She was throwing her things out while shouting, “Wallahi, today you must leave this house, you shameless girl! So just like your mother who disgraced herself, you now want to bring shame to me too? I swear, go and look for the father of that child in your womb—you’re not giving birth to him in this house!”

The girl cried, pleading, “Wallahi Innah, I’ve never committed fornication. Please believe me, the child in my womb belongs to Yaya Ibrahim. I’ve never known any other man but him.”

But her words fell on deaf ears. “How dare you! Just because you saw some documents in his name, you’re accusing him? A man who, right after your wedding, stopped looking for you and abandoned you! Who knows—maybe he realized you were sleeping with other men and left you!”

“Even if he’s responsible, where did he get you pregnant? You and he didn’t even sleep in the same room! Maybe this pregnancy isn’t even his—now God has exposed you. Just like your mother, who disgraced herself, we won’t live with you!”

She couldn’t comprehend the cruelty. Innah called her “bastard,” even though everyone knew her father and mother. With tears running down her face, she said, “I’ll leave, Innah. But please, allow me one last favor—to pray with my father.”

“Go ahead—but ten minutes! Then leave this place! God knows if he’s the one who got you pregnant since you sleep in his room!”

> “Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,” she whispered in her heart.

“What kind of life is this, where I’m being accused of committing fornication with my own father? Oh Allah, relieve me of this calamity.”

She entered a small room, the kind no human should live in, and saw an elderly man lying there, tears flowing down his cheeks. Clearly, he had heard everything. She knelt by him, held his functioning hand—he had partial paralysis—and said, “Baba.”

He nodded slightly, then said, “I believe you. I know you could never commit such a sin. But I’m helpless—I can’t protect you.”

He paused, then continued, “Before you leave, there’s something I must tell you. You are not my biological daughter.”

She gasped, pulling back and shaking her head. “No! You’re saying this because of the pregnancy. You want to deny me now too?!”

“No, please sit.”

She did.

He began:

> “My name is Abubakar, but they call me Garba. I was an only child. I grew up in modest conditions, not wealthy, but we had dignity.

At 20, I married my childhood friend’s daughter, Aisha. A very patient and responsible woman. After 15 years of marriage, we didn’t have children. Aisha suggested I take a second wife.

I resisted, believing children are from God. Eventually, after my parents died, I gave in. Aisha chose her friend Suwaiba for me.

Suwaiba was a widow, and soon after our marriage, she got pregnant. Aisha supported her, but Suwaiba started acting hostile.

After she gave birth to a son, she turned on Aisha, claiming Aisha’s evil eye killed her baby. Aisha cried and cried, but couldn’t fight back.

Gossip started. The town avoided her. I decided to sell the house and leave without telling anyone.

> One day, I was returning home late when I saw strangers behind my house. I hid and listened.

They were arguing—some said, “Kill her,” others said, “Let her go. She’s already far from her family.”

“What if Hajia finds out we didn’t kill her?” one asked.

Finally, they left you there. I waited, then brought you in.

> When I told them I found you, Suwaiba said, ‘Who knows if she’s not your prostitute’s child?’ I was hurt but stayed silent.

Aisha was overjoyed. She promised to raise you like her own. From then on, you were hers.

She named you after her mother—Fatima. We called you Ummi.

But Suwaiba’s evil followed us. I believe Aisha was later bewitched and passed away.

> You’re about 17 now. I’ve never opened this box until today—it holds the baby clothes you wore when I found you, and this ring…

I don’t believe you were abandoned. You were likely stolen. Now, you face two battles: to find your husband, and to find your real parents.

Don’t let this pregnancy make you lose hope in Ibrahim. I believe your union will last.

Pray. And remember, you’re a married woman. I wish you all the best.”

She wiped her tears.

> “You are my father. I’ll come back to you no matter what. May Allah reveal who my real mother is. May He have mercy on Aisha.”

Then she left the house.

> Now the question was: Should she search for her parents or her husband?

She took a tricycle to the station. Thankfully, she still had some money Ibrahim gave her, untouched.

At the station, someone asked, “Where to? Abuja? Kaduna? Sokoto?”

She paused, then said Kaduna. Ibrahim once said he lived in Abuja—but she no longer wished to see him. He had betrayed and abandoned her.

She remembered the last time they were together when he said:

> “My Teemah, I love you. I pray Allah gives me the strength to protect you. Please bear with whatever life brings us.”