She stood up and left in tears. I couldn’t say anything. Aliyu adjusted himself in his chair without a word. I got up and left too, while Ummi looked at us all with pity.

At 5:30 p.m., we escorted Zanirah and Aliyu to Kaduna airport for their flight to Lagos. That’s when my heart started to boil, screaming agreement with Zanirah’s words:

“Times have changed…”

Hajjah and her kind should abandon these traditional false beliefs and understand that love is a natural force you cannot erase. That was the moment I knew—I had lost Aliyu forever, as the plane’s wheels lifted from the ground.

Tears rolled down as I remembered Aliyu often saying:

> “Fa’izah, if only you had eyes like Zanirah’s—wallahi, I’d be happy…”

My tears doubled. Zanirah now had Aliyu completely. I wept harder, resting my head on Ummi’s shoulder. Only Ummi knew the depth of my love for Aliyu—we’d lived together in school longer than Zanirah ever had with me. I had planned my entire married life with Aliyu—how we’d live, run the home, and manage everything. But today, Hajjah and her false beliefs (in my eyes) destroyed it all.

In that instant, a new heart took over mine—with a new perception. I knew the sweetness of love, but also the bitterness of losing it. If God wills, I will never marry someone I don’t love. I will never marry for family ties. I will be the first in the Abubakar Bamalli Giwa family to marry for love. No matter the world’s opinion, I will marry only the one my heart accepts—the one I love and who loves me back, like the love I had with Aliyu.

It’s been exactly one month since Zanirah left, but no word from them. Aliyu called Hajjah to say he was busy with work in Ibadan and wouldn’t come home this month—he was with his bride there. Men! As Umma Sulaiman Shu’aibu ‘Yan Awaki says:

> “A bee pours out honey everywhere…”

The pressure Mansur Modibbo puts on me in Giwa and Zaria has made me resent those towns. Since losing Aliyu, I doubt I can feel love again soon. Love happens only once, and I’ve had mine and recovered. I pray God never repeats it for me—at least not in Zaria, Giwa, or Kaduna. He must be a stranger, from far away.

I haven’t healed from the last wound and now someone’s trying to plant another. “Does he have no pity, Ummi?” I asked her one Saturday evening.

> “Would I feel anything? Yeah, I’d love to marry a stranger—but he must be from far away. If he’s not, I don’t want it.”

So I kept my distance from him, rejecting him as sharply as possible, even though he was deeply in love with me. It’s not that he had flaws—his character was admirable in every way.

Ummi and I were both longing for Zanirah—like grieving for someone who’d died. Even Hajjah, though she busied herself, felt Zanirah’s absence. We’d sit in silence, lie down, and forbid the children from turning on the TV or radio. The house became like a place of mourning.

That’s why I was glad when Hajjah suggested we go to Kano to stay with Yaya Rabi for a while before our school documents were ready so we could resume studies. I suspected Hajjah wanted me to forget Aliyu entirely. What she didn’t know was—I had already closed that chapter. No matter what, I would have no dealings with Zanirah’s husband other than through family ties.

So we prepared for Kano. Yaya Rabi was kindness itself—probably the kindest of all Hajjah’s children. Living with her and her humorous husband, Yaya Muftahu, washed away our sorrows. She filled the gap left by Zanirah, and he filled Aliyu’s.

We began a sweet, new life. In our chats, Yaya Rabi would sometimes bring up Zanirah and Aliyu. She never knew Aliyu and I had once loved each other. Her casual remarks about them—like:

> “Only God knows the love they share, even though he once claimed he didn’t love her.”

Or:

> “Ah, they must be romancing in Lagos right now.”

Or:

> “Honestly, Zanirah got herself a good man—kind, gentle, unlike Bashir, Fa’iz, or Mus’abu.”

I’d just turn away like I didn’t hear. Ummi would just laugh.

Ummi and I had mended our bond. She realized if she wanted my company, she’d have to stop talking about my rival, Fa’iz. She even packed away all Fa’iz’s photos and gifts in a big bag at Hajjah’s in Giwa.

As Takori says:

> “A person’s heart is their city.”

The next day, we went with Momi to attend the walima of her friend’s daughter, Dr. Ladi, in Tudun-Wada. The girls’ luncheon at the Congo Conference helped ease our sorrows. None of us returned without a suitor that day—they even followed us home. But Momi gently told them to come back the next evening after maghrib when proper introductions could be made.