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I rode Baba’s motorcycle to the garage where I knelt down low to greet him. The way Yaya Aliyu looked at me today made my knees weak and my voice tremble as I greeted Baba.

He said, “Falling and sitting happen together. Your mother is already telling you about the wedding you’ll have in three months’ time. Where did you leave Ummi?”

I said, “Ummi is at Yaya Hauwa’s house. A wedding, Baba? Whose?”

He laughed. “Your sister Hassanah’s.”

Eyes wide, I said, “Zanirah?”

He laughed again. “It sounds like a film, doesn’t it? But what can we do? Hajjah has made up her mind—she’s marrying off Zanirah, and no one can say anything about it. Or can they?”

Quickly shaking my head, I said, “No, no Baba.” I stood up, ready to leave, but Baba said, “Aren’t you going to greet your brother?”

Yaya Aliyu said, “Leave her, Baba. She’s been to college, she’s grown up now. But don’t leave this house until we return to Giwa shortly.”

Slowly, I lifted my head to look at Yaya Aliyu. He was dressed in a thick grey shadda (Hilton fabric), gleaming in the Saturday morning sunlight. He had lost weight and darkened a bit—if I’m not mistaken, it seemed like an ulcer had flared up and put him in bed while we were at school. His once-bright eyes were now sunken and red. We exchanged a strange two-second stare before I quietly said, “Good afternoon.”

Without caring whether he replied, I rushed off, almost bumping into the doorway.

The children surrounded me—Fa’iza here, Yaya Fa’izah there. One by one I lifted them, setting each one down before asking Junior whose company Mama was in. He said she was with Yaya Zanirah, who had come with Yaya Aliyu and had been crying because they said she was to be married.

I greeted in the sitting room; Mama answered. I saw Zanirah curled up in a corner, head to her knees, sobbing heavily.

I asked, “Mama, is it true?”

She said, “I’m glad you came. I’ve been unable to console her. Since she arrived she’s been crying in my face—what can I do? You know once Hajjah decides, your father won’t oppose her. This crying of yours, Zanirah, is useless—it won’t stop it.”

Through her tears, Zanirah said, “But who, Mama? Who is the groom? They’re telling Hajjah this is the modern age—do they still arrange such marriages as if it’s nothing? I don’t want to marry. Besides, I have someone I love. Let me finish school, then I’ll bring him to her.”

I almost laughed—since our childhood, I’d never known her to have a boyfriend. Sitting beside Mama, I said, “Honestly Mama, I’ve always known Hajjah would be bothered by Zanirah’s height. Look—taller than me, more striking. Hajjah always says: ‘Tall girl, your sense is in your knees; don’t fall into trouble for me.’”

Mama laughed, and Zanirah shot me a glare. Mama said, “Zanirah is older than you by two years, and you’re older than Ummi by five months. I don’t see the harm in Hajjah marrying her off now—she’s nineteen. It’s just the matter of who she’s marrying.”

I thought hard, but couldn’t figure it out. Even your father has asked everyone, but Hajjah insists no one will know until three days before the wedding.

I said, “That old woman is something else. So, Zanirah, what’s the use of crying? We’re next anyway—you know Hajjah will never let you go to university at almost twenty. She’s right…”

Zanirah sprang up as if to hit me, but changed her mind and went into Mama’s bedroom, crying loudly again.

I couldn’t wait for three o’clock so I could leave for Zaria before Yaya Aliyu came back to find me. Even though Aunty Hauwa had told me to obey school rules in both houses, I couldn’t stay—Ummi and I had argued at home, and Yaya Aliyu would only corner me here. He didn’t realize that no matter how much I respected him, I couldn’t bring myself to answer his letter.

At three, I took my bag and scarf, said goodbye to Mama, and asked her to send Malam Garba to drive me to Zaria. Zanirah packed her things too, saying she wouldn’t spend the night here anymore since Mama supported Hajjah’s plan to marry her to a man she didn’t know.

Malam Garba drove straight to our house. My younger siblings were happy to see me, tidying up my room for me. Momi and Baba weren’t back from work. Abdallah had grown—he was now in JSS 3. Walida was ten and in Primary 6, Kausar was in Primary 4, and our youngest, Walid, was in nursery school.

Our family home was full of discipline and harmony. The kids loved each other deeply and were always together. When Momi and Baba were away, they’d lock the doors and read, play games, or watch TV. They loved visitors, prayed on time, and attended Islamiyya in Area One.

Walida was showing off the battery-powered toys Yaya Fa’iz had given them—planes with remote controls for Abdallah. Only Zanirah showed real interest; I just watched.

Momi always cooked in large quantities and filled their cooler, so we had plenty to eat. After we’d eaten, I showered and stood before the mirror in a wide towel, while Zanirah sat on the sofa in a long dress, staring at me.

Walida burst out laughing: “Aunty Fa’izah, Yaya Zanirah is staring at you!”

I turned slightly and caught her gaze. “What is it? Did you get him?”

She smirked, “That groom they found for me is hot. Imagine living with someone when your heart, soul, and body are with someone else.”

I looked at her for a few seconds, then said, “Patience becomes necessary, Zanirah. A woman’s lack of love is temporary; a man’s lack of love lasts longer.”

She asked, “How can I believe that the man Hajjah chose for me loves me?”

I said, “Zanirah, think of Mama and Baba in Kaduna, Baba Na’ibi and Mama Yaya Aliyu, Yaya Hauwa and her husband, Baba Barau and Yaya Ibrahim, Sadi, Salisu, Sani, Aunty Rabi, and Yaya Muftahu—all proof enough. Hajjah Hadiza Giwa would never arrange a marriage without ensuring its success. She won’t put you where you’ll be humiliated. In my opinion, this marriage will only bring good. Even me—though I’m expecting to marry for love to Yaya Aliyu—I still fear I might not enjoy it like the other women in A.B. That’s why I haven’t answered him yet.”

I didn’t look back to see her reaction, but she was staring at me wide-eyed, clutching her chest in shock, then falling back into the sofa, holding her head as if it were splitting apart.

In a soft, hopeless voice, she asked, “Which Aliyu, Fa’izah?”

I clasped my hands behind my back and slowly walked to the window, smiling. “How many Aliyus are in A.B., Zanirah? Apart from Aliyu Haydar Na’ibi A.B. Giwa?”

I turned fully to face her, not noticing her confusion, took my bag, unzipped it, and handed her Aliyu’s letter. “I don’t know how to love, Zanirah—let alone write sweet words. I searched my mind for the most beautiful lines to send him and found nothing beyond ‘I love you too.’ Help me write him something beautiful, even two lines, so he knows I care for him deeply, that my soul, heart, and body all love him!”

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she read the letter. Wiping them quickly, she tore off a corner of the paper. “Let me write for you, Fa’izah. Your foolishness has kept you from seeing that Yaya Aliyu loves you to death—everyone knows it. Hold onto him tightly; he’s not the kind of man to be taken for granted. He has all the qualities a woman could want. I believe if he becomes your husband, you’ll never face the humiliation other women suffer—Aliyu is different. He’s a father, a mother, a friend, a brother, and a husband any woman would dream of.”

I listened, stunned. How did her voice change like that, full of resignation?

I asked, “Will you write it, or should I bring the drawer for you to keep going about how lucky I am?”

She smiled. “I’ll write it, sister.”

She finished in seconds, came to me at the window, handed me the note, and went into the toilet.

“If all my body is full of mouth, it’s not enough to express the kind of love I have for you, Yaya Aliyu.”

Smiling, I hugged the paper. “Thank you, Zanirah…”

“For what?”

We both turned to the door—it was Yaya Aliyu!

Walida laughed, and I fled to the bedroom, embarrassed at the state he found me in. When I returned dressed, I couldn’t meet his eyes; I only looked down. He laughed and told me to meet him in the sitting room.

As he passed the toilet, I heard muffled sobs—surely from Zanirah, crying over her marriage. I didn’t speak to her; she was private about her pain.

In the living room, Yaya Aliyu told Kausar and Walid, who were clinging to his legs, “Come on!” He pulled out Bounty chocolates, handed them each one, and said, “Go join Yaya Abdallah for exercise. Maybe you’ll lose some of that chubbiness.” They ran off happily.