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The voices that descended upon my ears were fierce and sudden, and I failed to clearly identify the exact owner of the voice. Yet, without doubt, the sound was not strange to my ears. Through my blurred vision, I could vaguely make out my husband Abdul-hameed’s relatives standing around me in a circle, without a trace of sympathy, their stance stiff as though they had swallowed sticks.

I could not shield myself from the beatings they kept raining upon me, nor could I muster enough strength to utter words in my own defense against the terrible accusations they hurled at me. My breathing became tight and heavy, with my chest constricted, and my eyes began to see waves of darkness gliding across my sight.

The screech of a police vehicle reached my ears, matching the rapid, faint thumping of my aching chest. Noise, cries, and wailing filled the place before I felt myself yanked up and forced to stand upon my trembling legs.

Both my hands were shackled with something I presumed to be handcuffs placed on me by the security operatives. A voice declared: “Here she is, she’s the one who killed him.”

At that very moment, the piercing cries of my eight-month-old twin boys, Ashraf and Arfat—whom I bore after spending a whole year and some months in my husband’s home—struck my ears. Their cries jolted me back into a brief awareness. Hearing them wrapped around me brought forth a sigh from the depths of my heart, dispersing the inner cries I had been holding. But in my helpless gaze, they were forcefully pulled from my body, while I was dragged outside.

The doorway of the house was packed with people, their lips showering me with curses and spitting at my very being.

A wail escaped me, accompanied by a deep breath that matched the moment my chest completely gave out and ceased its beating.

The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes to find myself lying in a room, its brightness glaring. Surely, it was a hospital. A drip was fixed to my hand. Tears burst forth uncontrollably as realization struck me—I was still alive in this world that only seemed to heap anguish and tribulation upon me. When I tried to rise, I felt my hand restrained. Turning to look, I found the handcuff fastened to my wrist and locked to the hospital bed.

Weak, I lay back down, overwhelmed by the memory of what had transpired, events that felt like a nightmare.

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un.”

That was all my lips could utter as I bit down on them. What sort of fate was this that rolled into my life? Shattering every foundation I had built in the hopes of securing a fruitful marriage and a promising life for my children.

My gaze fell upon the very hand connected to the drip. My heart sank—this was the same hand they claimed had wielded the knife that ended Abdul-hameed’s life. My doom! I had been stitched into a fabric of evil I did not weave. I shut my eyes tightly, but in the darkness I saw Abdul-hameed’s body lying in blood.

Time passed before the door swung open. Two men entered—one in a doctor’s coat and the other clad in a police officer’s uniform. The doctor examined me briefly, then turned and said, “You can take her now since she has regained consciousness.”

My head spun, and I slipped back into unconsciousness until I was roused again by a female police officer who roughly removed the handcuffs from the bedframe, gripped me, and led me out. My eyes stayed low, but I could feel the stares stabbing into me as we exited into the police vehicle and departed the hospital premises.

From the moment I entered the vehicle, tears flowed freely, my chest burning with anguish. I wished desperately to convince myself that what I was witnessing was just a dream, yet it was reality unfolding.

At the police station, crowded with journalists, the car stopped. They swarmed around me, pelting me with questions:

“What can you say about the accusation of killing your husband?”

The question struck deep into my brain. Security personnel pushed them away and hurried me inside.

Inside, my eyes met my mother’s, flanked by my two elder brothers, Hamma Abubakar and Hamma Adnan. Instantly, hot tears cascaded down my face. My mother’s face was swollen from weeping, terror and shock written across their features. She rushed forward, cupping my face, crying out:

“Why? Why? Why did you commit this heinous act?”

Through a trembling, broken voice, I pleaded, “Umma, by Allah, I did not do it. I did not kill Abdul-hameed. Believe me.”

Before she could say more, a policeman shoved me away toward the cell. My mother fell to her knees, sobbing: “Please, let me speak to her, she is my only daughter!”

Coldly, the officer retorted: “You’d better erase her from your heart. Forget you ever had such a daughter. She will face court, and the judge will sentence her to death. Mothers like you keep birthing useless children without raising them well, unleashing calamities upon society. Better she was never born.”

His words broke my mother. She fainted on the spot. Officers barked at my brothers to carry her out.

Left behind, I collapsed onto the cold ground of the cell. My tears had dried, leaving only a cry within my heart. My head pounded as if splitting into two. The world around me was suffocating; my body trembled as though electrified.

“I did not kill Abdul-hameed, I did not kill Abdul-hameed.”

I kept repeating the words inside, unable to say them aloud. I don’t know how long I remained like that until the cell door creaked open. I did not raise my head, only felt the presence of someone above me. My whispered mantra grew into audible speech.

“Calm down.”

Startled, I lifted my gaze to the police officer standing before me. Desperately, I said: “It wasn’t me! I swear it wasn’t me!”

He said nothing at first, then crouched down to my level and softly asked, “I know you didn’t kill him. What’s your name?”

A sigh left my chest: “Abdul-hameed.”

He studied me for a while, then turned to the officer behind him and ordered: “Take her to wash, change her clothes, and give her food. Once she’s stable, she’ll answer our questions.”

I was taken away, cleaned, and given food—which I could not touch. My tears had dried on my cheeks. My only thought was of my mother’s condition, more than my own fate. For I knew, surely, my end had drawn near.

Night fell heavy, my thoughts consumed by my twins. Had they eaten? Were they safe? I did not know. The following morning, a policewoman returned, her eyes sharp with hatred.

“So you left the food untouched? If you ate, it would be for yourself, not anyone else. You filthy hyena in sheep’s skin. May God curse you.”

I asked weakly, “I want to pray.”

She scoffed with mockery: “You dare think of praying? When you forgot God while weaving evil? Anyone who takes a life deserves death. You know that, don’t you?”

I kept silent until she spat and left. I searched for a spot to perform dry ablution, but found none. Dizziness overcame me as I leaned against the bars, watching the officers outside.

Another senior officer later arrived, and upon hearing of my situation, he ordered them to bring me water for ablution, a hijab, and a prayer mat.

I prayed sitting, weak, raising my trembling hands in silent supplication.

When the officer returned to question me, I could not utter a word. My lips moved, but my voice would not cooperate. Finally, they brought me—handcuffed—into another room. There, I found my mother and Hamma Adnan waiting.

I ran to my mother, collapsing at her feet, resting my head on her lap. She stroked my back gently, her tears soaking into my neck.

“Aishatu,” she whispered my name—her first time ever calling me directly, without the pet names she usually used.

Her voice trembled, “People are saying it was jealousy that drove you to this. Why did you do it?”

Through heavy sobs, I lifted my eyes to her face: “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t! Umma, he is not dead!”

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un.”

Hamma Adnan exclaimed, holding his forehead. All three of us wept bitterly together.

Suddenly, a harsh voice ordered, “Time’s up. Leave immediately.”

The policewoman who had brought me in came to drag me out. I cried out to Hamma Adnan: “Where is Baffa?”

Before he could answer, she yanked me up. But his words followed me, freezing me in place:

“Forgive me. Baffa said he will never step foot where you are.”

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