She built her life on lies, refusing to take the world with ease. Her parents were poor, but she insisted on living like the rich. They couldn’t afford it, yet she forced her way into expensive schools. Her mother often advised her, but when someone goes too far, they no longer hear guidance.

It didn’t stop there. Attending a wealthy school exposed her to the lifestyle of rich kids, which fueled her desires even more. She began to despise the food at home. Wherever she heard of a rich person or celebrity, she would immediately claim they were her relative.

She became a public disgrace. At any high-class party or ceremony, open your eyes and you’d see her there. It didn’t end there—this lifestyle pushed her into debt, borrowing and never paying back, and later into scams and fraud (419).

Whenever school fees blocked her way, or friends noticed she hadn’t shown up for days, she’d lie that she had traveled abroad. If she saw her mother holding anything valuable, she would seize it by force—not stealing, but snatching it with intimidation.

If there was a wedding anywhere, she would do whatever it took to buy the uniform cloth (anko) and attend. What kind of life was this? Let’s hear more…

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It was a classy restaurant, the type you could tell wasn’t meant for ordinary people but for the rich to come and enjoy their wealth. As the singer once said: “Money and a snake share the same cure—death.”

Jawwahir sat at a corner, with an old kerosene lamp (fitilar kwai) beside her. In front of her was a delicious meal with a bottle of soft drink. Earphones were in her ears, phone in her hand, glasses set aside. She ate while fiddling with her phone. After finishing, she drank her soda, then checked her purse—only a 100 naira note was inside. She smiled, gathered her things, and stood up.

As she walked out, she put her glasses back on. At the counter she asked for the bill. “Two thousand,” they said.

“Okay,” she replied. “Honestly, I don’t have the cash on me—I just arrived in town.” She sighed dramatically, waving the kerosene lamp. “Do you see this? Have you ever seen one like it?”

“Yes,” the cashier replied.

“Do you own one yourself?” she pressed, widening her eyes to make it sound important.

“No, I don’t.”

“Ah, then you don’t know! Right now people are searching for these lamps. If you bring one, they’ll pay you one million cash. There’s something inside it foreigners want. Here in Nigeria, they pay us one million, and if we smuggle it abroad, we earn millions more.” She hissed, then added, “Hold this lamp while I go to the bank to withdraw money.”

He agreed and took it. But as she left, he thought to himself: She said this lamp could fetch millions, yet she just asked me to keep it for her? He quickly hid the lamp.

Jawwahir, on her way out, hailed a tricycle. At a supermarket, she handed her phone to an attendant, asked him to keep it, and requested ₦3,000 in cash, promising to return shortly. He agreed. With the money, she went back to the restaurant, rushed to the counter, and said: “Here’s your payment, now return my lamp—I’m being called on the phone, they’re waiting for me.”

The cashier searched and pretended he couldn’t find it.

Her eyes widened. “Impossible! I was just told someone offered ₦200,000 more for it. Either give me back my lamp or I’ll have you locked up!”

The man tried to calm her. “Please, madam, take ₦80,000 instead. It must be fate.”

She hissed. “Nonsense! I don’t believe in fate or loss. Just give me my lamp.”

Eventually, he went out, brought the cash, and gave it to her. She counted it carefully, then left. Once outside, the man retrieved the hidden lamp and said bitterly, “Useless woman. I’ll sell this myself.”

Jawwahir, meanwhile, returned to the tricycle, paid back the ₦3,000 and collected her phone. She went home, dumped her things in her room without greeting anyone, and pulled out the cash, laughing: “You fool! If it was really worth a million, would you give me ₦80,000? Let’s see if you can sell it anywhere.” She laughed harder, then called a friend:

“Tomorrow I’ll be in school, insha’Allah. You know I wasn’t around—I just returned from Slovenia yesterday.”

Her friend wished her safe return. She replied, “Amen.”

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What kind of life was this? 🤔 Step by step, let’s see…

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Back at home, she continued her antics. Because of her arrogance, she never called her mother Inna like her siblings did. She preferred flashy names like Momsy, Mama, Ammi. In front of friends, she’d boast of her Mom and Dad. At home, she mockingly called her mother Innasco or Innas.

Coming out with a towel, she mocked her mother: “Innas, why do you look so worried, like someone brought you news of death?”

Her mother sighed. “If death news came, it would be easier than the path you’ve chosen in life.”

Jawwahir hissed. “That’s the problem with you people. You never wish anyone well—always praying for their downfall.”

She sat, chewing gum, and added: “Let me tell you, Innasco. Life is only once. If I sit idle like you, I’ll get nothing. That useless old man you call my father, always chopping wood on the roadside—should I also waste my life like him? Wallahi, I feel ashamed to even call him my father.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “So your insolence has gone that far?”

Jawwahir smirked. “I’ve gone far beyond that, Innas. You clearly don’t understand me.”

Her mother pleaded, “Stop this lifestyle, my daughter. Whatever Allah has written for you, you will receive. Be patient, sit at home, and Allah will provide.”

Jawwahir snapped back. “If I sit at home, I’ll get nothing. Didn’t I sit here yesterday and still got nothing? But if I hustle, I’ll get something. That’s how life works.”

She picked up her bath bucket. “And Innasco, if those goats of yours don’t stop crying whenever I make a phone call, I swear I’ll sell them all. As soon as I finish school, I’ll get a job and buy a car.”

Her mother mocked her: “A job? With only a secondary school certificate? Which fool will hire you?”

Jawwahir laughed. “You don’t know your daughter. I’ll get a big company job—my best friend’s father owns one.”

“Innas” shook her head. “You need to fight ignorance to understand the nonsense you’re saying.”

Jawwahir ignored her and went inside. Her mother sighed, tears in her eyes, knowing her daughter was already lost.

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The next morning, as Jawwahir got ready for school exams, her mother brought her a plate of tuwo (swallow food). “Eat this, I couldn’t make pap.”

Jawwahir laughed mockingly while tying her trousers. “Who eats this nonsense? Do you expect me to eat tuwo before school? I’d vomit! You’re insulting me, Innasco.” She hissed, grabbed her bag, and left.

Outside, she saw her father. Without looking at him, she muttered, “Morning, Babasco.”

He called her back. She frowned and stood before him. “So you think because you’re taller now, you can ignore me? We’ll talk after school.”

She brushed him off and left.

From the doorway, her mother muttered, “Patience, today I’ll ask Sadiq to beat her thoroughly so we can have peace for two days.”

Her father sighed. “May Allah guide our children. Ameen.