feelings. Her driver opened the car door for her; she sat in the owner’s corner, watching people through the tinted glass, her heart full of deep worries. She didn’t even notice when they reached home until Malam Bala, the driver, spoke:
> “Your Highness, we have arrived…”
She opened her eyes and saw her magnificent mansion filled with every kind of luxury. Though the house was massive, her wealth and abundance did not bring her inner peace.
Bala’s voice once again pulled her back:
> “Your Highness…”
She slowly picked up her handbag, stepped out of the car, and walked inside. The house was quiet, from the large living room downstairs to her room upstairs. When she entered her bedroom, she immediately noticed it had been tampered with—everything scattered, unlike the neat state she had left it.
Sitting on the edge of her large Italian-designed bed, she held her head, breathing heavily, knowing something was wrong. Suddenly, the door opened, and a young lady, about 28 years old, walked in. Clearly, she was one of the housemaids.
> “Peace be upon you…” the girl greeted, her head lowered. She was dressed in a blue atamfa (wrapper and blouse) with a white hijab that reached her knees.
> “And peace be upon you too, Imaan. Is there a problem?”
> “No, mommy, nothing. I only saw you had returned, so I came to greet you and see if you needed anything.”
With a faint smile, she replied:
> “Thank you, Imaan. But I don’t need anything now. You may go.”
As Imaan turned to leave, the woman called her back:
> “Imaan, let me ask you—did Anaam enter this bedroom?”
Imaan paused for two minutes, then shook her head.
> “I didn’t see him, honestly. But it’s possible he came in while I was away.”
> “He came in. No one else would dare enter my bedroom this way except him. You may go.”
Imaan left, but even when she returned to her own room, she felt uneasy. Her heart ached for her mistress (mommy). How could an only son fail to bring joy to his mother? Instead, he caused her constant sorrow. Truly, one must always pray for righteous children, day and night, to avoid bearing a destructive offspring.
She knew her mistress was a kind, patient woman who treated everyone well, even neighbors. Indeed, she was convinced now that money and wealth were not the true essence of life. Anaam troubled his mother beyond measure. He was stubborn, disobedient, and heartless, as if he had deaf ears.
Lost in thought, she remained sad until it was time for the afternoon prayer (Zuhr). She performed ablution, prayed her obligatory and voluntary prayers, and then read the Qur’an, as was her daily practice after each prayer. In her supplication, she prayed especially for her mistress, asking Allah to grant her peace of mind. She could not understand why Anaam, who had been blessed with beauty, wealth, and everything, behaved so recklessly. She often felt deep sorrow when she compared her mistress’s noble background with Anaam’s arrogance. Their mutual hatred was obvious—just as she despised him, he too loathed her.
After her prayers, she rose and went to the kitchen to prepare food for mommy.
Anaam and Najla
Hand in hand, he walked with her out of the hotel into the parking lot. He was tall, dark, handsome, wearing a red long-sleeved T-shirt, black trousers, and a cap. He led her to his luxurious jeep worth nearly 80 million naira. She was fair, plump, and radiant, dressed in a red gown adorned with accessories, exuding the fragrance of a bride.
> “My… where are we heading?” she asked seductively.
He fastened his seat belt, put on his black glasses, and replied:
> “Today is my woman’s birthday. I can’t be calm. Tell me what you want.”
> “Thank you, my love. I don’t want anything. I just want you.”
He smiled, started the car, and they drove to a beautiful relaxation spot. But soon, he noticed two young men, one of whom couldn’t stop staring at Najla.
She whispered:
> “My… thank you for everything.”
> “Don’t mention it, my love,” he replied while scrolling on his phone. “We should go into the boutique. I need clothes.”
They shopped heavily—dresses, bags, shoes—spending over half a million naira. As they returned to the car, the man who had been staring at Najla approached, asking for her phone number.
Anaam burst out angrily:
> “Hey, are you stupid? Can’t you see she’s with me?”
> “So what? She’s a woman, not your wife. I have the right to admire her too.”
> “You lie. You have no right. Who is your father?”
Fuming, Anaam grabbed a bottle from his car and struck the man violently. Blood gushed out as people gathered. Najla dragged him into the car, terrified. She knew this was not the end—Anaam was hot-tempered and loved fights. They returned to the hotel where he lived most of his life anyway.
Mommy’s Endless Worry
Back at home, Mommy was restless, pacing the sitting room with her phone in hand, trying to call Anaam. His line didn’t connect—he had put it on flight mode.
> “Mommy, is everything alright?” Imaan asked, worried.
Mommy sat down and sighed heavily:
> “Anaam broke a bottle on someone’s head…”
> “Innalillahi…” Imaan exclaimed, covering her mouth. Truly, Anaam had no compassion. He had long been a source of grief to his mother, and still showed no signs of change.
> “My only problem in this world is Anaam. Today’s trouble differs from tomorrow’s…”
> “Mommy, be patient. Insha Allah, one day it will just be a story. Allah will guide him.”
Mommy fell silent, consumed with sadness. The whole day passed, yet Anaam’s phone remained unreachable. She struggled to sleep that night.
The next morning, Imaan began her chores—cleaning Mommy’s section, preparing her meals—since Mommy’s health was too fragile. She then moved to Anaam’s section. Assuming he wasn’t home, she entered his bedroom without hesitation.
But the moment she stepped in, she was struck by thick smoke and a foul odor. Quickly, she switched on the light. There he was, sitting on the bed, legs stretched, smoking shisha, half-naked under a duvet, glaring at her with hatred—the same hatred she also felt toward him.
Just as she turned to leave, he said…