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THE HEART’S CHARACTER
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The sun blazed intensely, pouring down from every corner of the magnificent sky onto the vast expanse of the earth as far as the human eye could see. It gave off a blinding light and a scorching heat—the kind of heat that forces every living creature, whether human or beast, to desperately seek shelter beneath a patch of shade to rest, cooling the fiery ache the sun leaves trailing from the body straight to the brain.
It was during this exact time that Ummukulsum walked along, filled with deep resentment and a fiery anger. She was a young girl whose age could not have passed fifteen years in this world.
She was dark-skinned—not a pitch-black complexion, but a shade darker than chocolate. She possessed a rich abundance of hair and thick eyebrows. Her mouth was perfectly shaped, and her eyes were medium-sized, blessed with a striking, brilliant whiteness. Her teeth were a gleaming, milk-white color, and her moderate jaw beautifully contoured the shape of her face. In short, Ummukulsum was among the women of moderate, captivating beauty.
The heat burning in her heart far surpassed the heat striking the crown of her head as the sun beat down on her. Her eyes were brimming with tears, which she fought desperately to hold back because she despised crying. She was a resilient girl with a fortified heart, a trait that some mischaracterized as extreme stubbornness and a malicious disposition.
As she walked, she repeatedly swallowed the lump of emotion tightening in her throat, observing how the paths of their neighborhood lanes had long been completely deserted. It seemed everyone had headed to the farms, and those who had no farms to tend to or nothing to do in the fields had gone about their own personal businesses.
She glanced toward her left hand just as she was about to pass a narrow alleyway, deciding on a whim to take it. It would get her home much faster, even though she rarely liked passing through that alley unless absolutely necessary. Even her mother would sometimes tell them to avoid that path. But right now, she wanted to reach home quickly because she had left her mother anxiously awaiting her return.
Before she could even reach the middle of the alley, she spotted her in the distance: Asiya, her own biological cousin. They were first cousins through their fathers, who shared the same mother and father.
She continued walking toward them, pinning them with her gaze and watching them closely.
It was Asiya and Ayuba—one of the village youths who carried himself with the arrogance of early manhood, and who was equally known for his brazen insolence, lack of respect for anyone, promiscuity, lack of moral upbringing, and various acts of immorality. Yet, despite this terrible reputation, almost no one could boldly stand up to challenge him or any of his friends. This was because his father happened to be a wealthy man within the village. On top of that, his mother was the younger sister of their village head. This allowed him to commit whatever crossed his mind and trample upon whoever he pleased, driven by arrogance and the belief that his influence knew no bounds.
Asiya was dressed in her western school uniform—the very school for which they had endured constant mockery, bitter words, and endless insinuation from the villagers. It was a school viewed with a peculiar lens, one upon which all hopes for advancement, success, and a better life for Asiya and anyone associated with her had been placed.
To one side stood Ayuba, positioned so close to her that they looked as if they were about to melt into one another. They were speaking, though Ummukulsum couldn't catch a single word of what they were saying due to the slight distance between them. Her anger flared even hotter than before when she caught sight of Ayuba grabbing Asiya's hand, holding it firmly within his own. This was not the first time she had witnessed Asiya in a compromising situation like this, but she had never spoken of it to anyone except her mother. To this very day, her mother was the only person she had ever confided in about what her eyes had seen. However, once she realized her mother disliked discussing anything related to the matter, she stopped telling her. Yet, day after day, whenever she saw Asiya in such a state, she felt a profound ache deep in her soul, a bitter misery. But there was nothing she could do about it, for she possessed no authority or power to make decisions in her cousin's life.
She continued walking until she reached them, cutting right between them to pass without uttering a single word to either. Asiya and Ayuba tracked her with their eyes, waiting until she had nearly vanished from sight before turning their gaze back to each other at the exact same moment.
"Your cousin saw us, Asy. Do you think she won't take this news back home?"
Asiya sneered, adjusting her posture before looking at him. "So what if she saw us? As for taking tales home, she has never done it, because this isn't the first time."
He cast a look at her—on the surface, it appeared to be one of admiration and affection, but deep within his heart, he was mocking her to himself:
So she's completely empty-headed, a loose girl. And clearly, I'm not the only one who has enjoyed touching her. Let me just relax and take my own share of the prize; as long as money is her problem, she has found it.
With this wicked thought in mind, he flashed her a smile, which prompted her to return one of her own.
Weaving these two troubling matters into her thoughts, she faced their family compound—a home whose hatred planted itself deeper into her soul with every passing day. People often say a child uses their father as an ornament of pride, but here, she challenged that proverb. Here, in the reality she lived... she took pride in her mother, not her father. The Hausa say home is a place of comfort... but excluding their own home. She could not glimpse a single shred of joy, peace, or tranquility within their house. She didn't know when they would ever look at their home and feel happiness, peace of mind, or a sense of pride.
Even though it was unlikely anyone would hear her, that didn't stop her from offering her Islamic greeting as she entered the house. But just as she expected, she wasn't heard, not until she advanced into their large, spacious courtyard. As is typical of the compound structures of rural families, she headed toward the section on her right side, which was enclosed by a cornstalk fence to separate it from the main courtyard. She could hear the loud blare of a radio blasting from the other section on the left, which faced their own quarters. That side was far superior to theirs; if nothing else, it enjoyed the luxury of a red-clay brick wall, just like the rest of the main estate's architecture.
She offered her greeting a second time, and this time, they answered her almost in unison. Two women were sitting beneath a thatched straw awning in the middle of their courtyard, seated upon a woven mat made of palm fronds. One was a young girl who wasn't past fourteen years old, and the other was their mother, whose own age was nearing forty. However, if you didn't look at her closely and carefully, you would assume she was much older due to the premature gray hair sprouting across her dark head—a direct consequence of her harsh environment and the bitter circumstances of her life.
As she approached them, her attention shifted toward the small makeshift kitchen awning they had raised to cook under. It was completely cold. There was no smoke from the cornstalk firewood they usually burned; in fact, the pots were turned upside down, entirely washed and clean just as she had left them earlier. Did this mean their father hadn't checked on them or sent anything since he left in the morning? She averted her eyes, walked over to the mat they were sitting on, and sat down, her heart twisting further with bitter sorrow.
"You're back already?" her mother threw the question at her.
Ummukulsum lowered her eyes to the ulcerated sore on her mother's leg, which seemed to hollow out deeper with each passing day as the leg swelled further. Every single night and every new dawn in this world, her mother slept and woke with this agonizing affliction, and Ummukulsum felt the pain of it as if it were vibrating through her own body.
"How could you expect me to stay long in that house anyway, Umma?" she said, her voice laced with clear signs of anger.
Her mother lifted her eyes completely to stare at her, studying her facial expression for a few seconds before letting out a quiet, hidden sigh. She then called her name softly:
"Kaltume... This house you are speaking of belongs to my biological mother, not a stranger. Have you forgotten?"
She pulled her eyes away from the sore for the first time since she had pinned her gaze on it, as if doing so might help draw the pain away from her mother's leg.
"I know, Umma. I know. But you must forgive me, Umma, because my mouth will never stop speaking words like these. Because it is the truth, and it is exactly what is inside my heart. As long as she doesn't stop either... as long as she doesn't change, I don't think I will change either, Umma."
Her mother fixed an intense gaze on her again, then parted her lips slowly to say:
"Kaltum..."
"Please forgive me, Umma," she cut in quickly, refusing to let her mother say anything further.
Her mother let out a heavy sigh and tore her eyes away from her daughter's face. She knew that Kaltum was a girl who kindled with fierce anger when provoked; she was hot-tempered and fiercely reactive, yet she possessed an immense capacity for pity and a gentle nature at other times.
Silence stretched between them for several minutes before the mother asked softly:
"How did it go with her?"
"Just like every other day and just like always. Today as well, she did exactly what she always does to me. I found Uncle Labaran... he overheard the conversation I was having with her and pulled out some money to give me, but she reached out her hand, snatched it away, and told him he must not give it. She said even if money is given to you, you just end up spending it on your mother and your father... Umma, why on earth does she hate you so much? Is she truly your real mother...?"
Her mother flashed Kaltum a sharp glare that instantly stopped her from finishing what she intended to say. Yet, despite the interruption, the account of what had happened left a visible mark of distress on her mother's face. Even though this wasn't the first time—she had long grown accustomed to and aware of her own mother's toxic behavior, to the point where it had almost become a part of her existence—she could never truly get used to it. Every single time something like this occurred, she felt the burning sting of it pierce the very depths of her heart.
"Hmph," muttered Habiba, her younger sister, who had been sitting quietly beside their mother the entire time. She was a person of immense patience, far exceeding Kaltum. She was a girl of few words, possessing a gentle, serene disposition just like their mother's. Yet, despite her quiet nature, these hardships weighed terribly on her as well, eating away at her peace of mind. She rarely spoke up, but whenever a private conversation arose between her and her sister, she would voice her pain.
Kaltum glanced at her, knowing from her facial expression alone that her sister's heart was equally broken. She knew that continuing to dwell on the matter would yield no benefit and would bear no positive fruit, so she redirected the conversation toward finding a solution:
"So, Umma, what do we do now?"
After a few moments of heavy silence, her mother answered:
"It's nothing. I will simply continue to search until Allah grants us a way out. If I don't get anything... I will just keep using this traditional herb and see what Allah will do."
Kaltum fell silent, swallowing a bitter lump of saliva. She looked back toward their cooking area, which remained dry, devoid of food or any sign of a meal. She returned her gaze to her mother:
"Has Baba not returned yet? I see you haven't put anything on the fire."
As if it weren't an important question at all, her mother answered casually:
"He hasn't returned, but I know he is on his way, In sha Allah."
Kaltum stood up abruptly because her heart was only growing more embittered. She knew her mother only said that to shield him in their eyes, even though there was no dignity left for him to retain in his children's sight. He had completely shattered everything, stripping away his own respect in public. She couldn't even remember how many times she had gone out to braid people's hair, returned with the earnings, and used it to buy the food they ate. So what respect was left?
She picked up a plastic kettle, and just as she was about to head to the backyard, she turned back to look at their mother:
"Umma, where did Bilal go?"
"He hadn't been gone long before you walked in. He told me he was going over to Dan Bala's place. He said it seemed there was some manual labor they were going to do today."
She simply nodded her head, her anger multiplying. Bilal wasn't even fully fifteen years old, yet he was intimately acquainted with every form of hardship in this world. He was a boy who seemed completely indifferent to his own physical pain or comfort. Allah had instilled within him a profound empathy for his mother and a deep love for his sisters. Any grueling, exhausting labor that anyone could call him for, Bilal knew how to do it—ranging from mixing mud for clay bricks, construction work, clearing earth, digging latrines or wells, and even taking out livestock for grazing if someone needed the service and was willing to pay him. His sole desire was to be paid; his only goal was for his family to find food to eat. He had pushed himself through exhausting labor so often that returning home to nurse his aching body had simply become a routine.
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Throughout all this grueling work, Bilal never complained of exhaustion or piled up grievances. His single wish was to get his hands on some money, buy something delicious to eat, and secretly bring it to his mother. He never allowed his father to see it, because he knew with absolute certainty that if his father caught sight of it, neither the money nor the food would remain theirs. No matter the amount, his father would confiscate it and stuff it into his own pockets. Yet, despite never contributing to the household, his father never felt a shred of shame in demanding a share of whatever they managed to find.
This reality ate terribly at Kaltum's peace of mind. She loved Bilal deeply; he was incredibly gentle-natured, devoid of the unruly behavior or noisy disruption typical of boys his age. The suffering he endured felt entirely too heavy in her eyes, yet it had virtually become a part of his identity. He had become like a slave to labor, unable to spend a single day at home resting without engaging in some form of work, unless he was physically ill.
Kaltum had desperately wanted him to get an education, even though she and Habiba hadn't been able to pursue theirs, since he was the only son their mother had. But he had completely refused, insisting that his pursuit of daily wages was far more important to him. Even when she sat down to think about it, she realized that if she forced him into school, what would he even fund the studies with? They were a family that had to struggle every single day just to secure their next meal. Nevertheless, she swore a solemn vow within her heart to struggle relentlessly, saving up enough money to force Bilal back to school even if he resisted. She viewed him as the mirror of their future, a stepping stone that would guide their lives toward a safe haven in the days to come.
They sat in agonizing anticipation until the Zuhr afternoon hour arrived, yet there was still no sign or trace of their father. If you looked at the faces of all three of them, there was no doubt they were starving. From their section of the compound, they could smell the rich aroma of palm oil being fried, evidently originating from Uncle Iliya's section—the quarters directly facing theirs. But whether it was the scent of palm oil or any other delicious meal, there was absolutely no guarantee that a portion would be sent over to them, despite the rights of neighbors and kinship, unless Allah had explicitly decreed a share for them.
As soon as she concluded her Zuhr prayer, Kaltum stood up, dusting off her black hijab which had swept up dirt from the floor. She looked at their mother:
"Our Umma... I just remembered that Ladingo still owes me for the hair braiding I did for her and her daughter the other day. Let me go see if I can collect it, so I can buy us at least some cassava flour."
Her mother looked at her daughter with deep, painful sympathy. She utterly detested the miserable life they were living, but what could she do? She didn't possess a trade; in fact, she had no capital to start one, and no one to provide it. She lacked any assets she could sell to raise funds. Heck, even when she had attempted a small trade in the past, her husband would craftily manipulate her and seize the proceeds until he ran the business into the ground. Out of sheer helplessness, she had been forced to simply fold her arms and watch whatever unfolded.
Yet, despite everything, she never let down her guard or grew lax regarding the moral upbringing of her children. She was strict and uncompromising when it came to monitoring their discipline, and everyone in the community knew it.
"Don't stay long," her mother instructed. "If you don't get the money, hurry back home immediately."
"In sha Allah... Habiba, come let's go," she said to her younger sister, who had also just finished her prayers. She stood up, and they exited the compound together.
They walked down the path in absolute silence, each lost in the heavy thoughts churning within their minds. They hadn't gone very far when they spotted Asiya walking toward them, carrying her school bag as if she were a dedicated student. It was exactly the time schools dismissed for the day, which was why she was returning home now.
The moment Asiya’s eyes met Kaltum's, her face contorted into a deep, hostile scowl. She deliberately averted her gaze after shooting Kaltum a venomous glare. Kaltum had no idea where this sudden hostility had originated, but as the Hausa saying goes... the mat of shame is rolled up with madness. Perhaps that was exactly the act Asiya was trying to pull.
Only after they had completely bypassed her did Habiba speak up:
"Yaya, didn't you see the way Asiya just looked at you?"
Kaltum nodded her head slowly. "I saw it, Habiba. She wants to roll up her mat of shame with a display of madness."
Sensing there was more to the story, Habiba pressed, "What happened?"
Kaltum hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should keep it to herself. But she realized that keeping a secret locked inside does nothing to cure a starving belly. Besides, in this entire world, she had no confidante closer than Habiba. Furthermore, she knew Habiba's character better than anyone—she wasn't a gossip, nor did she maintain a wild circle of friends. She was a deeply reserved girl; if she were told a secret, it stayed with her. What affected Habiba affected her.
She explained everything that had transpired in a way her sister could fully comprehend. To her utter surprise, Habiba simply scoffed and shrugged her shoulders.
"I am completely used to seeing Asiya in that state, Yaya. We can only pray that Allah guides her."
Shocked and deeply disturbed by her sister's nonchalance, Kaltum widened her eyes, staring at her. "But Habiba, you knew about this and you never did anything to stop your own sister from falling into ruin? Don't you realize you share a portion of the blame for whatever happens, since you failed to help her or push her away from the harm she is willfully plunging her life into?"
Habiba replied in a subdued tone, "What can I do, Yaya? I told Umma, and she told me we should simply support her with prayers and that I should hold my tongue. She detests conflict, and there is no guarantee Aunt Lami would even understand or accept what I have to say to her. You know her explosive temper better than anyone, and how she constantly victimizes and targets us for absolutely no reason at all."
Kaltum fell silent, unable to utter another word. Her mind was in complete turmoil. A girl of her own flesh and blood was willingly straying down a path of destruction; what could be more distressing than that? She knew she could never remain silent, even if Aunt Lami threatened to skin her alive. Besides, they couldn't be entirely certain the woman would reject the truth; no decent mother would ever wish to witness the moral ruin of her daughter. A true mother would be the very first person to demand her rehabilitation. Therefore, Kaltum swore a solemn vow within her heart, keeping it completely hidden from Habiba.
They didn't speak another word to each other until they arrived at Ladingo's compound. It was another large, typical rural residence subdivided into several household units. Kaltum offered her greetings to the people gathered in the courtyard before proceeding directly to Ladingo's section.
She found her sitting down, wrapped in a mismatched blouse and wrapper. Her infant child was resting on her lap, nursing, while Ladingo herself was busy counting a stack of cash. In front of her sat a crumpled metal bowl. The money had evidently just been brought back to her by the young girl she employed to hawk the awara (soy cakes) she prepared for commercial sale. The hair braids Kaltum had crafted for her were already beginning to frizz and unravel, yet to this day, she had failed to settle the debt for the service. This was a frustrating habit she shared with several other women in the village. Kaltum only took up braiding because it served as a vital loophole to secure a meager income. Even though they were dirt-poor and possessed absolutely nothing, Kaltum's family were exceptionally clean people—a trait they had directly inherited from their mother. Kaltum herself was exactly the same way; she utterly loathed filth. She possessed a meticulous sense of hygiene, ensuring that no matter how faded or worn her clothes were, you would never spot a speck of dirt or any sign of untidiness on her. This meticulousness was the exact reason she found it incredibly difficult to work on the hair of certain village women, given their absolute lack of grooming and hygiene. Many of them misinterpreted her reluctance as sheer arrogance and pride, but that wasn't the case at all; it was simply their utter filthiness that nauseated her. She constantly marveled at how they could remain so indifferent to the state of their bodies and heads. A woman would spend the entire day standing on her feet chasing money, yet basic bodily grooming was a mountain she couldn't climb; she couldn't even bring herself to buy a tiny dab of body cream or a cheap bottle of local perfume to ward off body odor and staleness. Despite their poverty—and many of those women were actually wealthier than her family—she had never once witnessed a single trace of filth on her mother's body.
The moment Ladingo heard their greetings, she hastily attempted to conceal the money by stuffing the bills deep into the folds of her wrapper. Kaltum saw the action clearly, but she averted her eyes, pretending she had noticed nothing, and forced a broad, artificial smile onto her face.
Habiba looked around carefully before barely managing to find a clean spot to sit down. Kaltum, however, couldn't bring herself to sit in the cramped space; she simply leaned her back against the mud wall and offered her greetings to Ladingo. The woman was technically a youth who had only given birth to a single child, but her lack of hygiene and the brutal strain of her daily hustle had added countless years to her face and entire physical frame.
"Please, Ladingo, I've come for you to give me the money for the hair braiding. I am in an urgent situation and desperately need to use it."
Ladingo's face immediately hardened into a defensive scowl. "Good grief, Kaltume... You have absolutely no shame or manners, I swear. Have you seriously still not forgotten about that trivial braiding money, for God's sake? How many days has it been? You truly need to reduce your obsessive love for worldly materials, honestly."
The sheer audacity of her words struck Kaltum with a mixture of intense anger and profound shock. What made it vastly worse was the condescending, arrogant tone the woman used—as if she were the one who had given birth to Kaltum.
"Look, when I came to work on your hair, you explicitly told me you would pay me for the service. You never told me you wanted me to do it as a free favor. So, don't you see that even if a thousand days pass, it remains my rightful earnings, doesn't it?"
"Listen here, don't you dare show me any disrespect... Take your money!"
📚 Chapter Breakdown & Cultural Insights
- The Mat of Shame (Tabarmar Kunya): The Hausa proverb "Tabarmar kunya da hauka ake nadeta" (The mat of shame is rolled up with madness) beautifully highlights Asiya's psychological defense mechanism. When caught in a morally compromising situation with Ayuba, instead of showing remorse, she projects anger and hostility onto Kaltum to deflect her own guilt.
- Hygiene vs. Poverty: The author draws a sharp, intentional contrast between financial poverty and moral/physical cleanliness. While Kaltum's family is destitute and starving, their adherence to extreme hygiene separates them from characters like Ladingo, who possesses commercial cash flow but lives in absolute filth. This establishes Kaltum's pride and structured upbringing despite her harsh material reality.
