---

There was one particular person in the household who never allowed a single day of my life to pass without causing me trouble. Many times, when I was lost in thought and writing letters in my mind, I would imagine how much easier life would be for me if only he would move somewhere else. But he was not the type to go out much—always clinging to Hajiya’s side, fueling the cracks that already tore apart the fragile bond between us.

“What are you doing here?”

He asked, his eyes fixed on the bucket before me.

Me? At a time when Hajiya had flung a heap of her clothes at me to wash in the cold morning when hardly anyone was awake yet?

I wished I could say this to him without bringing more trouble upon myself.

“I’m washing Hajiya’s clothes,” I answered softly.

“She’s waiting for her pap when you’re done.”

I glared at his back as he left, then pulled out one of her oversized robes—so wide it clung tightly whenever she wore it. In all my years, I had never seen a woman as heavyset as my grandmother.

As I scrubbed and rinsed the clothes, my mind wandered to the scolding I knew awaited me since I hadn’t yet prepared her pap. Luckily for me, Aunty Habiba had shown pity that morning. She had said she would prepare hers alongside Hajiya’s and let me come fetch it later. That kindness shocked me, because rarely did she speak to me at all.

“Bintu, whose clothes are you washing this early?” she had asked earlier, when she saw me.

“Hajiya’s,” I replied after greeting her.

She smacked her lips. “If they left you alone, you would wash them when the sun was high. But at this hour, in the cold—it’s like a punishment.”

Of course I knew she would say something like that. Even though Hajiya was her mother-in-law, the two of them never got along. I didn’t know why. She walked on but then turned back.

“Have you made her pap yet?”

“No, I’ll do it when I finish this.”

“Then you’ll only earn yourself trouble. Before you’re done, the sun will be up. Go and bring her flask. I’ll prepare mine with hers. When you finish washing, just come and take it.”

I was so grateful that I went quickly and fetched the flask without anyone noticing. Little did I know—that was the key to my destiny.

---

10:30 AM

“Have you finished everything?” Hajiya asked as I entered her room. She was seated firmly on her mat spread in the middle of the room.

“Yes, I finished and even spread them out to dry.”

Though I did not look at her face, I could feel her harsh glare burning into me. I handed her the flask, but she didn’t take it. Instead, she pointed with her staff at the corner of her mat, as though the flask were something filthy she dared not touch.

“Where did you spread them?”

“Behind Aunty Sadiya’s room.”

“Make sure—be absolutely sure—not even a scarf falls to the ground. If it does, you’ll wash everything all over again, wallahi.”

“I tied them down so the wind won’t carry them,” I said quickly.

From her look, I could tell this was not the answer she wanted, but she only gave me another fierce warning glare before waving her hand dismissively.

I rose slowly and went to my usual spot at the far end of the room—the place that had been both my bed and my seat since fate had thrown me into this Babban Gida (the great household).

It was a house overflowing with my paternal relatives—people who had never cared for me or my sister, because Hajiya had trained them to hate my mother and, by extension, us.

My father had been her sixth son, with many siblings beneath him. He had three wives in his lifetime and eight children. Gwaggo Lami, his first wife, had six sons. She was Hajiya’s own niece, so she and her children were the favorites.

But my mother, the daughter of displaced refugees, never held any value in their eyes—even though they knew her well. She had grown up an orphan in the house of the Maigari (the village head), enduring cruelty with patience. When my father chose her, they raised chaos, refusing to accept a woman “without origin.” It took the intervention of the Maigari himself for them to relent.

She bore my sister Maryam—whom we called Mairo—three years after the marriage, and I came another three years later. Not long after, my father married again, this time to Saratu, the daughter of a wealthy man. She was kindhearted and treated us with love, perhaps more than anyone else in the village, second only to our father.

But then fate struck.

When Mairo finished secondary school, Baba wanted her to marry Ibrahim, a cousin. That decision threw the house into chaos. In Babban Gida, they disapproved of Ibrahim because he was reckless. In our home, Mama and Aunty Saratu tried to persuade Mairo to obey Baba, but everyone knew she was deeply in love with another man—a stranger to our town, only visiting because of his friendship with his father.

The ink of destiny had already dried. Mairo fled one night with her lover. The scandal crushed Mama’s heart until it literally killed her.

After her death, Aunty Saratu took care of me for two years until my father died in a car accident. Then everything collapsed. The inheritance was divided, and I was taken from Aunty Saratu against her will. They brought me back to Babban Gida—claiming it was for my protection.

From then on, my life became slavery. My education was cut short because Hajiya declared that my mother had never studied, so neither should I. For over a year, I did nothing but housework.

---

That morning, as Hajiya sipped her pap slowly, I lay down to rest a little. My thoughts drifted to that new voice in my life—the one that had begun to give me hope. But suddenly a harsh coughing fit jolted me awake.

I turned and froze.

Hajiya was on the mat, her body trembling violently. Thick white foam spilled from her mouth, one hand clutched her chest, the other still holding the cup of pap.

“Hajiya… what—what’s wrong?” My voice shook as I rushed to her.

She tried to speak but no sound came, only more froth.

“Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un…” I whispered, covering my mouth. My heart thundered in my chest. Her eyes rolled, tears streaming down.

I wanted to run for help, but my mind screamed: Who will believe me? What will I say? That I just opened my eyes and found her like this?

Before I could act, voices entered the room. The curtain lifted, and in walked Salisu, Auwal, Sule, Yakubu, and another man I didn’t know.

“Ya Allah! What happened to her? What did you give her?” Salisu demanded, shaking her body.

“I swear by Allah, I don’t know! I just—”

“How can you not know?” Auwal barked, his voice like thunder.

They lifted her and rushed out. I remained behind, staring at the cup of pap spilled across the floor.

What did you give her?

The words echoed in my head. What had I given her, apart from the pap Aunty Habiba had prepared?

Before I could think further, hands seized me by the collar. Aunty Sadiya’s furious eyes bore into mine.

“What did you do to Hajiya? Tell me now!”

I swore by Allah I knew nothing, but a hot slap landed across my face, blinding me with pain. Voices rained down, accusing me. Then Aunty Zainab snatched Hajiya’s staff and beat me until my body went numb.

Suddenly, Umar’s voice cut through the chaos:

“Hajiya is dead!”

Silence fell. My whole world collapsed.

---

8:00 PM

Nine hours had passed since Hajiya’s death, and four since her burial. The whispers spread across town like wildfire: She was poisoned. And the blame? All placed on me.

I was locked in a small room, beaten senseless before they dragged me there. No one defended me—except Uncle Ibrahim, my father’s brother, who pulled me from their hands and struck Salisu in anger. He was the only one.

Now, alone in the dark, fever burning through me, I wondered:

Why is my life filled with endless trials?

Why does everyone hate me?

How can I possibly survive this?

Ya Allah, only You know the truth.

The only person who could save me now was Aunty Saratu—but she was far away, married in Kaduna.

And I—I was left here, buried alive in an accusation I never deserved.

---

He returned a few moments later, but his face clearly showed that Amma had scolded him. He sat down and picked up the TV remote. I noticed his mood had shifted—he was unusually quiet, and he avoided talking unnecessarily. I let him be and just sat beside him, also silent.

That evening, he didn’t eat much. He had only a few spoonfuls and then pushed the plate away.

He went to bed earlier than usual. I followed shortly after.

At night, I woke up to use the bathroom and noticed the lights in the sitting room were still on. I carefully stepped out and found him seated, his legs stretched out, deeply immersed in thought. I walked closer.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” I asked softly.

He didn’t respond immediately. I sat on the armrest of the chair he was sitting on and placed my hand on his shoulder.

“I’m not sleepy,” he said flatly.

I gently rubbed his shoulder and said,

“Please don’t let what happened earlier today weigh so heavily on your heart. You know Amma’s nature. She doesn’t always mean harm with her words.”

He turned slightly to face me.

“Honestly, Aisha, I don’t even know what else to do to please her. No matter how much I try, it's never enough. I gave up my own happiness several times just to follow her wishes. Yet, she still doesn’t trust me. She still thinks I’m out to squander the family’s wealth.”

He clenched his fists.

“If I told you the sacrifices I’ve made just to keep this family intact, you wouldn’t believe it.”

I gently held his hand.

“I believe you. And I see it. You’re a good man, Abdul-Hameed. Maybe Amma is just afraid—maybe she feels if she lets go of control, everything will fall apart.”

He leaned his head on the backrest, eyes closed.

“I’m tired, Aisha. I’m truly tired.”

I had no words to comfort him. I simply stayed there, my hand still resting on his shoulder, praying silently for peace to return to our home.