FreeFreeDescription
This chapter masterfully balances two parallel worlds: the modest, high-stress reality of Baby’s working-class household and the hidden, hyper-wealthy corporate empire run by her fiancé, Aliyu Shamaki, and his mother, Hajiya.
- The Postponement & Financial Anxiety: To Baby’s absolute frustration, the wedding date is delayed slightly to align with her Quranic graduation ceremony (Walimar Sauka). While her sister Jamila and mother Umma celebrate this extension because it gives them more time to prepare, Baby is deeply agitated by the delay. The postponement forces the family to address a massive cultural crisis: in Hausa custom, while the groom provides the bridal chest (Lefe), the bride’s family is strictly responsible for providing the bedroom furniture (Kayan Ɗaki).
- The Humiliation at the Zeena Foundation: Desperate to avoid a mountain of debt, Umma and her neighbor, Umman Amina, secretly apply for furniture aid from the Zeena Foundation—completely unaware that this massive charity is owned by Hajiya (Shamaki's mother) and named after her. At the foundation's plaza, a haughty receptionist named Raliya aggressively insults and demeans Umma and Baby for their poverty. Though Shamaki's elite older sister, Hajiya A'isha, steps in to reprimand the staff and approve the aid, she sets a condition: Baby's father must come in person for an interview. This creates a massive panic for Umma, who hid this entire venture from her fiercely proud husband.
- The Market Encounter & Shamaki's Secret Surveillance: Baby, her cousin Zuhra, and Amina go to the textile market (Kasuwa) to buy fabric for the wedding party. They accidentally walk into one of Shamaki's largest wholesale plazas. Sitting in his glass-walled executive office upstairs, Shamaki watches them via high-definition CCTV. Overhearing his retail boys making fun of the "skinny ghetto girls" downstairs, Shamaki intervenes through his phone system, forcing his staff to give Baby expensive, high-grade Shadda fabric at an impossibly low price under the guise of a clearance sale. He then steps out and severely reprimands his employees, warning them that they are mocking their future boss.
- The Arrival of the Luxury Lefe: Meanwhile, Shamaki's formal bridal chest arrives at the family compound. It is a stunning, high-end display of elite wealth: six state-of-the-art designer suitcases packed with 30 matching sets of luxurious Atamfa, expensive lace, and heavy Shadda fabrics, accompanied by cartons of premium refreshments. The sheer scale of the gifts paralyzes Baby's family with a mixture of awe and profound shame, realizing their inability to match his status with their cheap furniture.
- Hajiya's Strategic Masterplan: Back at the mansion, Hajiya's brother confirms that Baby's family behaved with absolute dignity and class during the delivery. However, Hajiya remains cold. She calculates that Baby is physically too frail and "skinny" to satisfy her robust son, prompting her to plot a second marriage for Shamaki with her 14-year-old niece, Azima, whom an occult Mallam prophesied would bear Shamaki's firstborn son.
The Final Taboo Question: The chapter ends on a massive cliffhanger. Safely locked away in her room, Baby finally calls Shamaki back. His voice cuts through the line with a heavy, dead-serious tone as he asks her a raw, deeply sensitive question: "Are you a virgin?"
2. Character Analytics & Cultural Motifs
The Cultural Politics of Lefe vs. Kayan Ɗaki
This text highlights a major socioeconomic friction point in Northern Nigerian Muslim marriages. The groom's family is judged by the quality of the Lefe (suitcases filled with clothes, jewelry, and cosmetics), while the bride's family is judged by the Kayan Ɗaki (bed, wardrobe, kitchenware). Shamaki’s ultra-luxurious Lefe immediately shifts the power dynamic, completely overwhelming Baby’s parents and driving them to beg for charity just to hold their heads high.
Shamaki's Dual Identity
Shamaki is operating as a mastermind in his own right. He uses his high-tech CCTV security system to monitor his bride, manipulating transactions from his executive desk so she receives the finest goods without realizing her "shop-boy" fiancé is actually a corporate mogul.
3. Full English Translation
Part 1: The Wedding Postponement & The Fabric Hunt
Jamila and Umma were bursting with pure excitement, completely consumed by the news that the formal bridal chests (Lefe) were about to be delivered. I, however, could not bring myself to care about the clothes. The decision to postpone and push back our wedding date was the single greatest source of bitter frustration for me. Unfortunately, I didn't have the luxury of discussing my feelings with anyone in the house, as none of them could possibly comprehend my internal state.
Ultimately, our Quranic graduation uniform (Asoebi na Walima) was officially converted into our wedding party uniform. This unexpected delay gave the extended family and the local girls in our neighborhood alleyway—who had suddenly started parading themselves as my lifelong best friends—ample time to go out and shop for the event. Even girls like Fati were now constantly dropping by our house, eagerly debating plans for the pre-wedding party.
With Jamila’s assistance, I compiled a written list of my immediate bridal necessities to send to Yaya: money for traditional henna styling (Lalle), professional hair washing, party expenses, and bridal makeup. The moment I texted the breakdown to him, he instantly replied: "You completely forgot to include the funds for your traditional pre-marital body spa treatments (Gyaran Jiki)." I let out a soft, quiet laugh to myself. Yaya was truly incredible; he never missed an opportunity to willingly pile more financial responsibilities onto his own shoulders.
By the next morning, Umma’s anxiety regarding my bedroom furniture (Kayan Ɗaki) had reached a breaking point. The moment the sun rose, she sent Jamila to fetch her closest confidante, Umman Amina. Jamila returned within moments, followed closely by Amina's mother. Sitting in the adjacent room, I could clearly overhear Umma explaining the imminent arrival of the Lefe.
Umma sighed heavily. "Since his family is bringing a formal bridal chest, we absolutely must strain every nerve to provide decent wooden furniture for her bedroom, even if we cannot afford the ultra-expensive modern sets."
Umman Amina nodded in agreement. "That is entirely true. Honestly, that is exactly why I initially suggested you hold off on buying the heavy wooden wardrobes and focus entirely on premium kitchenware, especially since the young man explicitly stated he was perfectly fine with a modest setup and didn't expect a lavish display. However, there is one potential lifesaver available to us—assuming Baby’s father will swallow his pride and agree to it. There is a prominent charity foundation that provides free wedding furniture to underprivileged brides. It’s a philanthropic foundation called Zeena."
Umma’s voice lit up with immediate recognition. "Oh, by Allah, I constantly hear their charity drives being broadcasted over the radio!"
"Exactly," Umman Amina pressed. "We should draft a formal letter of assistance immediately, take the girl with us, and deliver it to their headquarters today if possible."
Umma’s voice sank back into deep worry. "Ah... my only fear is her father. It took an absolute miracle from the Almighty just to get him to agree to the basic marriage terms. If he finds out we are begging a charity..."
Umman Amina cut her off smoothly. "There is an easy way around that. Baby is sitting right inside the house. Call her out this instant, I will dictate exactly what she needs to write, and I will personally escort her to their offices to submit the petition myself."
Hiding behind the door frame, my eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. The Zeena Foundation?! That was the exact corporate name attached to the luxury shopping plaza where Yaya worked as an ordinary retail clerk!
"Baby! Baby, come out here this instant!" Umma’s voice rang out.
"I'm coming, Umma!" I called back, my heart pounding. I quickly grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen from our room and walked into the parlor. We sat down in a tight circle on the floor, and Umman Amina began dictating the letter word for word while I scribbled it down.
The letter was a desperate plea for charitable intervention, stating that the wedding date had been repeatedly postponed solely because the bride's family lacked the financial means to purchase bedroom furniture, to the point where the entire marriage alignment was on the verge of total collapse. Umman Amina strictly ordered me to write that I was a literal orphan. I hesitated, my hand freezing over the paper. Instead of writing that, I adjusted the phrasing, stating that my biological parents completely lacked financial capability and were facing an incredibly tight wedding deadline. The moment I finished the draft, we appended my personal phone number alongside Umma’s.
Umman Amina stood up briskly, straightening her veil. "Hurry up and get dressed neatly, girl. Let me run home real quick to assign the afternoon cooking duties to Amina, and we will head straight out."
The moment she stepped out of the compound, I whirled around to face my mother. "Umma! Hajiya Zeena is the absolute ultimate matriarch and boss of Yaya’s employer! She is the biological mother of the multi-millionaire master whose estate we visited the other day!"
Umma gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "Tofa! May Allah preserve us! This is the literal definition of sitting on a mountain of food while starving to death. Let us wait for Amina's mother to return so we can figure out our next move."
The moment Umman Amina walked back into the compound, Umma quickly explained the terrifyingly close connection between my fiancé's job and the foundation's owner. Umman Amina merely dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "Oh, don't worry about that at all! We are going directly to their public charity foundation headquarters, not her private residence. The administrative staff won't have a clue who we are, let alone allow a random rumor to travel back to her son's clerk."
Reassured, we boarded a commercial tricycle (Adaidaita Sahu), cutting through the traffic toward Danbare Road until we pulled up in front of the massive, glittering Zeena Plaza.Part 2: The Humiliation at the Plaza
We walked through the glass doors of the foundation’s administrative wing and politely greeted the female receptionist behind the desk. The moment we explained our desperate situation, the woman looked up, her expression hardening into a cold, elitist sneer. "And when exactly is this wedding taking place?"
"In exactly twelve days," we replied in unison, our voices small.
The woman let out a loud, mocking scoff. "In twelve days?! And you are just bringing your application letter for furniture aid now?"
Umman Amina softened her tone, completely swallowing her pride as she pleaded like a beggar. "My dear sister, please have mercy on us for the sake of the Almighty. We are women just like you. We held onto a desperate hope that we would somehow raise the funds to buy the furniture ourselves, but every single option failed us. We had absolutely no other choice."
The receptionist snatched the letter from our hands, flipped it open, and skimmed the text with a deeply disgusted expression. She curled her lip. "So, you aren't even a real orphan? Furthermore, this document is completely invalid—it doesn't carry a single official stamp, nor does it have the signature of the local ward head (Mai Unguwa) or her father."
Umman Amina dropped her voice into an even more pathetic, mournful pitch. "Please, beautiful Hajiya, help us. Look at how beautifully she wrote it. She is just a young student; she didn't know the full legal protocols. Please assist us."
The woman tapped the paper aggressively with her long acrylic nail. "Right here, it plainly states: 'My parents completely lack financial capability.'" She glared directly at me, and I instantly dropped my head to the floor, my cheeks burning with a deep, boiling shame. The woman shook her head in utter disgust. "You people simply open your legs, give birth to a mountain of children you cannot afford, and then expect the world to subsidize your basic duties! Hajiya Zeena hasn't even arrived at the office today. When she drops by, I will hand her your paper, but let me be brutally honest with you: do not hold your breath. The official charity distribution list for this quarter has already been finalized and closed."
She shot a piercing look at Umman Amina. "You people behave as if you deposited furniture here, showing up at the absolute eleventh hour demanding handouts."
Umman Amina kept her head low, continuously showering the woman with apologies and begging for grace, while the receptionist ruthlessly hurled insult after insult at our dignity. A blinding, suffocating rage welled up inside my chest; I wanted nothing more than to storm out of the office or leap across the desk and physically beat the arrogance out of her face.
The receptionist cut her eyes back to me. "So, this is the bride-to-be?"
"Yes, she is the one," Umman Amina replied submissively.
The woman puckered her lips in a dismissive sneer. "Well, don't direct your anger at me, young lady. Your humiliation is the direct fault of your own irresponsible parents. I will pass your paper to Hajiya when she arrives, but she is currently consumed with planning a massive wedding within her own elite circle, so she rarely visits this branch. You may leave." We offered our final, hollow thanks and quickly retreated out of the building.
The moment we hit the sidewalk, tears of anger stung my eyes. "I swear by Allah, Umman Amina, we should have never degraded ourselves by coming here! Did you see the subhuman way that woman talked down to us?"
Umman Amina sighed, patting my shoulder gently. "Calm down, my child. That is simply how these low-level corporate gatekeepers behave. She was hired to do nothing more than receive charity letters, but she acts as if the funds are coming directly out of her own personal pocket. Just ignore her utter lack of humanity."
When we returned home, Umma made a firm executive decision to completely hide the entire incident from Baba, especially given the high probability that the aid would be rejected anyway; she knew his intense pride would completely shatter if he found out his poverty was being mocked.
Umman Amina then turned to me. "Hurry up and change your clothes, Baby. I need you to accompany Amina to the major wholesale market; she needs to purchase her wedding guest fabric (Anko) and matching veils."
"Alright," I replied. "But we should probably bring our sample fabric scrap with us, since we purchased our own matching material from Safara’s local store."
Umman Amina hissed loudly. "Ugh! Don't even mention Safara's name to me! I refuse to touch her goods. The moment she gives you items on credit, she multiplies the price threefold, and she doesn't possess a single atom of patience when it comes to collecting her debts."
I turned to my mother. "Umma, if you have any cash on hand, you should give it to us so we can buy Jamila's matching fabric today, along with the clothing materials you promised to buy for Jafar and Habu."
Umma nodded, reaching deep into her secure wardrobe. "Let me give you the cash from the financial assistance that our extended relatives from Kurna sent over yesterday. May Allah bless them; this cash will save me from drowning in Safara’s toxic debt system after the wedding is over. She would have made my life an absolute living hell. Here is the cash—there is exactly two thousand and fifty naira left."
"Perfect," I said. "We will head out immediately." Today was an incredibly momentous day anyway—it was the exact day my formal Lefe was scheduled to be delivered to the compound of Baba’s elder brother, Abba Zuhra, who was the official family patriarch.
I quickly got dressed, slipping into a long, elegant black dress and a matching black veil. The moment Amina arrived, we began walking toward the junction. As we passed the family patriarch's compound, Umma called out from the doorway, "Baby! Drop by Zuhra’s house real quick before you hit the main road! Her mother sent a message yesterday asking exactly where we purchased our event fabric."
We diverted into the compound. The moment we stepped into the courtyard, the young girls of the household swarmed around us, their faces glowing with excitement. "Ayyy! Our beautiful bride is here!" they cheered. "Today is the day we finally feast our eyes on the luxury Lefe!"
I laughed, trying to hide my nervousness. "Oh, please! All you girls ever think about is clothes and food! We are actually on our way to the major market to purchase the matching party fabrics."
Murja waved her hand. "Wait for Zuhra! She is going to the market with you to buy hers right now."
At that moment, the matriarch of the compound, Umman Zuhra, stepped out onto the veranda. She looked at us and let out a sharp, haughty scoff. "Well, look at the daughters of our humble family friends! Baby, did Zuhra give you her shopping money, or is she accompanying you?"
"She's coming with us, Hajiya," I replied politely. "The journey will be much more fun together."
Zuhra was our exact age mate. We had written our senior secondary school mock exams together, though we attended entirely different schools; her father was significantly wealthier than mine, allowing her to attend an elite, expensive private academy.
We hailed a commercial tricycle and headed directly toward the chaotic, sprawling Kantin Kwari textile market. The moment the vehicle entered the market district, an intense, icy wave of dread slammed into my chest, and my heart began to pound erratically against my ribs. I had absolutely no idea which specific section of this massive market complex contained Yaya’s wholesale shop. Please, Almighty Allah, I prayed silently, do not let him catch sight of me here. I nervously adjusted my veil, desperately trying to shield my face from the swirling market dust.
As we wandered through the dense textile lanes, a young male shop runner noticed the fabric sample scrap clutching in my hand. He called out instantly, "Hey! That exact material is a premium wholesale import exclusive to the Zeena Plaza textile wing!"
My heart completely stopped. I froze dead in my tracks. Panic seized my throat as I turned to my cousin. "Zuhra... listen to me. Let me just give you all my cash right now. Please take Amina, go into the shops, and purchase the materials for me and Jamila while I wait out here."
Zuhra furrowed her brow in utter confusion. "What? Why on earth would you stay outside?"
"Because..." I stammered, my voice shaking. "Yaya works as an ordinary shop boy in one of these exact textile plazas. If he catches me here, it will be incredibly awkward."
Amina laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Baby! This market contains thousands of plazas; what are the chances he works in the exact room we walk into? Come on, let's go."
Left with no choice, I followed them. The moment we stepped into a massive, multi-story wholesale textile shop, our guide called out to the senior attendants behind the counter, "Hey, do we have any remaining bundles of this specific imported motif?"
A senior clerk looked up, examining our sample scrap. "Yes, we have it in stock. Come inside and take a seat, ladies." We walked in and sat down on the low benches. The clerk turned to us politely. "Please give us a moment to bring the bundles down. We strictly do not sell individual retail pieces here; we only sell in bulk dozens. Let me run over to our secondary warehouse room to pull individual pieces for you."Part 3: The Eye in the Sky
Upstairs, in a soundproof, ultra-luxurious executive suite overlooking the entire wholesale complex, Aliyu Shamaki picked up a cold bottle of premium Faro water. He took a slow, deliberate sip, set it back down on his mahogany desk, and began twisting a printed invitation card between his fingers.
The card was an official invitation to Baby's Quranic graduation ceremony (Walimar Sauka), which had been delivered alongside her family’s desperate charity application for furniture aid. His mind was trapped in a fierce internal battle. How on earth could he attend the event? He had given her a sacred promise that he would be there in person to witness her academic achievement, and he knew she was dying to proudly introduce her future husband to her peers and show him off to her friends. On the other hand, his mother, Hajiya, strictly forbidden him from wasting his time mingling in those impoverished neighborhoods where they distributed charity.
Shamaki leaned back into his Italian leather executive chair, closing his eyes as he calculated a solution. When he reopened his eyes, his gaze locked onto the massive high-definition surveillance monitor sitting on his desk. The multi-screen display broadcasted crystal-clear, live feeds from every single corner, floor, and alleyway of his massive commercial plaza.
Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat. His eyes narrowed, fixing intensely onto the forms of three young girls sitting on a bench on the lower retail floor. It was Baby, flanked by her cousin and friend.
He instantly snatched the secure internal desk phone and punched the speed-dial for the main floor manager.
Downstairs, the floor manager, Ɗahiru, picked up the line. "Yes, Alhaji?"
"Ɗahiru," Shamaki’s voice rang through the receiver, cool and authoritative. "Who exactly are those three young ladies sitting on the benches near the fabric stacks? What are they looking for?"
Ɗahiru glanced over at them. "Ah, they are looking for that imported leaf-motif Atamfa, Alhaji. Hassan just ran to the secondary stockroom to fetch individual cut pieces for them."
"The moment Hassan returns with the fabric," Shamaki commanded strictly, "tell him to freeze the transaction immediately and come up to my office. I need to speak with him before he rings them up."Part 4: The Delivery of the Royal Lefe
Meanwhile, far away in our neighborhood, a massive, gleaming luxury SUV pulled up and came to a smooth halt directly in front of the gate of Baby’s paternal uncle’s compound.
The uniform-clad driver, Malam Bala, had a perfect memory for locations; he recognized the humble house instantly. He hopped out of the driver's seat, adjusted his cap, and walked toward the entrance. Spotting a young neighborhood boy about to enter the compound, Bala called out politely, "Young man, for the sake of the Almighty, please step inside and inform the master of the house that the formal wedding emissaries have arrived."
The family patriarch, Abba Zuhra, stepped out onto the street within seconds. He had been anxiously awaiting their arrival since early afternoon, ever since Baby’s father had dropped by the previous evening to give him the official alert. To ensure proper family protocol, the uncle had cancelled all his external appointments and gathered his younger brothers and closest neighbors on the veranda, exactly as local custom demanded whenever a significant bridal chest was being received.
Abba Zuhra greeted Malam Bala with immense warmth and respect. He turned to the young boy standing nearby. "Halifa, hurry up and bring out the large ceremonial mats from the corridor! Our distinguished guests have arrived." He then quickly pulled out his phone and speed-dialed the neighborhood Imam, letting him know the groom's party was outside, reminding him of the promise he made after afternoon prayers. He then dialed Baby’s father. "Manser! Hurry over to the compound right now! They have arrived. And remember to bring cold water and refreshments with you; do not forget!"
Within minutes, the elders had assembled on the veranda. Malam Bala unlocked the rear doors of the luxury vehicle and began lifting out a series of ultra-modern, matching designer suitcases. He then popped the massive trunk, revealing even more luggage. There were six massive, premium suitcases in total—their heavy zippers, reinforced gold locks, and flawless leather material making it blindingly obvious to everyone on the street that they were packed with incredibly expensive, high-end luxury goods.
Abba Zuhra’s jaw dropped slightly, but he quickly recovered his composure, raising his hands in a blessing. "Mashallah! There is absolutely no need to unlock or open them in the street. May the Almighty pour His absolute blessings upon this union and grant them a peaceful, prosperous household."
The young men of the house rushed forward, carrying out two large cartons of premium bottled water and two cartons of expensive imported juices as a return hospitality gesture. Aliyu’s uncle tried to politely decline the refreshments, but Abba Zuhra insisted firmly, "Please, you must accept them! Unless, of course, our humble hospitality is too small for your status?"
The groom's delegation laughed warmly. The mosque Imam who accompanied them interjected, "Come now, let us accept their hospitality with a glad heart. May Allah bless the family."
The moment the groom's vehicle drove away, the young men hoisted the heavy luxury suitcases and carried them directly into the inner women’s quarters. Inside, Umman Zuhra and her daughters had been pacing the floor, absolutely dying to dissect the contents to see if Baby’s "poor shop boy" fiancé had managed to bring anything of decent quality.
The moment they unzipped the locks, the entire room fell into a stunned, breathless silence. The sheer wealth packed inside the chests was utterly suffocating: there were exactly thirty complete, uncut bundles (Tirmi) of ultra-premium imported Atamfa fabrics, alongside heavy Swiss laces, royal polished Shadda materials, and exquisite, pre-tailored designer abayas. It was a collection fit for royalty.
Umman Zuhra’s face turned pale with a mixture of envy and shock. She quickly zipped the bags shut, turning to her eldest daughter. "Hajara, run over to Baby’s house this instant! Tell her mother to come and evacuate these suitcases out of my sight immediately!"
Abba Zuhra walked into the room, overhearing her. "What are you talking about? Why on earth would they move them now? Leave the suitcases here so the rest of the extended family elders can view them when they arrive this evening."
"Absolutely not!" Umman Zuhra snapped defensively, her voice rising. "I refuse to keep this level of extreme wealth sitting in my living room! My house is packed with young girls and visitors; if a single expensive lace or gold item goes missing, we will be swimming in a sea of toxic suspicion! Let them carry these bags over to her own mother's house immediately so they can bear their own security responsibility. Everyone who wants to see them can walk over there!"
Forced by her relentless nagging, the uncle relented and ordered Halifa and the young men to hoist the heavy designer chests and march them down the alleyway.
The sight of the young men marching through the narrow dirt lanes struggling under the weight of six glittering luxury suitcases instantly set the neighborhood on fire. Within seconds, a massive wave of gossip swept through every single household in the alleyway: The poor, quiet Baby had somehow managed to land an incredibly wealthy tycoon.
Back at our house, Umma immediately dispatched our younger brother, Jafar, to summon Umman Amina to help manage the crowd. A massive influx of curious neighbors had already swarmed our compound, refusing to leave until the suitcases were unlocked for public viewing. Neither the elders nor the children could believe their eyes. Everyone was completely paralyzed with awe at the sheer, blinding luxury of the clothes. Umma stood in the center of the room, completely speechless, her mind violently spinning back to the crisis of the bedroom furniture (Kayan Ɗaki). How on earth, she thought in sheer panic, can a family as poor as ours provide a bedroom set that matches the royal dignity of these clothes? Even though the young man had explicitly begged them not to stress over the furniture, their family pride was now completely on the line.
The moment the chaotic crowd of neighbors finally dispersed later that afternoon, Umman Amina turned to my mother, her expression dead serious. "Listen to me, sister. Looking at the sheer luxury of these clothes, the idea of abandoning or compromising on her bedroom furniture is completely out of the question! We would face an absolute lifetime of public humiliation. You need to stand up right now, dust off your clothes, and we are going back to that charity foundation tomorrow morning. We have no other choice."
Umma wiped a bead of nervous sweat from her forehead. "Let us wait until tomorrow morning, sister. Baby isn't even home yet, and we need to secure these expensive goods first. Let us make sure we leave the house by exactly ten o'clock tomorrow morning, Insha Allah."
When Jamila finally walked through the front gate after school and saw the six luxury suitcases dominating our small parlor, she began leaping up and down, screaming with pure, unadulterated joy. "Oh my God! Yaya Aliyu is truly incredible! Look at these clothes! They look like they were pulled straight out of an international fashion catalog!"
Umma let out a long, heavy sigh. "Honestly... the young man has completely defied all our expectations. He has completely overwhelmed us."Part 5: The Market Trap
Meanwhile, deep inside the wholesale shop at Kantin Kwari, we were still waiting for the retail runner to bring our fabric bundles down. Within moments, the young boy returned, dropping the materials before us. We examined the quality, and he smoothly quoted the total price.
I cut a sharp, stunned look at my cousin Zuhra. "Do you see this? Safara has been adding an extra one thousand five hundred naira profit margin onto every single bundle of Atamfa she sells us back in the neighborhood!"
Amina shook her head in disgust. "Exactly! That is precisely why my mother strictly forbids us from buying textiles from local neighborhood vendors. They completely rip you off."
Zuhra shrugged. "A markup of one thousand five hundred naira is literally enough cash to pay a professional tailor for an entire outfit's sewing fee."
Before we could continue our financial analysis, a different retail boy approached our bench, carrying three bottles of ice-cold premium Faro water. He extended them to us with a polite bow. "Here is some cold water for you, ladies."
I looked up in surprise. "Wow... do you guys distribute free premium bottled water to individual customers here?"
The boy smiled warmly. "Our big boss upstairs explicitly ordered us to serve this to you. He stated that from a single glance, he could see you girls looked incredibly exhausted from navigating the market dust."
Zuhra immediately glanced over at the senior clerk sitting behind the massive cash desk, assuming he was the owner. "Oh, please extend our profound thanks to him!" she said gratefully.
I turned toward the cash desk as well, a warm smile spreading across my face. "May the Almighty reward him abundantly with endless blessings." I then turned my back, uncapped the bottle, and began drinking the ice-cold water greedily, completely melting into the refreshing relief alongside Amina and Zuhra.Part 6: The Secret Order
The moment the refreshing cold water hit my throat, my mind snapped back to the clothing materials I needed to buy for my little brothers, Jafar and Habu. I lowered the bottle from my lips and turned back to the retail runner who had delivered our Atamfa. "Excuse me, brother... do you guys happen to sell affordable, high-quality male clothing fabrics here? Something like a durable Shadda, perhaps a twenty-yard bundle suitable for young boys?"
The runner shook his head politely. "No, sister. We strictly handle women’s wholesale textiles in this wing. You would have to navigate all the way to the secondary commercial lane to find male fabrics."
I let out a heavy, exhausted sigh. "Oh, goodness... we are honestly far too exhausted to start walking through those crowded lanes again. I wish we could just find everything right here and go home."
The floor manager, Ɗahiru, who had been watching us closely from across the floor, immediately stepped forward. "Hassan! Come over here right now!" He pulled the clerk into a tight whisper. Within moments, Hassan hurried over to our bench, a broad, incredibly respectful smile plastered across his face.
"My dear younger sister," Hassan said warmly, addressing me directly. "Please don't stress yourself at all. Give me your shopping cash, and I will personally cut and measure the premium male fabrics for you right now. Tell me, exactly how many yards do you need, and what specific colors are you looking for?"
"I need exactly four yards total," I replied, my eyes lighting up with relief. "And I would prefer a classic, masculine shade suitable for my younger brothers' tailoring." I immediately handed him our remaining cash. He accepted the money with a deep bow and quickly hurried out of the room.
What had actually transpired behind the scenes was a masterfully coordinated operation: from his soundproof executive suite upstairs, Aliyu Shamaki had kept his eyes completely glued to the surveillance monitor, tracking every single breath, gesture, and movement Baby made. The exact moment she opened her mouth to inquire about male fabrics, Shamaki had immediately patched a direct line to Hassan’s earpiece.
Shamaki's voice had boomed through the clerk's headset: "Have Ɗahiru intercept her cash immediately. I don't care how small or insufficient the amount of money she brought with her is—march directly over to the premium VIP warehouse wing, pull a five-yard bundle of our absolute finest, top-grade royal polished Shadda, and hand it to her. But hear me loud and clear, Hassan: do not dare utter a single syllable about my identity to her. Just deliver the fabric, accept whatever pocket change she gives you, and let her go."
Hassan had stuttered through the line, his jaw dropping in sheer disbelief. "To... Tofa! Understood, Alhaji!"
Back on the retail floor, we were sitting on the bench when Hassan returned, carrying an incredibly heavy, shimmering bundle of top-tier royal Shadda fabric. I pulled it into my lap, feeling the heavy, expensive texture between my fingers. My eyes widened in absolute astonishment. "My goodness... this fabric is unbelievably beautiful! But... wait, brother, did you actually check the tiny amount of cash I handed you? Is this expensive material truly that cheap?"
Hassan forced a smooth, reassured smile. "Oh, absolutely, sister! It is the very final individual piece remaining from an old import batch, which is exactly why the management cleared it out at an absolute discount just for you."
I beamed with gratitude. "Oh, we are so incredibly grateful! Thank you so much!"
The moment we stepped out of the plaza's massive entrance onto the bustling street, a commercial tricycle pulled up directly in front of us, the driver waiting with an expectant smile as if he had been commissioned specifically for our exit.
I looked at him. "Are you headed toward Dan Agundi junction?"
"Hop right in, ladies! I can drop you off exactly where you need to go," the driver replied smoothly.
Amina looked at him as we climbed into the back. "How much is the fare to our junction?"
"Don't worry about the money at all, just climb in and let's go," he replied.
The vehicle sped through the streets, pulling up smoothly right in front of our neighborhood lane. The moment we stepped out, we reached for our purses, but the driver immediately revved his engine, waving his hand dismissively. "Keep your cash, ladies! Have a wonderful day!" Before we could even argue, he sped off into the traffic.
We stood on the sidewalk, completely paralyzed with bewilderment and shock. We showered his departing vehicle with endless prayers of gratitude, instantly bursting into intense gossip, speculating that the handsome driver must be secretly harboring a massive romantic crush on one of us. "But wait," Amina noted, giggling, "if he likes one of us, why on earth did he speed away without even asking for a phone number?" We laughed, entirely mystified by the bizarre streak of good fortune that had followed us all day.
The moment our feet crossed into our neighborhood alleyway, a horde of local children came sprinting toward us, their voices chanting in a wild chorus: "Yaya Baby! Yaya Baby! They have brought it! A massive convoy just delivered your luxury Lefe to the family compound!"
My heart instantly dropped into my stomach with a sudden, heavy thud. We sprinted down the lane, bursting into our compound alongside Zuhra and Amina. The absolute moment my eyes locked onto the six glittering luxury suitcases dominating our small parlor, a profound sense of awe—and an intense, suffocating weight of societal expectation—crushed my spirit. I sank onto the floor, staring at the wealth, a terrifying thought echoing through my soul: The sheer scale of these bridal gifts means my family's poverty is about to be exposed. A matching bedroom set is no longer a luxury—it is an absolute matter of survival for our family honor.Part 7: The Matriarch's Calculation
Back at the family mansion, Hajiya Zeena sat regally on her sofa, listening intently as her younger brother finished delivering a detailed, play-by-play report of their visit to Baby’s family patriarch.
"Honestly, Hajiya," the brother noted, nodding respectfully. "The family elders we met were the absolute definition of dignity, culture, and old-school respect (Dattawa). May the Almighty pour His absolute blessings upon this union."
Hajiya let out a long, slow, calculated breath. "Well... thank you all so much for your immense efforts. May Allah strengthen our family bonds."
"Amin, Hajiya. I shall take my leave now," he said, bowing out of the room.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Hajiya leaned back against her silk cushions, her sharp mind sinking into a deep, turbulent ocean of cold analysis. Since her own biological brother—who was notoriously critical of the lower classes—had explicitly described the family as dignified elders, she knew it was the absolute truth. Had they displayed even a single atom of greed or bad manners, her brother would have shredded their reputation the moment he walked through her door.
From her brief interrogation of the girl during her visit, she had already deduced that Baby originated from a very small, deeply impoverished household, but they were clearly not material-driven or greedy opportunists. She knew with absolute certainty that from the moment the marriage vows were sealed, the massive financial burden of sustaining that entire extended peasant family would inevitably fall squarely upon her son’s shoulders. She was perfectly fine with philanthropy, but she refused to tolerate anything that crossed the line into taking advantage of her empire. Her mansion was her imperial court; every single individual who crossed her threshold was culturally mandated to bow completely to her absolute authority.
Furthermore, Aliyu’s unhinged, frantic desperation regarding this marriage was completely unnatural. When he had married his elite first wife, he had never displayed this level of chaotic, lovesick panic. What infuriated her most of all was the girl’s physical appearance—Baby looked like a literal fragile bird, a collection of bones wrapped in tight skin. Her son was a robust, exceptionally healthy, and highly vital young man; Hajiya had recognized long ago that Aliyu possessed intense physical and emotional needs. She accepted that he had exercised immense moral patience throughout his bachelorhood, which was the sole reason she had consented to this rushed, emergency marriage. But as she aggregated all her anxieties into a single, burning question, she remained deeply unsettled: Can a fragile, unformed ghetto girl like Baby genuinely provide her powerful son with the absolute physical and emotional satisfaction he requires?
She possessed absolutely zero confidence in the answer. Therefore, she resolved that Aliyu must absolutely take a second, highly suitable wife within the shortest possible timeframe—a woman capable of offsetting this glaring physical deficit. Her mind instantly locked onto the perfect candidate: a young girl whom Umar's mother had highly recommended.
Hajiya shifted her posture, sitting upright as her eyes fixed onto the form of Azima. The young girl was currently pouring a refreshing bowl of traditional millet shake (Fura) that Juma had freshly prepared and stored in the compact luxury refrigerator sitting nearby—a beverage Hajiya strictly consumed every afternoon after her Asr prayers.
Hajiya showered Azima with absolute devotion, flooding her life with elite care, expensive grooming, and modern luxuries, all for a singular, sacred purpose: to mold her into the ultimate wife for her son. Azima was currently only fourteen years old; she was the biological daughter of Hajiya’s younger brother, whom Hajiya had literally adopted and taken from her mother’s breast the exact day she was weaned. Hajiya was meticulously raising Azima to possess the exact submissive psychology, elite refinement, and cultural obedience she demanded in a daughter-in-law. More importantly, their family’s personal spiritual Mallam had explicitly delivered a powerful cosmic prophecy: Azima was the chosen vessel who would ultimately give birth to Shamaki’s firstborn patriarchal son.
Knowing that Shamaki’s intense physical desires could not wait for a fourteen-year-old child to fully mature, Hajiya had willingly allowed him to proceed with whatever temporary marriages he desired in the interim. But in her grand masterplan, Azima was the true, ultimate Empress who would rule over his household.
Suddenly, the sharp ringing of her private smartphone shattered her thoughts. She glanced down at the screen. This specific device was an ultra-secure, private line reserved exclusively for communications with her own biological children. The screen flashed the name of her eldest daughter, Maryam.
Hajiya pressed the receiver to her ear. "Hello, Maryam."
From the other end of the line, Maryam’s voice rang through with immense respect. "Our beautiful Hajiya, good afternoon to you."
"Good afternoon, Maman Nana," Hajiya replied smoothly. "Have you returned from your journey?"
"Yes, Hajiya, we just walked through the door!" Maryam exclaimed. "But the moment we landed, we started hearing wild rumors about an emergency wedding celebration bursting out of nowhere! It feels like it dropped straight out of the sky!"
Hajiya let out a soft, cynical chuckle. "Well... Allah has decreed that the time has finally come."
"May the Almighty take us there in absolute peace," Maryam replied warmly. "My husband, Dadinsu Nana, explicitly ordered me to extend his profound respects to you. We will be dropping by the mansion later this evening to see you."
"May Allah pour His blessings upon you both," Hajiya responded. "But please, hear me clearly, Maryam: tell your husband that I strictly forbid him from bringing any massive financial donations or luxury contributions for this wedding. You know how over-generous his character is."
Maryam let out a soft laugh down the line. "Ah, Hajiya, you are already too late! Just an hour ago, he was showing me the formal orders he placed for a brand-new luxury vehicle. He intends to present the car to your youngest son, Aliyu, so he can pack the bridal chests inside it as a grand presentation gift for the new bride!"
Hajiya unleashed a loud, booming laugh packed with raw, aristocratic pride and condescension. "Oh, please tell him to cancel that order immediately! This is absolutely not the type of girl who receives luxury vehicles, Maryam! Aliyu has somehow managed to unearth a fragile little ghetto bird from the slums. Her family background is so profoundly impoverished that if a luxury vehicle is driven into their cramped street, they will fall into an absolute state of sheer terror, assuming we are attempting to purchase their daughter’s soul like a slave. There is absolutely no need to shock them with a car."
Maryam gasped, her voice dropping in sheer astonishment. "Tofa! May Allah preserve us! So... he has genuinely gone and selected a common poor girl this time?"
"Precisely," Hajiya affirmed coldly. "Though, to their credit, they have displayed an admirable level of old-school dignity and class throughout the initial protocols today. We have absolutely no idea how they will behave once they get a taste of our wealth in the future."
"May Allah ensure they maintain their humility," Maryam added knowingly. "You know how these lower-class people operate—the absolute moment they secure a small foothold in an elite estate, they immediately start overstepping their boundaries and acting entitled. Let me quickly dial Maman Iman to alert her; she was already placing massive orders for premium designer lace fabrics for the event."
"Yes, call her immediately," Hajiya commanded. "Inform her, Aisha, and the rest of the sisters. Let no one dare waste their high-end resources or lift their noses in pride over luxury contributions for this specific event. The formal Lefe has already been delivered this afternoon anyway." They concluded their conversation with endless prayers for a peaceful outcome and hung up the phone.Part 8: The Confrontation & The Cliffhanger
Back at the wholesale plaza, Aliyu Shamaki was descending the grand staircase toward the main retail floor when he suddenly overheard Hassan and Ɗahiru huddled in a tight corner, aggressively gossiping, completely unaware that their multi-millionaire CEO was standing directly behind them.
"Man, our big boss is genuinely losing his mind!" Ɗahiru chuckled, shaking his head. "Which specific girl among those ghetto rats is he actually pinning after?"
Hassan let out a loud, mocking scoff. "Bro, the whole thing is completely baffling! Those girls are the literal definition of malnourished slum chicks—completely bony, dried up, and covered in dust. And to think this man is tearing the city apart to finalize an emergency marriage with one of them in a couple of weeks?!"
Hassan then whirled around to mimic Shamaki’s frantic phone call from earlier, adjusting his pitch into a panicked tremolo: "Hassan! Hurry up! Make absolute certain you guys hail a commercial tricycle for them immediately! Ensure those girls evacuate the market district safely this instant!"
The two retail clerks erupted into a loud, hysterical fit of laughter at their own mockery.
"Ahem."
Shamaki cleared his throat, a sound like a thunderclap splitting the room.
The laughter died instantly. The two clerks went completely rigid, their faces turning an ashen gray as a heavy, suffocating wave of intense shame and absolute terror paralyzed their bodies. They bowed their heads, staring at the floor in a dead, horrified silence.
Shamaki stepped forward, his eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying intensity that made the young men tremble. "It is incredibly fortunate that I managed to catch your little performance," Shamaki said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerously calm register. "Let me educate your empty brains: the young lady you just spent the last five minutes thoroughly mocking and degrading as a 'slum rat' happens to be the absolute, definitive woman I am legally binding myself to in marriage. She is your future boss."
He leaned in closer, his gaze boring into their souls. "And hear me loud and clear: a day will inevitably come in your miserable careers where the two of you will be kneeling directly before her desk, desperately begging her for a crumb of professional favor or mercy. Remember this conversation."
Hassan’s voice cracked with pure panic as he began bowing repeatedly. "We throw ourselves at your mercy, Alhaji! Please, for the sake of the Almighty, forgive us! We swear by Allah we had absolutely no idea she was your bride! Please have mercy, boss!"
Shamaki didn't even allow him to finish his desperate plea. He turned his back on them with cold disgust, leaving them trapped in a waking nightmare of absolute dread as he walked out of the plaza.
The next morning, the very moment Baba stepped across the threshold of the front gate to head to his construction site, Umma turned toward the heavens, her hands shaking as she prayed fervently. "Oh, Almighty Allah, You are the ultimate witness to my soul. I am stepping out of this house to fight for my daughter's dignity without her father’s explicit permission. Oh Allah, please grant us a miraculous victory."
Following Umman Amina’s urgent strategy, they marched straight back to the Zeena Foundation plaza. When they arrived, the haughty secretary, Raliya, hadn't even graced the office with her presence yet. They sat on the wooden benches, waiting in a tense, anxious silence for well over an hour until a luxury vehicle finally pulled up, and Raliya strolled through the doors.
Umma and Umman Amina immediately dropped to their knees on the tiled floor, bowing low to greet her. Raliya cast a deeply disgusted, condescending look down at their kneeling forms, aggressively turning her face away as she snapped, "What on earth is it this time? What do you people want?"
Umman Amina swallowed every single ounce of her maternal pride, her voice trembling as she begged. "Please, for the sake of the Almighty, have mercy on us as our fellow woman and sister. We are the desperate souls who brought the application letter the day before yesterday. Please, we beg you to assist us."
Umma wept softly, joining her hands together. "Please shield our family honor from public mockery, beautiful Hajiya. The wedding deadline is crashing down upon our heads, and we are completely empty-handed..."
Raliya slammed her designer bag onto the desk, her voice rising into an aggressive shriek. "For the love of God, will you shut your pathetic mouths?! What on earth do you expect me to do for you? Do you want me to march into the main inventory warehouse, crack open the charity crates, and tell you to pack whatever furniture your greedy hearts desire? Is that your plan?!"
"What on earth is causing this disruptive chaos in my sector?!" a powerful, authoritative female voice boomed from the main corridor.
Everyone whirled around instantly. Stepping into the office was Hajiya A'isha—the elite eldest daughter of the family empire, the immediate elder sister who preceded Aliyu Shamaki by exactly eight years. A'isha was the absolute executive director and supreme overseer of the entire Zeena Philanthropic Foundation branch.
A'isha’s eyes locked onto the heart-wrenching sight of the two elderly mothers kneeling like slaves on the floor before her secretary. Her face contorted with intense fury. "For the sake of the Almighty, stand up immediately!" she commanded Umma and Umman Amina. She then turned a blazing, murderous gaze onto Raliya. "You! Unlock this inner executive office this instant and get inside!"
A'isha marched into the room, her voice echoing with absolute authority. "Raliya, I am completely exhausted from repeating myself to your thick skull! I have warned you a thousand times to cease your disgusting, subhuman habit of humiliating and degrading the underprivileged citizens who come to this plaza! This entire corporate foundation was established for the sole purpose of serving them, not you! You are nothing more than a paid clerk whose salary is funded to facilitate their relief! If the underprivileged stop coming here, what use do I have for your useless presence behind that desk?!"
Raliya began trembling violently, her face draining of color as she began stuttering frantic apologies. "I am so deeply sorry, Hajiya! Please forgive me! They... they just brought their application two days ago, and they are demanding emergency furniture delivery for a wedding taking place next week!"
Umma turned her tear-streaked face toward A'isha, her voice cracked with emotion. "Noble Hajiya, just as the Almighty has securely shielded your own family honor from the harshness of this world, we beg you to shield ours. We had no malicious intent in coming late; we held onto a desperate, burning hope that we would raise the cash to buy her bedroom set ourselves. But every single financial avenue collapsed in our faces at the last second. Please, even if it is just a basic wooden bed frame, help us bury our shame so we can send our daughter to her husband’s house."
A'isha’s expression softened into deep, maternal empathy. She looked at Umma gently. "Which one of you is the biological mother of the bride?"
"I am her mother, Hajiya," Umma replied, wiping her eyes.
"And where exactly is her biological father?" A'isha pressed.
"He is alive and well, Hajiya," Umma explained honestly. "But he is a completely broken, impoverished construction laborer. He has strained every single muscle in his body working day and night across the city, but the harsh economy completely blocked him from raising a single kobo for her furniture. Please, even if it is just a basic bed, assist us."
A'isha nodded slowly. "Very well then. I will personally approve your emergency aid package. I will bypass the standard queue and slot your application directly into this month’s top ten emergency distribution list. Our foundation sponsors exactly ten desperate brides every single quarter—thirty families a year—out of our own family wealth; we receive absolutely zero funding from the government, so we do our best."
Umma and Umman Amina burst into ecstatic tears, raising their hands to the heavens as they flooded the room with endless prayers of gratitude. "Mashallah! May Allah reward your generation with infinite wealth and blessings!"
"It is perfectly fine," A'isha said, waving her hand with a professional smile. "However, there is one non-negotiable legal protocol: I must interview the biological father of the bride in person. Bring him to my office tomorrow morning so he can complete the background verification questionnaire, and I will officially sign over the release forms for her luxury furniture suite." She turned a sharp look at Raliya. "Hand me their original application file this instant."
The mothers offered their final, profound thanks and stepped out of the plaza.
The journey back to our neighborhood was an absolute psychological nightmare for Umma. Her mind was drowning in a turbulent sea of intense panic, terrorized by the impossible task of confronting Baba with this news. She knew his fierce, unyielding patriarchal pride would rather see him burn than allow his wife to secretly beg a corporate charity for help behind his back.
Umman Amina squeezed her hand comfortingly. "Calm down, sister. Let me handle it. I will personally come over to your house tonight the moment he returns from work, and I will present the matter to him myself. Let us see how he responds. Unless he has a magical pile of cash hidden under his mat, I guarantee you he will run toward this charity release with immense gratitude."
Umma let out a shaky breath. "May the Almighty make it easy."
The moment they walked through our front gate, they discovered that our extended maternal relatives from the Kurna district had arrived in droves to view the royal Lefe. For me, my mother's return was an absolute lifesaver. My smartphone had been ringing off its hook for the last two hours with consecutive calls from Yaya; I had been forced to repeatedly decline his calls, texting him frantically to have patience because our parlor was completely overrun with neighbors examining the suitcases.
The moment Umma sat down to exchange formal family greetings with the Kurna visitors, I bolted from my seat, sprinted into our bedroom, and securely locked the door behind me. With my heart pounding against my ribs, I quickly dialed Yaya’s number. The line didn't even complete a full ring before it clicked open.
"Baby," his voice cut through the earpiece. The tone was completely different—devoid of its usual casual warmth, replaced by a heavy, breathless, and dead-serious exhaustion that instantly sent a cold shiver down my spine.
"I'm right here, Yaya," I whispered nervously, my breath catching in my throat.
"I need to ask you a profound, dead-serious question, and I need your absolute, unfiltered honesty," he said, his voice dropping into a dark, intense whisper.
"I'm listening, Yaya," I replied, my grip tightening around the phone.
The line went completely silent for a long, agonizing second before his voice cut through the dark like a knife:
"Are you a virgin?"
A violent shockwave of pure, unadulterated adrenaline exploded through my chest, and my entire world came to a crashing, terrifying halt...
