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KISHIN BAL-BAL HAUSA NOVELS BY JAMILA UMAR TANKO
My mind was completely in turmoil, and I was so deeply unsettled that I lost all sense of comfort. I walked upstairs only to discover that the door to Mufidah's apartment was flung wide open. A crew of professional cleaners was inside, thoroughly sweeping and wiping down the entire place. The cleaning staff had clearly been hired from a private commercial agency; there were about five of them, men and women, each neatly dressed in t-shirts branded with the company’s logo. I instantly began doubting everything. Was she actually returning to live here, or had she officially surrendered the apartment so new tenants could move in? I continually prayed, begging Allah to let the new occupants be elderly folks or a quiet divorced couple, just so I could finally catch a break from my suffocating paranoia.
I stepped into my own living room and found the children playing. I asked them where their father was, and they replied that he had gone out, mentioning that he was going to buy them some ice cream. Suddenly, a terrible gut feeling washed over me; my instinct told me he had gone straight to Jalila’s place, especially since I had personally witnessed her older sister calling his phone earlier.
In a frantic panic, I grabbed my phone and dialed his number, but he didn't pick up. I dialed a second time, but it kept ringing out. Hot sweat began pouring down my skin. I bolted to my feet and began pacing restlessly back and forth across my living room; absolutely no one but my own tormented heart knew the sheer weight of the agony that was eating me alive inside.
In a moment of blind rage, I scrolled through my contacts to find Her Excellency's phone number, fully intending to call her and unleash a brutal torrent of insults on her—convinced that whatever the consequences might be, I simply didn't care anymore. But then, a sudden flash of rationality hit me. I recalled the devastating legal repercussions of such verbal abuse and stopped myself, terrified that I might end up locked away in a prison cell.
I dialed Usman's number once more in a furious state, and by some stroke of luck, he finally answered.
I demanded angrily, "Where on earth are you?!"
He replied calmly, "I am right outside the building, literally just a few steps away from the main gate. What is it? Is everything alright?"
The suffocating tension in my chest immediately began to ease. I abruptly hung up the phone, realized I didn't even know what excuse I would have given him for my outburst. A long, heavy silence followed, but there was still no sign of Usman and no sound of his movement outside. Growing intensely agitated, I stepped out of my apartment, fully intending to peek down the corridor to see what was delaying him. The moment I stepped out, my eyes locked directly onto Mufidah. She was sitting comfortably on a chair right inside her open living room, staring directly back at me. My heart instantly dropped into my stomach, and my mood soured completely; I desperately detested the fact that she had returned to this building. Driven by pure spite, I marched right into her apartment without even offering the mandatory Islamic greeting (Salam). She was deeply engrossed in her phone, clearly locked in a live video call.
Meanwhile, a distinguished, highly prominent older man was seated at her dining table, quietly eating a meal. He opened his mouth and stared at me in surprise, and when he realized that I had absolutely no intention of greeting him first, he took the initiative to politely greet me instead. I offered a cold, arrogant, and dismissive response. As for the "Princess" Mufidah, she merely spared me a single, indifferent glance before completely tossing me out of her awareness, returning to her video call and chatting away happily.
Exasperated by her disrespect, I snapped loudly, "Madam, I came here specifically to see you!"
She completely ignored me. She didn't bother to acknowledge my presence until the distinguished man suddenly unleashed a massive, earth-shattering roar of a reprimand at her. The shout was so intensely commanding that not only did it startle her, but I myself literally jumped in sheer fright.
He barked at her, "What kind of disgraceful behavior is this?! You have a guest walk into your home and you completely refuse to acknowledge her? You haven't offered her a seat, nor have you given her a proper welcome! I absolutely will not tolerate this type of wretched attitude!"
Instantly, her arrogant posture evaporated. She humbled herself immediately, adjusted her seating, and muttered under her breath in a low, submissive tone, "Come inside and sit down."
I marched across the room with an air of absolute triumph, sank into a comfortable armchair, and casually crossed one leg over the other.
The distinguished gentleman continuously offered his deepest apologies to me on her behalf. Watching his authority over her, I secretly prayed that this was the man who was officially going to marry her; if that were the case, I would finally be cured of my endless sleepless nights and paranoia. It was glaringly obvious that he possessed the power to completely reform her wild behavior; one look at his stern, uncompromising face told me he was not a man to be trifled with, and she clearly feared his wrath. In fact, her clothing choice today was exceptionally modest and respectable—she was beautifully dressed in a high-end Super Holland wax print skirt and blouse set in a stunning pink color. Today, of all days, Mufidah had even gone as far as loosely draping a modest shawl (gyale) over her head.
She shot a sideways, passive-aggressive glare at me from the corner of her eyes—a look that hovered somewhere between bitter resentment and forced compliance. She was clearly dying to know the exact motive behind my sudden visit.
I twisted my face into a smug expression and demanded, "You are going to give me Murjanatu Bibi's direct phone number. I need to speak with her immediately."
She widened her eyes and stared back at me, her face full of sheer astonishment. I merely locked eyes with her, widened my own defiantly, and repeated my demand with absolute arrogance.
Seeing her hesitation, the good-hearted gentleman intervened yet again, glaring at her sharply. "Did you not hear the question the lady just asked you?!"
Pouting her lips in deep frustration, she had no choice but to aggressively toss her expensive phone straight onto my lap. The moment I looked down at the screen, I found myself looking directly into the eyes of Murjanatu Bibi, who was actively streaming on a live video call. Thanks to the ultra-premium quality of the high-end device, her image appeared crystal clear, looking exactly like a high-definition television broadcast. The luxurious environment surrounding her spoke volumes; even without being told, it was glaringly obvious she was in the United States of America, sitting inside a magnificent, upscale shopping mall. She was relaxing at an elite restaurant with an abundance of gourmet food spread out on the table before her, accompanied by two young girls.
I lifted the phone to get a closer look. She stared back at me through the camera, and then she let out that signature, carefree laugh of hers. She cooed, "Ah, fine girl! How are you doing? And how is your husband? It’s been ages since I last heard from you guys!"
May Allah protect us from the sheer audacity of worldly, street-smart women! The simple reality was that she was completely oblivious to the massive domestic wars her actions had caused in my home.
I forced a highly strained, fake smile onto my face and replied, "He is doing perfectly fine, completely absorbed in his usual routines. Look, I am currently retrieving your direct phone number from Mufidah because we want to call you later so we can have a proper conversation."
She smiled warmly and replied, "Oh, that’s absolutely no problem at all! I would love that. Please make sure you call me, because if you don't, I am definitely going to be very upset with you."
Goodness gracious! Talk about absolute worldly nonchalance! This woman was acting as though she had completely forgotten about the entire extended period where my husband was desperately chasing after her while she repeatedly ran away from him.
I handed the phone back to Mufidah. This time around, she shot me a venomous glare before violently snatching the device from my hand. I watched her eyes dart nervously toward the dining table; she knew the distinguished man’s eyes were locked squarely on us, fully prepared to tear her to shreds if she showed me an ounce of disrespect.
She quickly spoke to Murjanatu in a sharp, hurried tone, telling her to hang up the call because she would dial her back later. She pulled up Murjanatu’s contact card, but instead of simply reading the digits out loud to me, she spitefully tossed the phone onto my lap for a second time.
Wearing a smug, thoroughly satisfied smile, I pulled out my own cracked, cheap phone and began copying the number. However, I deliberately played a psychological game; I intentionally pretended to make mistakes while typing, slowly deleting the digits and re-entering them just to drag out the interaction and torment her. Mufidah was clearly dying to lash out at me verbally, but every single time she raised her eyes, she caught the stern, murderous glare the older man was directing at her, forcing her to look away in bitter, frustrated silence. While I had her phone, I secretly dialed my husband’s number into her contact search bar to check if she had his contact saved under an intimate name. When his name failed to appear, I quickly cleared the search bar. Suddenly, a massive, stunning photograph popped up on her screen—it was a portrait of her alongside that exact same distinguished gentleman currently sitting at the dining table. He was holding her close, and both of them were radiant with beautiful, genuine smiles. They looked exceptionally beautiful and perfectly matched. Let Umma stay blind to Aisha's reality, I thought, but as for me, everyone should leave my husband alone. He is my poor man, and we will finish this life journey together, just him and me.
I handed her phone back. She violently ripped it out of my hand, accompanying the gesture with a sharp, contorted sneer.
Deliberately wanting to provoke the older man into giving her another severe scolding, I stood up with slow, calculated grace. I gently placed a hand on her shoulder, offered her a sweet, mock-friendly smile, and said, "Thank you so much for your wonderful assistance, my dear neighbor. I deeply appreciate it. See you later!"
I then turned toward the dining table, flashed a beautiful, respectful smile at the gentleman, and bowed slightly. "Goodbye, sir. Thank you so very much."
He smiled warmly and replied, "You are very welcome, madam. Have a wonderful evening."
I hadn't even fully stepped out of the living room before the gentleman's voice boomed behind me. He began furiously reprimanding her for failing to bid me a proper farewell and for refusing to walk me to the door, stating explicitly that he utterly detested such an ugly, uncultured attitude. He was delivering this scolding in a highly sophisticated, fluent American accent.
Startled by his anger, she bolted upright and rushed out after me. I walked ahead of her, swaying my hips in an arrogant, rhythmic dance of victory until we reached the threshold that separated our two apartments.
I spun around to face her, adopting a calm, mocking tone. "I am deeply grateful, you know. So, it turns out you actually returned after all? I was under the impression that you had permanently abandoned this building."
She locked her arms tightly across her chest, her posture radiating pure hostility as she prepared to unleash a wave of disrespect. She let out a dry, sarcastic laugh and said, "Oh, standard protocol, isn't it? You guys must have been missing me terribly, right? Well, I knew it was absolutely inevitable. One of three things is bound to happen."
I stared at her blankly, entirely failing to comprehend her hidden meaning. She let out a deeply satisfied chuckle and sneered, "You are the one who is going to miss me the absolute most. And even if you somehow manage not to miss me, your children most certainly will. And if the children don't, then your husband absolutely and inevitably will have to miss me."
Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un! What on earth were my ears listening to?! A sudden, icy wave of panic crashed into my chest, causing my heart to skip a violent beat. I spun around furiously, my mouth wide open to unleash a screaming match, but at that exact second, Usman appeared, standing directly in front of us.
Mufidah let out a smug laugh, casually waved her hand at me, and said, "Alright then, bye! Thanks for the visit, my dear neighbor!"
She stepped back into her apartment, slammed the door shut, and turned the key, leaving me standing dead in my tracks. Usman and I were locked in a tense, silent standoff, staring directly at each other. He looked at me, then turned his gaze toward Mufidah’s locked door. Neither of us could find the words to speak. Finally, he let out a loud, irritated hiss of contempt, forcefully shoved past my shoulder, and stormed inside our house.
I stood frozen in the corridor, completely torn between two explosive impulses. Should I furiously pound on her door, burst into her apartment, and fight her until the world comes to an end, or should I walk into my own home and eat my bitter resentment all by myself?
Suddenly, his furious voice boomed through the apartment, screaming my name at the top of his lungs. I rushed inside, and he instantly pointed a shaking finger toward the living room carpet. The children had made an absolute mockery of the place; they had played a game with our scarce supply of powdered milk and Milo cocoa powder. They had taken two entire canisters, dumped the contents directly onto the carpet, mixed it with water to form a thick, sticky paste, and smeared it everywhere. Every single one of them had their mouths and hands completely caked in the sticky mess. Letting out a wild roar of anger, I lunged forward to beat them, but Usman instantly intercepted my path, shielding them as he shouted in pure, unbridled rage:
"Don't you dare lay a single finger on my children! If you touch a single one of them, I swear I will slap you across this room! Whose fault is this anyway?! You were out there gossiping and looking for trouble in the neighbors' apartments, entirely failing to sit down and properly raise your own children! You don't know a single damn thing in this life except toxic jealousy and causing endless drama with every woman in this town over your husband! Who on earth told you that every single woman is desperate to have a man?! Elite, high-class women who actually know their own worth are out there focusing on their education, advancing their careers, dominating politics, and building a secure financial shield for themselves and their husbands! They don't have the time to chase after a man like me! I am a common, broke man, yet you waste your entire life's energy obsessing over me! What on earth did you go to look for in Mufidah's house—were you actively looking for a physical fight? What exactly do you think a woman like Mufidah would ever want with a man like me? Even if I were physically tied to her feet as a gift, she would cut the ropes and toss me into the trash because I don't even exist in her reality! She doesn't love me, I don't love her, and I am miles away from the caliber of man she desires! She has told you face-to-face, and she has repeated it countless times, that out of all the men on this earth, she has never met a man who repels her and fails to impress her as much as I do!
Have you even bothered to look down at the courtyard to see the type of vehicle parked outside our gate? Her guest arrived in a car so astronomically expensive that even if we were to sell every single member of our entire extended lineage—your family and mine combined—the total sum wouldn't even cover the cost of that single vehicle!
This is pure, unadulterated foolishness! Since yesterday, you have been unleashing a non-stop torrent of insults against Jalila—the very people who actively helped your beloved husband and rescued him from falling directly into the hands of the law! Instead of showing them immense gratitude, you offer nothing but vile abuse! In fact, I am starting to suspect that you have begun visiting witch doctors and occult spiritualists ('yan tsubbu). Judging by the bizarre stories you were telling me yesterday and your targeted interrogation regarding Minat, it's glaringly obvious you've started consulting seers. You better watch your step carefully, before this toxic jealousy causes you to completely lose your Islamic faith (Iman). I see right through you now—there is no 'marriage seminar' that you ladies are attending; you have officially started visiting occult shrines!"
He let out a sharp, disgusted hiss of contempt and stormed into his bedroom, leaving me standing frozen in the middle of the living room like a literal stone statue.
Today, Usman had thoroughly and completely torn my dignity into shreds. I was filled with an overwhelming wave of self-loathing. To think that this is the exact man for whom I have completely denied myself peace of mind just to protect the honor of our love and the sacred bonds of our marriage, yet today he stands there telling me that my entire existence is nothing but pure madness. My goodness, what a massive distortion of reality! Talk about an absolute betrayal of devotion...
For two consecutive days, an icy silence hung between us; we didn't exchange a single word. Even my interactions with the children were reduced to sharp, irritable scolds. I permanently confined myself to my bedroom, while he remained isolated in his own room. Whenever he left the house, he didn't bother to inform me, and I completely stopped offering him the standard courtesies of asking how his day went or welcoming him back. When he finally realized that I was completely serious and had absolutely no intention of backing down or breaking the ice, he took action. As I was walking past him in the corridor, I suddenly felt a firm hand wrap around my arm and pull me back. I spun around only to find Usman standing there.
He held me in an iron grip, completely neutralizing my frantic attempts to wrench myself free. He began to speak in an incredibly soft, tender tone, his words dripping with deep emotion:
"I am so very sorry, my love. I know with absolute certainty that you love me deeply, and I love you just as much. Absolutely nothing in this world will ever separate us except death itself. I am deeply remorseful for the horrific things I said to you in the heat of my anger. The simple truth is that I utterly detest Mufidah, and the mere sight of you interacting with her completely ruined my mood and drove me mad. I honestly wish she would just pack her bags and vanish so we would never have to lay eyes on her again."
The moment those sweet words left his lips, I felt my entire grievance melt away; his explanation instantly brought immense joy to my heart.
He took my hand, led me over to the couch, and we sat down together. He spent the next hour showering me with absolute affection, expressing how deeply he cherished me and detailing the profound state of depression and anxiety he had suffered over the past two days due to my cold shoulder. He didn't stop until he ensured that my anger had completely evaporated and a bright smile broke across my face, only then did his mind finally find peace.
We immediately plunged into a long, cozy conversation, catching up on everything. As it turned out, he had been harboring a massive piece of financial news that he had been dying to share, and he finally let it out today.
He informed me that he had managed to scrap together the sum of 200,000 Naira and had wired it to his mother to fund the wedding preparations and bridal shopping for his younger sister. He explained that he achieved this by combining the 150,000 Naira cash gift that Her Excellency had given him with an additional 50,000 Naira from an old personal debt that a friend had finally repaid him.
While I was genuinely happy to hear this, a sudden wave of anxiety hit me. He had literally drained our entire domestic food allowance to the very last kobo, leaving his pockets completely empty with absolutely no backup funds.
Adjusting my posture on the couch, I quickly changed the subject to share the juicy gossip about Mufidah’s impending marriage, detailing how that prominent older gentleman had yelled at her and how she had instantly humbled herself under his authority. Usman didn't offer a single word in response, but judging by his body language, he looked highly uncomfortable and completely uninterested in the conversation.
He shot a sharp look at me and asked, "What on earth took you back to her apartment anyway?"
I quickly fabricated a lie on the spot. "Oh, Ahmad ran straight into her house and completely refused to come out. I had to chase after him to drag him back by force because he was over there begging them for snacks."
I then pulled out my phone and launched a live video call to Murjanatu, wanting to emulate the trendy lifestyle of high-class elites who love to broadcast their exact geographical locations, especially when traveling abroad. On the very first ring, Murjanatu’s face flashed onto the screen, her eyes lighting up with immense joy the moment she recognized me.
This time around, she was relaxing in a magnificent, lush green garden, completely surrounded by an array of vibrant, beautifully colored flowers.
She smiled brightly and cooed, "Fine girl! How are you doing? And where is my absolute best friend?"
Hearing a voice that sounded remarkably familiar to someone from his past, Usman's curiosity was instantly piqued. He leaned in closer, fully assuming I was simply watching a movie on my device.
I abruptly turned the screen and thrust the phone directly into his hands. He took the device, fixed his gaze onto the display, and found himself staring directly into the eyes of Murjanatu Bibi. I had deliberately kept the fact that I obtained her number a total secret from him, wanting to catch him completely off guard with an explosive surprise. I knew he would be utterly stunned, feeling as though he were seeing a ghost or caught inside a dream.
I was completely convinced that he would be thrilled with my resourcefulness for tracking her down, believing she would welcome him back with open arms and finally grant him the lucrative career opportunities he had been chasing for so long. Furthermore, from my own psychological perspective, I assumed this grand gesture would make him love me even more, validating the fact that my devotion to him was genuine and that I deeply cared about his financial well-being.
Murjanatu was bursting with excitement on the screen, laughing happily and waving her hand enthusiastically at him.
She exclaimed, "Ustaz! How are you? I have been looking for you everywhere!"
To my absolute, horrifying astonishment, Usman’s face instantly contorted into an expression of pure, unbridled rage. He let out a furious roar and violently hurled my phone across the room, causing it to instantly shatter into a million pieces against the wall. He lunged directly at me like an enraged, starving lion that had just spotted a piece of meat, looking as though he wanted to swallow me alive.
He grabbed me roughly by the shoulders, shaking me so violently it felt as though he were about to break my bones. He growled a terrifying warning directly into my face, stating under no circumstances was I ever to associate with Murjanatu or Mufidah again, commanding me to stay completely out of their business for the rest of my life. He shouted that even if the world were to come to an absolute end, he was completely finished with Murjanatu Bibi, swearing he would never, ever forget the absolute humiliation and degradation she had subjected him to in the past. I burst into a violent fit of weeping, my entire body shaking with absolute terror. With immense effort, he finally released his tight grip and violently threw me away from him. I flew through the air and crashed heavily onto a couch, so disoriented by the violence that I couldn't even tell which specific sofa I had landed on—the two-seater, the single-seater, or the three-seater. I had absolutely no idea. I was witnessing a level of terrifying, monstrous rage from Usman that I had never experienced in all my years of marriage.
He snatched his car keys off the counter and stormed out of the house in a blind fury. I didn't see a single trace of him until midnight. When he finally walked through the front door at 12:00 AM, he found me sitting alone in the dark living room. I had spent the last several hours weeping until my eyes were completely swollen, exhausted, and drained of all energy. I fully expected him to be consumed by his usual immediate remorse and comfort me, but he merely shot a cold, indifferent glare at me and walked straight past.
The moment he stepped into his bedroom, I rushed up behind him, wrapped my arms tightly around his back, and began sobbing hysterically. I begged for his forgiveness, crying out and asking what on earth I had done to make him hate me so deeply.
He turned around and stated that he didn't hate me at all; rather, he harbored a deep, visceral hatred for Murjanatu and Mufidah, and he was deeply frustrated by my complete refusal to cut ties with them. After a long, agonizing period of begging, I finally managed to calm his anger down. He offered a sincere apology for the incredibly harsh and toxic words he had hurled at me during his outburst.
I eventually convinced him to eat some dinner, after which he took a warm bath, and we finally retired to bed. We stayed up sharing a long conversation, but his tone was laced with intense anxiety and distress. He confessed that he was completely broke and had absolutely no avenue left to secure any money. The children's school holidays had officially commenced, and he was completely terrified that by the time the new term arrived, he wouldn't be able to scrape together their tuition fees. To make matters worse, our house rent had been fully expired for over three months now, and our landlord, Godwin, had already started bombarding his phone with demanding calls.
I gently pointed out that if he hadn't sent the entirety of his funds to his mother, he would have easily had enough to cover our back-rent. He countered fiercely, stating that under no circumstances did he want his elderly parents to discover that he was currently unemployed; he knew the shocking news would instantly trigger their high blood pressure. Furthermore, with his youngest sister's wedding fast approaching, he didn't want to cause his mother a total panic.
He barely slept a wink that night. I watched him get out of bed in the early hours of the morning to perform voluntary prayers, pouring his heart out and crying tears as he took his deep financial burdens to Allah—the ultimate Sovereign and Provider of all creation.
A profound sense of anxiety settled into my own heart. The next morning, I walked into my kitchen only to find that our food supplies were completely depleted; there was absolutely nothing substantial left to cook. From across the corridor, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of deep-frying and gourmet cooking began wafting directly into our apartment from Safiya and Umma's homes—and most explicitly from Mufidah's kitchen. It was glaringly obvious that she was preparing an absolute feast, likely in anticipation of another visit from her distinguished male guest; she was frying and boiling an abundance of luxury delicacies.
Usman walked into the kitchen and found me listlessly mixing a plain bowl of custard powder without a single drop of milk, my entire body heavy with depression. Noticing my broken spirit, he gently pulled me close and began offering beautiful words of scriptural advice, doing his absolute best to comfort my heart. We quietly consumed our meager breakfast together, after which he announced that he was going to head out to drive around the city, desperate to see if he could find any financial opening. Looking thoroughly pathetic and full of sorrow, he exited the house, while I remained behind, trying to piece together whatever random scraps of food I could find for our next meal.
Suddenly, Umma walked into my apartment. She sat down with me, and we ended up sharing a very long conversation. As it turned out, despite her quiet nature, she was an exceptionally perceptive and far-sighted woman who had already deduced the exact financial crisis our family was sinking into. She reached into her bag and pulled out a substantial wad of cash, alongside a large plastic bag overflowing with biscuits, candies, and a massive supply of diapers for the baby. Tears of pure, overwhelming joy instantly welled up in my eyes, and I showered her with endless gratitude.
She then shifted the conversation to Safiya, noting that she had observed a strange distance between us lately. However, instead of prying into our business, she simply offered me profound, beautiful advice, urging me to maintain absolute patience within my marriage, reminding me that this worldly life is far too short to spend it in conflict.
I thanked her deeply for her wisdom. When she stood up to take her leave, I walked out to escort her. However, instead of heading down the staircase to her own apartment, I watched her walk directly toward Mufidah’s front door. In an instant, a sharp, suffocating wave of bitter resentment choked the very depths of my heart.
My mood completely ruined, I demanded sharply, "What on earth do you have to do inside Mufidah’s apartment?" Umma looked visibly taken aback by the pure hostility in my tone. She stared at me in silence for a few long seconds, before offering a soft, gentle smile. "It is a fundamental duty of neighborly relations, my dear. She went on an exceptionally long journey abroad, so now that she has finally returned, it is only proper that I step inside to welcome her home, isn't it?"
Driven by intense curiosity, I pressed, "Where exactly did she travel to?"
"America," Umma replied calmly.
Before I could launch into another round of questioning, Mufidah’s door swung open and she stepped out. She was beautifully dressed in a stylish, fitted black top and trousers, with her long hair tied back loosely without a single headscarf covering her head. She began casting her usual arrogant, dismissive glances around the corridor, and the moment her eyes landed squarely on me, her expression hardened. However, a split second later, she noticed Umma standing beside me, and her entire demeanor instantly transformed into a radiant, beautiful smile. She lunged forward and wrapped Umma in a tight, immensely joyful embrace.
I stood there utterly paralyzed with shock, wondering how on earth the two of them had ever developed such a deep, intimate bond. There are truly so many hypocrites and busybodies in this world, I thought bitterly. People like Umma just love to force their way into spaces where they don't belong.
I shot them a thoroughly disgusted, top-to-bottom glare, dismissed them completely, and stormed back into my apartment, slamming my door shut. I immediately positioned myself against the peephole to spy on them. I watched the two of them retreat into Mufidah’s apartment. Umma stayed inside for an exceptionally long time before finally emerging. I remained glued to my vantage point, watching their every move.
Mufidah personally escorted her out to the corridor, and I noticed that Umma was now carrying a massive, premium shopping bag in her hand—it was glaringly obvious that Mufidah had showered her with expensive foreign souvenirs from her trip. To think that when I walked into her apartment earlier, she didn't offer me a single item, I thought jealously. Simply because she detests me just as intensely as I detest her.
Those trousers she was wearing were exceptionally tight, and her top was completely form-fitting; every single curve and outline of her body was explicitly and provocatively on display. Yet, despite her sheer immodesty, Umma—in her absolute naivety—had agreed to let this woman escort her all the way down to the ground floor. What on earth would happen if they suddenly bumped into Umma's husband on the stairs? I scoffed. Show me a single man alive who could look at a woman sculpted like Mufidah and not look twice—unless, of course, he has a medical problem.
I quickly moved away from the door and ran over to the window to continue my surveillance. Umma's apartment was located directly underneath mine, while Safiya's home sat squarely beneath Mufidah's. Instead of heading straight inside, Umma paused in the courtyard, and the two women launched into a brand-new, animated conversation.
A profound sense of deep hatred for Umma began to take root in my heart. Granted, we had never been exceptionally close, but from this moment forward, I vowed to be extremely cautious and guarded whenever dealing with her.
Suddenly, Usman’s car came driving through the main gate, steering straight into the courtyard. Oh great, a head-on collision is completely inevitable now, I panicked. My heart violently leaped into my throat, and I instinctively moved toward my front door to rush downstairs and intercept him. But the moment I looked out the window and watched his reaction, a wave of pure relief and satisfaction washed over me. He cast a sharp, venomous glare toward the exact spot where Mufidah was standing, and immediately averted his eyes with absolute disgust. I could faintly hear Umma’s voice calling out a polite greeting to him, but absolutely no words were exchanged between him and Mufidah; they completely ignored each other's existence.
A few moments later, he walked into our living room, his movements slow, heavy, and completely drained of energy. It was glaringly obvious that his search had yielded absolutely nothing and he was returning empty-handed. He sank onto the couch and placed his chin in his palms (Tagumi). He was completely beginning to lose his signature polished look; that sharp, attractive glow of his was rapidly fading away under the crushing weight of poverty, and his fair complexion looked dull.
For lunch, I had prepared a basic meal of rice and beans, dressed with nothing but plain cooking oil and chili pepper powder (yaji). The children had already eaten their portions, leaving only a single plate for him and me to share. I placed the food in front of him. He looked down at the meager offering and slowly shook his head—a silent, heartbreaking acknowledgement of the absolute poverty we had sunk into.
As we ate, I did my absolute best to fabricate lighthearted conversation to cheer him up, but he looked completely checked out and disinclined to speak. It wasn't until I pulled out the 5,000 Naira cash note that Umma had given me that I finally saw a flicker of life return to his face. He offered a series of profound prayers for her well-being, but a second later, his paranoid nature kicked in. He fixed a suspicious gaze on me and began interrogating me, demanding to know if I had lowered our dignity by exposing our financial starvation to her. I swore to him with absolute certainty that I hadn't uttered a single word about our struggles, explaining that she had simply deduced our situation through her own intuition and decided to offer a helping hand.
He let out a heavy, bitter sigh. "So, it has officially come to this. We have officially become objects of charity in this neighborhood—people have actively started pitying us. But let me tell you, Fatiti, the true tragedy is still waiting for us in the future, unless Allah textually intervenes to protect us."
I stared at him in sudden terror, my voice trembling. "What on earth do you mean by that?"
He sat in a long, brooding silence before continuing: "I am talking about the exact day when the landlord will arrive to violently toss our belongings out into the dirt because we haven't paid our rent. I am talking about the day when my children will be permanently expelled from school, and the day when we won't even have a single morsel of food to put into our mouths. May Allah protect us. Do you finally see the critical importance of a woman obtaining her education and mastering a viable professional trade? Fatiti, the time has officially arrived for you to harvest the exact seeds you have spent your life sowing! If I were to suddenly drop dead right now, you would be left entirely helpless, struggling blindly to feed these four children, simply because you don't know a single damn thing about survival! You built your entire existence solely on the foundation of toxic jealousy—wasting your life suspecting this woman of wanting your husband, and unleashing vile abuse on that woman!"
Infuriated by his words, I violently threw my spoon across the room and exploded into a screaming match, shouting that I wasn't the one who had brought poverty upon his head and that he had no right to blame his financial failures on me. Our conversation instantly disintegrated. He stormed into his bedroom and locked the door behind him.
Life became utterly miserable; a suffocating cloud of depression settled over our home. A few days later, he pointed toward his bedroom set, the living room couches, and our dining table, and commanded me to call a second-hand furniture liquidator (dilaliya) to come and buy everything.
Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un! Initially, I completely refused to agree to such a degrading step. But when the raw reality of starvation set in—realizing we didn't even have a single scrap of food for today, let alone tomorrow—I had no choice but to surrender. In the dead of night, the liquidators arrived and completely cleared out our home. Usman didn't even bother to count the cash they handed over; he merely shoved the money into my hands and instructed me to go to the market the following morning to buy a massive supply of basic food provisions.
He went as far as selling his premium smartphone, replacing it with a cheap, basic device, and used the remaining cash to put fuel in his car so he could drive around the city attempting to hustle for random odd jobs. Some days he would return with a meager amount of cash, but most days he returned with absolutely nothing; the simple reality was that he possessed absolutely no business acumen—his entire life's skill set was strictly tied to executive banking.
One evening, the entire family gathered on the bare floor of our empty living room. We were eating a plain meal of tuwo paired with a completely meatless baobab leaf soup (miyar kuka), which I had stretched by mixing in plain beans. To make matters worse, our electricity had been completely disconnected by the power company because we had gone several months without paying the utility bills; our entire home was illuminated by nothing but the dim, flickering light of a single candle.
Suddenly, his phone began ringing loudly on the floor. He didn't move to answer it. I looked down at the display and saw that it was an unsaved, anonymous number. He looked at me, and I stared back at him; he knew with absolute certainty that my jealous mind had already begun suspecting another betrayal.
The moment we finished our meal, he instructed the children to wash their hands and go straight to bed. Before I could even open my mouth to launch into an interrogation, he looked at me with a stern, solemn expression and began exposing the massive, deeply guarded secret that he had been hiding from me for months.
His face hardening, he began to speak: "The person who keeps calling my phone is none other than Jalila. And the absolute truth of the matter, Fatiti, is that they are the ones who personally lent me the mon—"
[The text cuts off abruptly mid-sentence...]
Story Summary & Critical Commentary
1. Synopsis of the Segment
This segment chronicles the rapid, devastating socioeconomic collapse of Fatiti and Usman's household, juxtaposed against Fatiti’s toxic, consuming jealousy. Driven by paranoia regarding her neighbor Mufidah, Fatiti uses a deceptive tactic to obtain the phone number of Usman's wealthy ex-pursuer, Murjanatu Bibi, under the guise of modern elitism (initiating a video call to flaunt location). However, when she forces Usman to see Murjanatu on screen, it triggers a catastrophic reaction: Usman violently smashes the phone and reveals his visceral hatred for Murjanatu due to past humiliation.
As the days progress, the family sinks into absolute poverty due to Usman's unemployment. He drains their remaining cash to send wedding funds to his mother to hide his joblessness, forcing them to sell their bedroom furniture, living room couches, and dining set to survive. The segment ends in a dark, candlelit room where a broken Usman finally prepares to confess a massive secret: their survival has been secretly financed through loans from Jalila, the very woman Fatiti has spent months vilifying.
2. Character & Thematic Analysis
- The Anatomy of Toxic Jealousy: Fatiti’s character represents a tragic archetype in modern Hausa domestic fiction (Kishin Hauka—blind, irrational jealousy). Even when facing literal starvation and utility disconnection, her primary concern remains focused on the tighter clothing of her lawyer neighbor Mufidah or decoding English conversations as secret "I love you" messages. Her jealousy is her primary operating system, blinding her to the structural economic collapse of her marriage.
- The Fragility of Patriarchal Pride: Usman’s character highlights the intense societal pressure placed on Northern Nigerian men as absolute providers. He actively bankrupts his immediate household—sending 200,000 Naira to his mother—and refuses to state his unemployment because doing so would "raise his parents' blood pressure." He prefers to eat meatless soup (miyar kuka) in a dark room illuminated by a candle rather than lose his dignity as a successful banker in the eyes of his extended family.
Socioeconomic Mobility Contrast: The author masterfully uses setting to contrast social classes. Mufidah relaxes in an air-conditioned apartment preparing gourmet delicacies for an American-accented suitor, and Murjanatu streams crystal-clear video calls from a luxurious mall in the United States. Meanwhile, Fatiti and Usman are reduced to tracking pennies, selling their bed frames, and eating plain beans under candle light.
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