FreeFreeDescription
Executive Summary & Core Plot
This excerpt establishes a dual-perspective narrative focusing on the blossoming courtship between Aliyu Shamaki, a wealthy but strategically humble businessman, and Rabi'atu (Amira/Baby), a protected, naive 20-year-old student living in a modest neighborhood in Kano.
The story operates on a core tension of hidden status, familial control, and mystery:
- The Hidden Reality: Shamaki is independently wealthy, owning a large commercial property ("Gidan Zeena") and a wholesale outlet ("Zeena Gallery") in the bustling Kantin Kwari market. He rides a luxury vehicle and has multiple domestic servants.
- The Deception: To test Baby's true character and intent, he strips off his luxury items (rings, watch), puts on cheap bathroom slippers, boards a commercial tricycle (ɗan sahu), and presents himself to her family as a low-income shop watchman who commutes on a bicycle.
The Matriarchal Shadow: Shamaki is deeply ruled by his mother, Hajiya, a highly perceptive, elite woman who acts as the ultimate authority in his life. Shamaki has been divorced three times, and all three of his daughters are named after his mother.
2. Character Descriptions & Profiles
Aliyu Shamaki (The Protagonist)
- Public Persona vs. Reality: A wealthy merchant in Kano's textile hub, yet textually depicted as an obedient son who subverts his wealth to find an authentic partner.
Psychological Profile: Traumatized or heavily structured by three failed marriages. He is highly calculated—deliberately choosing a girl from a lower socio-economic background to ensure humility and compliance, a tactic reinforced by his mother's strict marital conditions.
Rabi'atu / Amira / "Baby"
- Profile: A 20-year-old finishing secondary school and attending an Islamic school (Islamiyya).
- Traits: Innocent, sheltered, and romantic yet instinctively cautious. She represents the idealized traditional Hausa youth: modest, respectful (kamun kai), and intensely tied to her domestic duties.
Conflict: She is strongly attracted to Shamaki but harbors deep internal anxiety about his three divorces and his ominous dependency on his mother.
Hajiya (The Matriarch)
- Profile: An imposing, highly wealthy, and hyper-perceptive aristocratic mother.
Role: She holds absolute psychological and spiritual veto power over Shamaki. Her sharp intuition makes it impossible for her children to lie to her. She sets strict boundaries for Shamaki's love life, forbidding any further divorces while demanding he fulfill a destiny of four wives.
3. Narrative & Literary Analytics
Key Themes
- Socio-Economic Class Mimicry: The text beautifully captures the stark economic stratification in modern Kano. Shamaki performs "poverty tourism" to protect his wealth from gold-diggers, a common trope in contemporary Hausa popular literature (Littattafan Yaki/Soyayya).
- The Dominant Mother Figure: Hajiya represents the absolute authority structure. In many traditional settings, a mother's blessing (albarba) dictates economic and marital success. Her tracking of his morning prayers (Asbahi) shows her surveillance over both his spiritual and physical life.
Traditional Courtship vs. Modern Agency: While Baby relies on her parents to validate her suitor, she uses her mother's phone to exercise emotional discretion, navigating her feelings through text and call patterns.
Cultural & Linguistic Nuances in the Text
- Taliya 'yar murji: Hand-rolled, homemade local pasta, signifying the humble, lower-income status of Baby’s household compared to Shamaki's elite lifestyle.
- Sallar Istikhara: The Islamic prayer of guidance used when making monumental life choices like marriage.
Kantin Kwari / Dan Agundi: Real, highly recognizable historical geographic markers in Kano, grounding the fictional narrative in stark local realism.
4. English Translation
Part 1: The Matrix of the Mother
He sat on the floor, sinking to his knees before her like a man begging for absolution. Softly, he uttered, "Hajiya, good evening."
She raised her eyes from the television set that was built into a massive, single-wall storage unit. Turning her gaze directly onto him, she studied his face closely before looking down at the young girl sitting on the floor, rubbing warming ointment onto her calves. "Azima, get up and go to sleep," Hajiya commanded.
The girl sprang up instantly, saying, "Goodnight, Hajiya. May Allah wake us up in health."
"Amen, may Allah wake us up in peace," Hajiya replied quietly.
She returned her commanding gaze back to him and spoke with absolute authority. "Shamaki, sit properly. May Allah bless you."
"Amen, Hajiya," he replied.
She continued, "By all indications, you have found someone who has captured your heart—either she impressed you, or she caught your fancy. Tell me something about her."
He adjusted his posture, completely unsurprised by his mother's words. She was a woman of extraordinary intelligence and a master reader of human character; if you sat with her for a mere thirty minutes, she could effortlessly map out your deep-seated habits and personality traits. Above all, nothing caught her attention faster than an attempt to lie to her.
He said, "Hajiya, I only saw her once. She was on her way to the Islamic school. I stopped to speak with her, but she simply hissed and walked past me. Instead of getting angry, I found myself following her from behind without her knowledge until she entered the school premises. I knew her closing time was around six, so I returned, but I didn't see her. Today, I took the same alley where I first spotted her, and by sheer luck, I glimpsed her shopping at a local store. I waited for her to finish, followed her home, and now know where her family house is. Now, I am seeking your permission to officially pursue her, if Allah wills that you grant it to me."
Hajiya remained silent, as if she wouldn't say a word. After a long pause, she spoke: "Go to bed. But before that, I want you to perform the Istikhara (guidance) prayer. In the morning, come back and recount this exact story to me again."
He stood up slowly, saying, "Thank you. Goodnight."
"May Allah bless you," she uttered, picking up a bottle of water beside her to drink.Part 2: The Morning After & The Wealthy Mask
He woke up with a start, staring at the empty side of the bed where his wife used to lie. The dream was vividly playing back in his mind. Without a doubt, he needed to take a ritual bath because of what he had experienced in that sleep—something that had never happened to him throughout his entire duration as a single divorcee. Perhaps the last time was during his early days of puberty. He offered prayers during his morning devotion, having missed the congregational mosque service because he overslept; he couldn't remember the last time he had missed the Asbahi (dawn) congregational prayer. He remained lying down for a long time, his body heavy and sluggish, which was highly uncharacteristic of him. He felt a light fever coursing through his veins.
During this, he heard a knock on his door. He sat up and granted permission to enter. She pushed the door open, dressed in her school uniform. It was Azima. She said, "Yaya Shamaki, Hajiya asked me to check on you."
He replied, "Tell her I am on my way."
He stood up, picked a short-sleeved blue jallabiya heavily embroidered with intricate silver threadwork, and put it on. As he stepped into his private living room, Meema came running in, shouting, "Daddy!" He reached down, lifted her into his arms, and pressed her to his chest. "My sweet mother! Where are Mubina and Anisa?"
She pointed toward their bedroom. "They are inside. Rahin is getting them dressed."
He pinched her cheek gently. "And what about you?"
She said, "Ni'ma is about to dress me now."
He set her down. "Run along quickly so you aren't late." She dashed off, and he headed straight to Hajiya’s wing of the mansion.
She was seated on her luxurious prayer mat, her legs stretched out straight, wrapped in an elegant, expensive hijab. Her signature fragrance, an elite scent from time immemorial, filled the air as she held her prayer beads, reciting her morning invocations. He found a spot nearby and sat down in a deeply respectful posture. Looking at her with immense reverence, he said, "Hajiya, good morning to you."
She exhaled a regal breath and replied with immense dignity, "Good morning, Shamaki. What happened to you today that you missed the dawn congregation?" She asked the question with deep maternal concern.
He lowered his head. "My body felt incredibly weak when I woke up, and I completely overslept."
"What followed the divine guidance you sought from Allah last night? Did you feel any unease regarding the girl, or did Allah illuminate something for you in your sleep?" she questioned him dynamically.
Shamaki said, "Well, up until now, I feel an intense affection for her, and... I dreamed of her." He lowered his head further, completely unable to narrate the intimate nature of the dream.
Hajiya said, "I am listening."
He rubbed his face and stole a glance at her. Her eyes were locked onto him, undoubtedly scanning to see if he would dare lie to her. He stammered, "We met in a very intense circumstance in the dream, Hajiya. May Allah guide us aright."
She offered a subtle smile, clearly understanding exactly what the dream implied. "Very well. Recount the story you told me yesterday about the girl once more."
He adjusted his posture and detailed everything exactly as he had the night before. She took a breath and said, "Fine. Go and begin a background check on her before you approach her properly. And do not forget my conditions regarding any woman you intend to marry. I do not want you to ever divorce a woman again, unlike the three you have already cast away. But bear in mind, your destined wives are four, if Allah decrees it. I pray for you. Go and get ready; today you will drive your children to school, as they have been begging for that favor since yesterday. Also, if that fever worsens, take some medication—though I strongly suspect this is a fever born of love." She concluded her speech with a sophisticated, aristocratic chuckle.
He scratched his head and smiled out loud; there was no doubt Hajiya was teasing him. He bowed slightly. "I will do exactly as you have commanded, by Allah's grace, Hajiya." He then stood up and walked inside.Part 3: The Deception in Action
Inside his car with his three young daughters, Meema, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, asked, "Daddy, will you come back to pick us up?"
He looked at her and shook his head. "I won't be back, my sweet mother. I am heading straight to the market."
"Then will you walk us directly into our classrooms?"
He reached out and stroked her head. "Why not? I will escort you if that's what you want."
Anisa reached her small hands from the back seat, patting his cheeks. "Daddy, we want you to! Our classmates keep saying they have never seen our father."
Mubina chimed in, "Me too, Daddy! Walk us in so everyone sees you."
He smiled. "Alright, then. We will start by dropping Anisa since she is the smallest, then Mubina, and finally the Big Aunty, Meema." Overjoyed, Meema cried, "Yes, my Daddy!"
He fulfilled the plan exactly as promised to his daughters, handed some cash tips to their schoolteachers, left amidst a shower of gratitude, and set out for the market.
The moment he sat in his executive office at the main wholesale branch of his luxury textile enterprise, Zeena Gallery—located inside his massive commercial plaza, Gidan Zeena, in the heart of the Kano Kantin Kwari market—all his apprentices and employees noticed he was deeply preoccupied. It was highly unusual for him. He himself had never experienced this whirlwind of emotions with any of his previous wives. Even with his very first wife, he had never felt anything close to this burning urgency. He felt that if he didn't go out and find that young girl before evening, he would find no peace.
The moment the afternoon Zuhr prayer concluded, Shamaki stripped off his luxury wristwatch, his expensive rings, and anything else that would identify him as a wealthy tycoon. He slid into a pair of cheap plastic bathroom slippers kept at his office restroom door and walked out without saying a word to a single soul.
He reached the main road, flagged down a commercial tricycle (ɗan sahu), and instructed, "Take me to Dan Agundi." At the entrance of the target alleyway, he stopped the ride, pulled out a five-hundred-naira note, and handed it over before diving straight into the poor neighborhood. The tricycle driver pulled out change, but looking up, the wealthy Alhaji had already vanished into the crowd. Grateful for the massive tip, the driver sped off.Part 4: The Perspective of the Innocent
I had just bought charcoal and was rushing home to cook handmade local pasta (taliya 'yar murji) for myself and my younger siblings, as our mother was away at the clinic for her prenatal checkup. Just as I stepped onto the concrete ledge of our entrance door, I heard a voice behind me: "Salamu Alaikum (Peace be upon you)."
I turned around and saw a man whom I couldn't immediately categorize. I answered his greeting, waiting for him to ask for directions, assuming he was looking for a house in our neighborhood.
To my absolute shock, he asked, "Can I speak with you?"
"Why not?" I replied, completely oblivious to his true intentions.
He moved a bit closer, leaned his hand against the wall of our house, and began to speak. "My name is Aliyu, but most people call me Shamaki. About three days ago, I saw you. To be completely honest, I didn't want to waste time—I love you!"
I quickly took a step back in surprise. I never expected to hear such words from him; in fact, no man had ever spoken the word "love" to me in my entire life. I became completely flustered, staring at him.
He noted, "I see I've startled you, but I am entirely serious."
I stammered that I needed to go inside. "Wait," he pleaded. "You should give me an answer, even if it is a rejection."
I said, "I have to cook food for my siblings; they are starving."
"Can I come back tonight?" he asked urgently.
I looked at his face again. I had never engaged in formal courtship (zance) before, and I had no idea if my father would even permit it. "You will have to ask my parents when they return, but I suppose you can come tonight." I replied.
"Alright then," he said.
As I cooked, my mind raced. Even though the man wasn't a young boy, I found him incredibly charming. The word "love" he had spoken felt entirely foreign yet beautiful to me. I knew I had to accept his courtship just to join the ranks of the eligible young ladies who had suitors visiting them in our neighborhood—especially since some of them were far younger than me. I was twenty years old, currently writing my final secondary school exams, and in the graduation class at my Islamic school, yet no one had ever told me they loved me, even in jest. I often looked at myself in the mirror; though I wasn't exceptionally fair-skinned or strikingly beautiful, I knew I wasn't ugly either. I was decent, sensible, and modest.
Lost in these thoughts, I finished cooking but couldn't bring myself to eat. Even at the Islamic school later that afternoon, everyone kept asking if I was okay because I was unusually quiet and deeply distracted. If my parents approved of him, I knew I would be overjoyed because I was already anxious to hear his voice again.
After the evening Maghrib prayer, my mother was sitting on a straw mat eating garden eggs. I sat close to her and said, "Umma, a man came to our door earlier saying he came to see me."
She raised her head sharply. "What did he say to you?"
I replied, "He said he loves me, and I told him I had to inform the household first."
"Where is he from?" she questioned.
I answered, "By Allah, I don't know, but he said he is coming back tonight."
She mused, "May Allah let him be a righteous man. Just the other day, Fati’s mother was making snide remarks at me because Fati—who spends her nights frying bean cakes (awara) by the roadside—just got her marriage date fixed, while those who attend night Quranic memorization classes are met with silence. I know she only mocked me because I told her to stop letting Fati stay out late at her frying stand until 11:00 PM, which always makes your father angry when he passes by. It's unsafe to leave a young girl out there surrounded by disrespectful boys."
I responded, "Speaking the truth has truly become a problem nowadays, Umma."
She agreed, "Indeed. Just look after yourself. When he comes, go out and listen to what he has to say. If your father returns before then, I will inform him."
My younger sister, Jamila, crept closer and teased, "Umma, is Yaya Baby going out on a romantic date tonight?"
I snapped, "Be quiet, you gossip merchant!"
Umma intervened, "What's wrong with telling her? Jamila is your confidante now. You should share everything with her; she is seventeen years old now." I looked at Jamila and smiled. "Alright, my friend, I am having a guest tonight."
Jamila cheered, "Thank God! May Allah bring a wedding to our house too!"
Umma told me, "Go take a bath and freshen up your body."
I protested, "A bath now? I already bathed this morning!"
Jamila laughed, "Are you serious? You want to go out there smelling of sweat?"
I relented, went out, and fetched cold water—something I rarely use to bathe—but out of sheer excitement, I rushed into the bathroom. I ended up sneezing repeatedly, my heart pounding with the sudden, terrifying anxiety that he might not even show up.Part 5: The First Date
I finished my night Isha prayers in Umma’s room, sitting anxiously beside my clothes—a new set from last year’s Eid festival that Umma insisted I wear. Jamila was hovering over me, badgering, "Anty Baby, stand up and put the clothes on before he arrives and catches you unprepared!"
I sighed, "Jamila, my heart is beating so fast. I feel like he might change his mind and skip coming altogether."
She reassured me, "Don't say that, Anty. He came on his own accord from the start; you didn't look for him."
My heavy sigh coincided directly with the greeting of our father returning home. Umma welcomed him back, and we peeked out to greet him. I turned to Jamila, "Alright, let me dress quickly. You go take Baba's dinner to him." She ran off.
From the room, I could hear Umma informing Baba about my visitor. I held my breath to hear his reaction, but suddenly, a young neighborhood boy’s voice echoed into the house with a greeting. Umma and Baba answered. The boy announced, "Someone is outside calling for the master of this house."
Baba said, "Tell him I am coming."
Umma asked, "You didn't ask who it is?"
Baba replied, "It must be Malam Sani. We agreed to look into a job opening tomorrow, so I'm sure it's about that. You know how tough life is now; when you get a lead on a job, you have to pursue it immediately, or it goes to someone else."
She sighed, "True. May Allah grant success."
He said, "Amen, let me step out and return shortly."
By 8:30 PM, I had completely given up hope that the man would show up, deeply regretting that I hadn't listened to him during the day. I untied the headscarf I had styled because it was giving me a headache. As I began folding it, I heard my father return. He called out, "Where is Baby?"
I answered quickly, "I'm here, Baba!"
He said, "Go on out, your guest is outside waiting for you."
My heart dropped into my stomach. I managed a nervous "Okay." Jamila handed me a small bottle, saying, "Here is Umma’s traditional Humra perfume, rub it on your body." I dabbed some on and rushed out. Umma called out, "Baby, make sure you greet him properly!" My father smiled, "Oh come on, modern kids don't care about formalities." Umma countered, "You know this is her very first formal suitor; she needs to be guided."
Baba told Jamila, "Go carry a woven mat outside for them."
I paused at the threshold, catching a whiff of the exact rich, mesmerizing perfume I had smelled earlier. He was leaning against the wall in the shadows, dressed in a pristine white Shadda robe and trousers, his head bare, leaning next to an old-fashioned, heavy-duty adult bicycle with a front basket. Jamila spread the mat on the earthen ledge, greeted him politely, and went back inside.
I stepped forward slowly, approaching him. "Welcome, Yaya." I didn't even realize when those words left my lips.
Deeply pleased, he replied smoothly, "Thank you, my little sister."
I pointed to the mat. "Yaya, please sit."
He agreed, stepped onto the ledge, and sat down. I began to kneel on the bare ground next to the mat, but he stopped me. "Come up here, either sit on the mat or sit cross-legged the way I am."
I sat down and offered my formal respect. He replied warmly, "Hajiya sends her regards to you."
I blurted out, "I accept her greetings, but..." I froze.
"But what?" he prompted.
"I am just surprised. How does she already know about me?"
He chuckled, "She has known about you since the very first day I laid eyes on you. She knew I spoke to you today, and she knows I am sitting here with you right now."
"Wow, praise be to God. Please extend my deep respects to her when you return," I said, though a sudden wave of panic washed over my mind. Could this 'Hajiya' actually be his wife? Looking at him, he clearly looks mature enough to have an established family.
He shattered my train of thought with a question. "Baby, what is your real name? I don't even know your actual name yet. When I called for your father, I just heard him calling out 'Baby'."
I replied, "Amira. But my real foundational name is Rabi'atu, named after my father's mother. Everyone calls me Amira, but Umma calls me Baby, and it just stuck."
He exhaled softly. "Personally, I prefer 'Baby' too. But I can call you whichever I want, right?" I nodded. He cleared his throat. "Baby, the truth is I love you, just as I said earlier today. If you feel the same, I am here strictly for marriage, which is exactly what I just told your father outside. Furthermore, I will not hide anything from you: I have three children, all girls, and I have separated from the mother of each one..."
"Why?!" I interjected before I could stop myself.
He fell dead silent for a moment, then answered quietly, "It was by Allah's decree. Don't worry, you will gradually come to understand everything." He continued, "I am a small-time market trader. I watch over a shop belonging to my master at Kantin Kwari market. I hope you understand my situation?"
I nodded, uttering a faint "Umm."
Instantly, my heart sank, and a barrage of doubts flooded my brain. Three wives, and not a single one left with him? Truly, I must find out the reason behind this.
He cut into my thoughts. "Baby, I want to hear it directly from your mouth. Do you love me, and can you marry me? As far as I'm concerned, everything about you suits me perfectly."
I took a deep, slow breath. "To be completely honest, I don't know if I love you because I have never been in love before, so I don't know what it feels like. As for marriage, Allah is the ultimate orchestrator of bonds; if He has decreed it, I will accept it with open arms."
He smiled. "I still haven't gotten a direct answer, but I will give you until the day after tomorrow. Reflect on it, and try to discover if you truly love me."
I nodded. "Alright, thank you. I will do as you say."
"Give me your phone number so I can call you before then, just to hear this sweet, gentle voice."
I replied, "You'll have to take my mother's number. My father hasn't bought me a phone yet; he said he will buy me one after my Quranic graduation ceremony."
He agreed, "Give me her number then." I called it out, and he flashed the line. "When you go back inside, save it so you recognize my line directly when I call."
I said, "Okay."
He continued, "I am the last-born of my mother, and her only son. I have four older sisters: Yaya Zainab is the eldest, then Maryam, Aisha, and Fatima. They are all married and live within Kano city."
I smiled. "Masha Allah, you are very fortunate. As for me, I don't have any older siblings; I am the firstborn. I have three younger siblings: Jamila, Jafar, and Habu, plus a new baby we are expecting soon."
He remarked, "May Allah deliver her safely. The moment I saw your father, I guessed in my heart that you must be the firstborn."
I giggled. "Really? Is it because you think my father looks young?"
He laughed along. "Exactly!"
I added, "That's how it is! Whenever my schoolfriends come over, they always mistake my mother for our older sister." We shared a hearty laugh together.
He finally stood up. "Alright, let me head home before it gets too late."
I glanced at his bicycle. "At least you have your own wheels, otherwise you'd be worried about finding a commercial tricycle at this hour."
He smiled. "Very true."
I said, "Extend my warmest greetings to Hajiya."
His smile widened. "I will absolutely tell her, Insha Allah." He rolled up the woven mat, walked to the entrance vestibule, and said, "Extend my regards to Umma and the household."Part 6: Whispers of the Midnight Mind
Deep into the middle of the night, sleep completely eluded me. I tossed and turned continuously on our small foam mattress while Jamila slept soundly beside me. My mind was constructing and dismantling theories; two specific things were aggressively bothering my peace of mind: What was the real reason he divorced three wives? And why must absolutely everything in his life be reported to this Hajiya? By now, I knew for certain that Hajiya wasn't his wife; she was either his biological mother or his powerful wealthy patron.
In the morning, I was distributing our breakfast—fried bean cakes (awara) and millet porridge (koko)—while we all sat in the courtyard, including my father.
Umma looked closely at me. "What is wrong with you, Baby? Your entire energy seems incredibly drained."
I forced a smile. "I'm perfectly fine, Umma. I just feel a bit sluggish today."
She turned to my father. "Father of Baby, you said you highly approved of her suitor last night?"
He replied, "Honestly, Salamatu, I approved of him immensely. If they find mutual understanding, I would be very happy, because all signs point to him being an incredibly sensible and well-mannered man."
Umma asked, "Is he from this neighborhood?"
He explained, "No. He told me he is originally from Gama; he was born and raised there, but now they reside around Janbulo. He lives with his mother in a house built by his child. He also mentioned he works as a shop watchman for his master in Kantin Kwari market, though their ancestral roots are from Gaya."
Umma nodded. "I see. May Allah unite them in goodness."
I kept completely quiet. The man had already anchored himself deep within my heart. No matter how hard I tried to weigh his red flags, my heart kept manufacturing excuses to absolve him. I went to school and returned, completely consumed by thoughts of Aliyu Shamaki.
That evening, during a quiet chat with Umma, she asked me directly, "Tell me the truth, Baby, do you like this man? Do you realistically see yourself married to him?"
I sighed. "To be honest, Umma, I am plagued with deep doubts."
"Regarding what?" she cut in.
I explained, "He has been married three times, and all three marriages ended in divorce. He has three daughters, and he named every single one of them after his mother. I am terrified that his mother might be an overbearing woman who doesn't tolerate his wives."
Umma admonished me gently, "Do not begin your journey with suspicion. It is entirely logical to worry about his history of divorces. My advice to you is to pay close attention to discover his weaknesses and what triggers his anger; that is how you will find peace with him. Baby, with the kind of upbringing and discipline I have given you, I expect that even if a man breathes literal fire out of his mouth due to a terrible temper, you should be able to manage and live with him peacefully. No amount of manipulation, intrigue, or structural challenges should shake your resolve."
I let out a small laugh. "That's true, Umma."
Suddenly, Umma's phone rang. Jamila screamed, "Yaya Baby! It's that exact number from yesterday that you saved!"
My heart instantly leapt into my throat, and my stomach did a nervous flip; I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to run to the restroom. I grabbed the phone and rushed into Umma’s room. I listened to his voice offering a greeting. I sat down heavily on the bed before answering his greeting with a soft, gentle voice I didn't even recognize as my own. I asked about his well-being, and I inquired about Hajiya and his children. He stated they were all doing perfectly fine.
He noted playfully, "So you couldn't even call me to find out how I journeyed home last night?"
I offered, "Please forgive me, Yaya. Honestly, I really wanted to call you, but then I worried you might be riding your bicycle and my call would distract you on the road. Before I knew it, sleep overtook me."
He exhaled softly down the line. "Well, I accept your excuse. But tell me, how do things look right now inside your heart? Have you started loving me even a little bit?"
I lay down on the bed, pressing the phone tightly against my ear. "I can't state that with absolute certainty, Yaya. Perhaps you should describe to me what love actually feels like so I can recognize if I am experiencing it."
He let out a low chuckle. "Tell me this: since we parted last night, have you found yourself thinking about me? How many times? Do you remember our conversation? Which specific part keeps playing back?"
I took a slow breath. "To be completely honest, I have thought about you a lot, but I didn't count the times. In our conversation, the part I remember the most is the fact that you have been married three times... it brings me a lot of fear."
He replied warmly, "Alhamdulillah! Baby, you have already begun to love me. Do not lose sleep over the women I separated from, and don't stress over the mechanics of our current lifestyle. It is much better for you to focus your mind entirely on the beautiful married life we are going to build together. I am coming over tomorrow; make sure you prepare a beautiful, heartwarming story to tell me."
I smiled. "Alright, Insha Allah. May Allah grant success. Please extend my greetings to Hajiya."
"I will absolutely tell her..."
