Amani Book 1 Complete

Description

She sat on the 3-seater with her legs crossed, one resting over the other, holding the remote and flipping through channels from one to the other without paying attention to their conversation.

Her head scarf had slipped backward, revealing a mass of soft, jet-black hair rolled in tiny neat lines, shining and eye-catching without any artificial additions, unlike the synthetic horsehair weaves he was used to seeing.

Thank goodness his eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, or Hajiya would have caught the intoxicated, mesmerized way he kept staring at Rukayyah, as if he had never seen such a stunningly beautiful young woman until today. Hajiya noticed that Saifuddeen’s eyes were fixed entirely on Rukayyah’s direction. He hadn’t even touched the food set before him, nor did he hear Hajiya talking; his mind was completely consumed by an intense attraction to Rukayyah, and his thoughts were entirely elsewhere.

This is precisely why Allah Subhanahu Wata'ala commanded: "And tell the believing women... to display their adornment only to their husbands, their fathers, their husbands' fathers, their sons, their husbands' sons, their brothers, or their brothers' sons..." (up to the end of Surah Al-Ahzab).

Hajiya turned to look at where Rukayyah sat, and seeing the dangerous, captivating beauty she radiated, she was startled. She sprang up from her chair and shouted loudly:

“Hey! Eat your food and be on your way, it is getting late! And you, Rukayyah, go quickly, fetch your hijab and let’s go. I do not want you going out dressed in this provocative attire.”

Both she and Rukayyah jumped in surprise—he out of guilt, and she from the unexpected harshness of the reprimand. He quickly lowered his head, becoming composed and quiet as if he wished the earth would swallow him from shame.

He knew very well how observant Hajiya was regarding her children's affairs and how she monitored their every move. No doubt, she had caught him completely engrossed in staring at Rukayyah.

Rukayyah said pitifully, “Wallahi Hajiya, you startled me. You didn't have to shout; if you wanted me to wear it, I would have. Your scolding just terrifies me.”

Hajiya softened, smiled, and said, “Alright, hurry up and go, I am done scolding.”

He reached out and opened a container of beautifully prepared fried rice, richly topped with finely chopped mixed vegetables. An incredible aroma—unlike any food he had ever smelled before (mushroom curry)—invaded his nostrils. His mouth watered even before taking a bite.

He rolled up his sleeves and dug into Rukayyah’s delicious cooking. He finished it off and washed it down with thoroughly cooked, tender offal pepper soup. If he was going to be eating such delicious meals every day, then he better hold onto this "daughter of Hajiya" with trust and care.

She emerged pushing her travel bag, dressed in a thick, ash-colored after-dress, though this could not hide the cascading rows of her braided hair. Hajiya looked up at Rukayyah again and felt that this outfit revealed the beauty of her figure even more than the previous one. She began to worry about letting Rukayyah leave with Saifuddeen—not for any other reason than knowing her ward inside and out, just as she knew her own hunger.

So she started scolding her again, completely unprovoked: “Rukayyah, I honestly don't know what kind of stubborn girl you are. You are just going to walk out with all your braids exposed like that? I told you to put on a hijab, and instead, you put on this flashy gown—might as well cancel the trip altogether, it’s not mandatory!”

Rukayyah just stood there, bewildered by Hajiya. She didn't own any hijabs except the ones used for prayer; was that what Hajiya meant? Well, they could cancel the trip then! She hadn't even wanted to go in the first place, and Hajiya had never scolded her like this before—was it just because she was going out with her son? Did she take her for some loose girl or what?

Suddenly, a wave of bitterness washed over her. Oh dear, ignorance is bliss! Rukayyah didn't know that Hajiya didn't fully trust her own son and was desperately trying to protect Rukayyah’s dignity.

He didn't offer any input; he just turned and walked away to the car, answering a call from "Sweety Salima." Rukayyah wanted to tell Hajiya that she was calling off the trip, but she figured Hajiya’s authority over her was too absolute.

She went back inside and grabbed her stark-black prayer hijab, slapped it on, shoved her bag forward—keceeeee…!!—and walked out like a whirlwind. Hajiya called out softly,

“Rukayyah!”

She paused without turning around and without answering. Hajiya continued, “Now, because I scolded you for something that will benefit you, are you getting angry?”

Rukayyah's heart softened with immediate pity for Hajiya. She turned back, squatted in front of her with a smile, and said, “Wallahi Hajiya, I am not angry.”

Hajiya said, “Alright, go on, take care of yourself. For God's sake, I know you are meddlesome, but do not open up or smile freely at any man, Rukayyah. All of them are full of tricks—tricks of deceit, malice, and betrayal. Always stay wrapped in your hijab in front of men; that is what makes a woman honorable, one who respects her own dignity and self-worth. Do you hear me?”

Rukayyah replied, "Yes, Hajiya," without realizing it was all pure hypocrisy on Hajiya's part.

Hajiya continued, “And be obedient to them since they are above you. Learn to be patient with people; don't feel like you must react to everything done to you. Tone down your tossing and turning, mind your business, and learn to ignore things that do not concern you. Just do what you were sent there to do—cook for your brother-in-law—and mind nobody else.”

She said "Yes" again. As she lifted her foot to step out, Hajiya added, “Tomorrow when I return from Jalingo, I will call and let you know how my discussion with Usman went. If she feels better, come back.”

In her heart, Rukayyah thought: How long? I won't spend more than a week here; do they think I'm some jobless wanderer?

She found him sitting in his car with both feet outside, speaking to his wife in such a soft, melting tone that she refused to believe it belonged to Saifuddeen. Hearing the sweet endearments being lavished, she instinctively stepped back, leaned against the car door, and checked her wristwatch.

She stood waiting for at least thirty minutes, as if she were a non-living object. He just sat there chatting away on his phone, looking so classy and gentle.

Just as she was about to head back inside out of sheer annoyance, he pulled his feet back into the car and, without even glancing at her, said, "You can get in now." And that’s when the real drama began.

He wore a scowl on his face, wondering where she would choose to sit. In his view, it would be a major step down to have Rukayyah sit next to him in the front passenger seat, especially wearing that pitch-black, oversized rag of a hijab. On the other hand, it would also be beneath him to have her crammed in the back while he drove her like a chauffeur. So what now?

Rukayyah cut short his internal debate by opening the front door and climbing in, radiating sheer frustration from having been left standing out there for thirty minutes like a manual laborer looking for a job at Dambatta Shipping.

Furious, he jerked the car into motion as if hauling a cart of waste, praying to drop her off quickly or get some relief.

She had never ridden in a car this luxurious and comfortable. This was the Opel-Astra she had read about in magazines, websites, and General Motors commercials from America. She was convinced whoever chose this car had a great eye for luxurious, stylish living—though, in her opinion, he clearly lacked good taste in picking a life partner.

A languid, slender woman, thin as a whip, lacking curves front or back—the kind of twig-like models she saw doing fashion parades on TV, resembling date palm trunks—yet possessing a strikingly gorgeous face with a fine nose, eyes, and perfectly sculpted kissable lips. For high-rollers like Saifuddeen Aliyu Dambatta, these were the kinds of women put in the front seat, brought out to social gatherings, women who could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you and even tower over you in height.

She came running to her husband in the living room, engaging in intimate displays Rukayyah had never seen before—licking and tasting each other like starving demons. Though Rukayyah occasionally saw glimpses of this in Indian and Western films called "romance," she had never witnessed it in reality.

Once they settled down, Salima cast a glance past her husband and spotted the tall, fair-skinned Arab-looking beauty instead of the dark-skinned Yagana she expected. This girl bore a striking facial resemblance to Saifuddeen Aliyu Dambatta—sharing his fingers and long, elegant legs.

Rukayyah stripped off her suffocating, heavy hijab, which allowed Salima to fully appreciate the girl's striking, catfish-like curved figure, complemented by flowing natural hair. Folding her hijab, Rukayyah offered Salima a gentle smile, raising her fair hands adorned with black henna on every finger, sparkling white gold rings on three fingers, and saying in a soft voice:

“Hi, Yaya's wife!”

Salima couldn't even blink, trying to recall where she had seen her before. Without a doubt, she had seen that face at least once, though she forgot where. Even back then, she hadn't liked her, she didn't trust her, and she couldn't pinpoint why. Deep down, however, she knew it was the girl's stunning beauty and resemblance to Saifuddeen that had pricked her heart.

Without waiting for permission—classic meddlesome Rukayyah—she shoved her travel bag right into the middle of the luxurious living room, which looked more like the palace of the late Stella Obasanjo or a mansion on Atiku Road. Actually, scratch that, she thought to herself, it looks more like a European Yar'Adua living room, straight out of an Italian interior design magazine.

The master of the house was completely thrown off balance, like a man terrified of his wife's wrath. He rushed over to the tiny, white, breathable leather seats that beautifully decorated the black-and-white living room, grabbing the remote to turn up the air conditioner to stop the nervous sweat caused by the fear of what judgment Madam was about to pass on him and Rukayyah—a wrath equivalent to facing Alhaji Dambatta himself.

Madam Salima stood right where they left her, ever since her husband had desperately tried to slip away out of shame before his younger cousin who held him in such high regard. He tried to put on a brave face (as men say) or rather tried a clumsy cover-up:

“Don't you recognize her? This is Rukayyah, daughter of Uncle Usman, Hajiya's younger brother.”

Salima forced a smile, though her whites of her eyes were bloodshot. She pulled herself together, walked over, sat close to him, and tried to rest her head on his thighs in a frail, sick-woman manner, saying:

"Ah, yes, I see the resemblance." She didn't look back at Rukayyah, nor did she invite her to sit.

Rukayyah didn't care in the least; she didn't even realize they were talking because she was busy on the phone with Rabi.

Once she finished, she walked over to one of the living room armchairs far away from them and assumed her classic posture: pulling her feet up onto the chair, crossing one over the other, and facing the television. She didn't look at them again, nor did they pay her any further mind.

After a while, she heard Saifuddeen saying in a faint, tiny voice, “Come on, Salima... stop it... stop it... for... God's sake.”

Shortly after, he bolted up the stairs in a hurry, with Salima chasing after him, yelling, "If you're not scared, stand your ground..." After that, she didn't hear a peep from them until 11:00 PM.

Her phone chimed, signaling an incoming call. Hajiya’s name flashed on the screen, and she eagerly answered:

“Hajiyata, you haven't slept yet?”

Hajiya replied, “I couldn't sleep, Rukayyah. I've been thinking about you. I'm just now regretting letting you go with them; I should have listened to you and sent Rabi instead, since you guys are used to each other. I know you won't feel comfortable or free there.”

Rukayyah said, “It's nothing, Hajiya, don't let it worry you. If not for this, we'd never get used to each other.”

Hajiya asked, “True. I hope the guest room they gave you is nice and adequate?”

Rukayyah paused for a moment, rolling her bright eyes as she surveyed the massive, luxurious living room where she had been dumped and forgotten like trash. She thought to herself: Yeah… it’s indeed a beautiful room! But out loud, she said:

“Oh, there's nothing missing, Hajiya. The room's bathroom even has a Jacuzzi, the exact one I told you I wanted!”

Hajiya laughed, thinking to herself that Rukayyah would never outgrow her childishness. Out loud, she said, “Well, then, let's sleep well. Do you have any message for Amina?”

She replied, “Just greet her. But have Hafiz bring me my kilishi. Tell him to check my mirror cabinet in my room—my drawing materials are there. Have him bring them all to me; I forgot them when I was traveling.”

Surprised, Hajiya asked, “Drawing materials? What kind of drawing materials?”

Rukayyah gasped, “Oh! Hajiya, don't you know I'm an architect?”

Hajiya replied, "How would I know? No problem, I'll pick them up for you." They exchanged warm, loving goodbyes.

When the silence grew unbearable—since she wasn't much of a TV watcher—she tried calling Nafisa. The phone rang repeatedly until it gave up without an answer. She called again, and this time it rang endlessly before Nafisa picked up. Before they could even greet each other, Nafisa cut her off:

“Do you think everyone is single like you, calling married people during bed time?”

Rukayyah covered her mouth in shock. Before she could speak, Nafisa continued, "I'll call you in the morning, it's my cherie's time now." And she hung up without waiting for a reply.

Nafisa’s rudeness deeply upset her. She rested her chin in both hands, lost in thought.

So a woman—no matter her beauty, status, wealth, power, or education—ultimately finds her true worth and protection in her marital home?

If she were married right now, who would dare ask her to come work as a cook in people's houses and get treated with such disrespect?

She used her handbag as a pillow, stretched out fully on the long couch, and drifted into a deep sleep shortly after.

[12/17/2019, 19:15] Takori: In the middle of her sleep, she heard the muffled sound of Salima crying overhead. Startled, she sat bolt upright, her eyes wide like an owl's.

The quiet night air carried the echoes of the heated dispute between husband and wife. Despite her sharp hearing, she couldn't make out what Saifuddeen—who spoke in a soothing, calm tone—was saying, but Salima’s screaming was crystal clear:

“... Why would you tell me to clear a room just because you brought home another wife?! How can you expect me to agree that you go fetch my younger sister and instead bring your own kinswoman?! This was planned deliberately! I've known for a while that people are bitter about the peace and quiet I enjoy in my home...”

Apparently, this time Saifuddeen lost his cool, and she managed to catch his final words, shouted in sheer frustration:

“Then what do you want me to do? How do you expect me to act, for God's sake, Salima...?”

Furious, she cut him off: “Don't give me that, Alhaji! This is all Hajiya's hypocrisy...”

He spoke in a booming voice this time, one that sent shivers down Rukayyah’s spine and made her bladder cramp with fear so badly she nearly leaked:

"It’s enough! Enough, Salima! Watch your mouth and know what you're saying! My Hajiya is a HYPOCRITE?! Don't ever say anything that will force me to disgrace you.

I am telling you before God, I didn't ask for Rukayyah to come; it was Alhaji…

If you don't believe me, do whatever you want, but Rukayyah is not going back until they say she should return of their own accord. Watch your tongue! Don't you ever repeat that kind of talk to me again.

I will endure anything, BUT NOT INSULTING HAJIYA'S DIGNITY. And wallahi, your constant suspicion and lack of trust are what rob you of your peace of mind every single day.

Before I ever knew you, I knew Rukayyah; she has been coming to our house since she was ten years old. Wallahi, if I wanted her romantically, I wouldn't have married you in the first place!

And if Hajiya wanted me to marry her, she wouldn't have just sent her to your house; she would have issued a direct command, and I would have no way to disobey.

My Hajiya is not like that. She has never opened her mouth to speak a disparaging word about you. Yet you are constantly accusing her and lacking love for her.

You have no right to police her! You are a nobody! No matter what you say, I stand by my mother, but wallahi, despite all my love for you, I can walk away from you..."

Rukayyah’s body shook with terror, though the commotion eventually died down. She rolled onto her right shoulder, closed her eyes, and marveled at Salima.

So she thinks Hajiya sent her here so Saifuddeen could marry her? She thinks Hajiya plotted this hypocrisy? she thought to herself. Why are some women like this?

Wallahi, she had never thought of such a thing; it had never crossed her mind. She hadn't dreamed of wanting Saifuddeen for even a single day.

He was completely outside the category of men she envisioned building a life with, and he had never impressed her.

Apart from the vast gulf in status between them, she had no interest in an arranged family marriage, viewing it as a trap—a stifling union where one spouse gets suppressed, let alone a polygamous marriage! May God protect her! The memory of Jummai's ordeal with her mother was still fresh in her mind. (Oh, the bliss of ignorance!)

If Salima only knew how little she cared for her husband, perhaps she wouldn't have poisoned her own heart, ruined her marriage, and stressed herself out over nothing.

In Rukayyah’s eyes, this was pure madness—far beyond mere jealousy. Salima had only brought humiliation upon herself. Even if Saifuddeen hadn't intended to pay attention to Rukayyah, he was now forced to because she had witnessed firsthand how Salima disliked him, disrespected him, and even disrespected his mother. How could anyone be so foolish and lacking in sense?

Her assessment was spot-on. She heard him descending the stairs with heavy, rapid strides—thud, thud, thud—as if cracking the tiles.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly out of sheer terror, assuming he had spotted her sitting there eavesdropping on their marital feud and had come down to unleash his fury on her.

She curled into a tight ball, grabbing her handbag and clutching it close so she wouldn't struggle to find transport money back to Hajiya’s house.

Instead, she felt someone firmly tugging at the hem of her gown: “Hey RAK, hey Rukayyah... Rukayyah, why are you sleeping down here in the living room?”

She let out a massive sigh of relief. Slowly, she opened her blue eyes and looked up at him. He was dressed in pristine white Mark & Spencer pajamas, holding the waist with his left hand. The light revealed a patch of soft, jet-black hair lying flat across his chest, shining brightly in the electrical light.

So all her fear and hostility toward Saifuddeen Aliyu Dambatta... today, she was seeing the real Saifuddeen face-to-face. No wonder Salima was going mad with jealousy over him!

In appearance, he was the exact spitting image of Usman Jalingo, though distinguished by a lighter complexion and the youthful vigor of his skin. He was remarkably fair—perhaps even fairer than she was. In worldly comfort and luxury, he certainly outshone her.

If she were to look into a mirror, she would see her own face reflected in Saifuddeen's, thoug

Here is the English translation, summary, detailed description, commentary, and conclusion for the provided Hausa literary excerpt.

English Translation of the Excerpt

She sat on the 3-seater with her legs crossed, one resting over the other, holding the remote and flipping through channels from one to the other without paying attention to their conversation.

Her head scarf had slipped backward, revealing a mass of soft, jet-black hair rolled in tiny neat lines, shining and eye-catching without any artificial additions, unlike the synthetic horsehair weaves he was used to seeing.

Thank goodness his eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, or Hajiya would have caught the intoxicated, mesmerized way he kept staring at Rukayyah, as if he had never seen such a stunningly beautiful young woman until today. Hajiya noticed that Saifuddeen’s eyes were fixed entirely on Rukayyah’s direction. He hadn’t even touched the food set before him, nor did he hear Hajiya talking; his mind was completely consumed by an intense attraction to Rukayyah, and his thoughts were entirely elsewhere.

This is precisely why Allah Subhanahu Wata'ala commanded: "And tell the believing women... to display their adornment only to their husbands, their fathers, their husbands' fathers, their sons, their husbands' sons, their brothers, or their brothers' sons..." (up to the end of Surah Al-Ahzab).

Hajiya turned to look at where Rukayyah sat, and seeing the dangerous, captivating beauty she radiated, she was startled. She sprang up from her chair and shouted loudly: "Hey! Eat your food and be on your way, it is getting late! And you, Rukayyah, go quickly, fetch your hijab and let’s go. I do not want you going out dressed in this provocative attire."

Both she and Rukayyah jumped in surprise—he out of guilt, and she from the unexpected harshness of the reprimand. He quickly lowered his head, becoming composed and quiet as if he wished the earth would swallow him from shame.

He knew very well how observant Hajiya was regarding her children's affairs and how she monitored their every move. No doubt, she had caught him completely engrossed in staring at Rukayyah.

Rukayyah said pitifully, "Wallahi Hajiya, you startled me. You didn't have to shout; if you wanted me to wear it, I would have. Your scolding just terrifies me."

Hajiya softened, smiled, and said, "Alright, hurry up and go, I am done scolding."

He reached out and opened a container of beautifully prepared fried rice, richly topped with finely chopped mixed vegetables. An incredible aroma—unlike any food he had ever smelled before (mushroom curry)—invaded his nostrils. His mouth watered even before taking a bite.

He rolled up his sleeves and dug into Rukayyah’s delicious cooking. He finished it off and washed it down with thoroughly cooked, tender offal pepper soup. If he was going to be eating such delicious meals every day, then he better hold onto this "daughter of Hajiya" with trust and care.

She emerged pushing her travel bag, dressed in a thick, ash-colored after-dress, though this could not hide the cascading rows of her braided hair. Hajiya looked up at Rukayyah again and felt that this outfit revealed the beauty of her figure even more than the previous one. She began to worry about letting Rukayyah leave with Saifuddeen—not for any other reason than knowing her ward inside and out, just as she knew her own hunger.

So she started scolding her again, completely unprovoked: "Rukayyah, I honestly don't know what kind of stubborn girl you are. You are just going to walk out with all your braids exposed like that? I told you to put on a hijab, and instead, you put on this flashy gown—might as well cancel the trip altogether, it’s not mandatory!"

Rukayyah just stood there, bewildered by Hajiya. She didn't own any hijabs except the ones used for prayer; was that what Hajiya meant? Well, they could cancel the trip then! She hadn't even wanted to go in the first place, and Hajiya had never scolded her like this before—was it just because she was going out with her son? Did she take her for some loose girl or what?

Suddenly, a wave of bitterness washed over her. Oh dear, ignorance is bliss! Rukayyah didn't know that Hajiya didn't fully trust her own son and was desperately trying to protect Rukayyah’s dignity.

He didn't offer any input; he just turned and walked away to the car, answering a call from "Sweety Salima." Rukayyah wanted to tell Hajiya that she was calling off the trip, but she figured Hajiya’s authority over her was too absolute.

She went back inside and grabbed her stark-black prayer hijab, slapped it on, shoved her bag forward—keceeeee…!!—and walked out like a whirlwind. Hajiya called out softly, "Rukayyah!"

She paused without turning around and without answering. Hajiya continued, "Now, because I scolded you for something that will benefit you, are you getting angry?"

Rukayyah's heart softened with immediate pity for Hajiya. She turned back, squatted in front of her with a smile, and said, "Wallahi Hajiya, I am not angry."

Hajiya said, "Alright, go on, take care of yourself. For God's sake, I know you are meddlesome, but do not open up or smile freely at any man, Rukayyah. All of them are full of tricks—tricks of deceit, malice, and betrayal. Always stay wrapped in your hijab in front of men; that is what makes a woman honorable, one who respects her own dignity and self-worth. Do you hear me?"

Rukayyah replied, "Yes, Hajiya," without realizing it was all pure hypocrisy on Hajiya's part.

Hajiya continued, "And be obedient to them since they are above you. Learn to be patient with people; don't feel like you must react to everything done to you. Tone down your tossing and turning, mind your business, and learn to ignore things that do not concern you. Just do what you were sent there to do—cook for your brother-in-law—and mind nobody else."

She said "Yes" again. As she lifted her foot to step out, Hajiya added, "Tomorrow when I return from Jalingo, I will call and let you know how my discussion with Usman went. If she feels better, come back."

In her heart, Rukayyah thought: How long? I won't spend more than a week here; do they think I'm some jobless wanderer?

She found him sitting in his car with both feet outside, speaking to his wife in such a soft, melting tone that she refused to believe it belonged to Saifuddeen. Hearing the sweet endearments being lavished, she instinctively stepped back, leaned against the car door, and checked her wristwatch.

She stood waiting for at least thirty minutes, as if she were a non-living object. He just sat there chatting away on his phone, looking so classy and gentle.

Just as she was about to head back inside out of sheer annoyance, he pulled his feet back into the car and, without even glancing at her, said, "You can get in now." And that’s when the real drama began.

He wore a scowl on his face, wondering where she would choose to sit. In his view, it would be a major step down to have Rukayyah sit next to him in the front passenger seat, especially wearing that pitch-black, oversized rag of a hijab. On the other hand, it would also be beneath him to have her crammed in the back while he drove her like a chauffeur. So what now?

Rukayyah cut short his internal debate by opening the front door and climbing in, radiating sheer frustration from having been left standing out there for thirty minutes like a manual laborer looking for a job at Dambatta Shipping.

Furious, he jerked the car into motion as if hauling a cart of waste, praying to drop her off quickly or get some relief.

She had never ridden in a car this luxurious and comfortable. This was the Opel-Astra she had read about in magazines, websites, and General Motors commercials from America. She was convinced whoever chose this car had a great eye for luxurious, stylish living—though, in her opinion, he clearly lacked good taste in picking a life partner.

A languid, slender woman, thin as a whip, lacking curves front or back—the kind of twig-like models she saw doing fashion parades on TV, resembling date palm trunks—yet possessing a strikingly gorgeous face with a fine nose, eyes, and perfectly sculpted kissable lips. For high-rollers like Saifuddeen Aliyu Dambatta, these were the kinds of women put in the front seat, brought out to social gatherings, women who could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you and even tower over you in height.

She came running to her husband in the living room, engaging in intimate displays Rukayyah had never seen before—licking and tasting each other like starving demons. Though Rukayyah occasionally saw glimpses of this in Indian and Western films called "romance," she had never witnessed it in reality.

Once they settled down, Salima cast a glance past her husband and spotted the tall, fair-skinned Arab-looking beauty instead of the dark-skinned Yagana she expected. This girl bore a striking facial resemblance to Saifuddeen Aliyu Dambatta—sharing his fingers and long, elegant legs.

Rukayyah stripped off her suffocating, heavy hijab, which allowed Salima to fully appreciate the girl's striking, catfish-like curved figure, complemented by flowing natural hair. Folding her hijab, Rukayyah offered Salima a gentle smile, raising her fair hands adorned with black henna on every finger, sparkling white gold rings on three fingers, and saying in a soft voice: "Hi, Yaya's wife!"

Salima couldn't even blink, trying to recall where she had seen her before. Without a doubt, she had seen that face at least once, though she forgot where. Even back then, she hadn't liked her, she didn't trust her, and she couldn't pinpoint why. Deep down, however, she knew it was the girl's stunning beauty and resemblance to Saifuddeen that had pricked her heart.

Without waiting for permission—classic meddlesome Rukayyah—she shoved her travel bag right into the middle of the luxurious living room, which looked more like the palace of the late Stella Obasanjo or a mansion on Atiku Road. Actually, scratch that, she thought to herself, it looks more like a European Yar'Adua living room, straight out of an Italian interior design magazine.

The master of the house was completely thrown off balance, like a man terrified of his wife's wrath. He rushed over to the tiny, white, breathable leather seats that beautifully decorated the black-and-white living room, grabbing the remote to turn up the air conditioner to stop the nervous sweat caused by the fear of what judgment Madam was about to pass on him and Rukayyah—a wrath equivalent to facing Alhaji Dambatta himself.

Madam Salima stood right where they left her, ever since her husband had desperately tried to slip away out of shame before his younger cousin who held him in such high regard. He tried to put on a brave face (as men say) or rather tried a clumsy cover-up: "Don't you recognize her? This is Rukayyah, daughter of Uncle Usman, Hajiya's younger brother."

Salima forced a smile, though her whites of her eyes were bloodshot. She pulled herself together, walked over, sat close to him, and tried to rest her head on his thighs in a frail, sick-woman manner, saying: "Ah, yes, I see the resemblance." She didn't look back at Rukayyah, nor did she invite her to sit.

Rukayyah didn't care in the least; she didn't even realize they were talking because she was busy on the phone with Rabi.

Once she finished, she walked over to one of the living room armchairs far away from them and assumed her classic posture: pulling her feet up onto the chair, crossing one over the other, and facing the television. She didn't look at them again, nor did they pay her any further mind.

After a while, she heard Saifuddeen saying in a faint, tiny voice, "Come on, Salima... stop it... stop it... for... God's sake."

Shortly after, he bolted up the stairs in a hurry, with Salima chasing after him, yelling, "If you're not scared, stand your ground..." After that, she didn't hear a peep from them until 11:00 PM.

Her phone chimed, signaling an incoming call. Hajiya’s name flashed on the screen, and she eagerly answered: "Hajiyata, you haven't slept yet?"

Hajiya replied, "I couldn't sleep, Rukayyah. I've been thinking about you. I'm just now regretting letting you go with them; I should have listened to you and sent Rabi instead, since you guys are used to each other. I know you won't feel comfortable or free there."

Rukayyah said, "It's nothing, Hajiya, don't let it worry you. If not for this, we'd never get used to each other."

Hajiya asked, "True. I hope the guest room they gave you is nice and adequate?"

Rukayyah paused for a moment, rolling her bright eyes as she surveyed the massive, luxurious living room where she had been dumped and forgotten like trash. She thought to herself: Yeah… it’s indeed a beautiful room! But out loud, she said: "Oh, there's nothing missing, Hajiya. The room's bathroom even has a Jacuzzi, the exact one I told you I wanted!"

Hajiya laughed, thinking to herself that Rukayyah would never outgrow her childishness. Out loud, she said, "Well, then, let's sleep well. Do you have any message for Amina?"

She replied, "Just greet her. But have Hafiz bring me my kilishi. Tell him to check my mirror cabinet in my room—my drawing materials are there. Have him bring them all to me; I forgot them when I was traveling."

Surprised, Hajiya asked, "Drawing materials? What kind of drawing materials?" Rukayyah gasped, "Oh! Hajiya, don't you know I'm an architect?" Hajiya replied, "How would I know? No problem, I'll pick them up for you." They exchanged warm, loving goodbyes.

When the silence grew unbearable—since she wasn't much of a TV watcher—she tried calling Nafisa. The phone rang repeatedly until it gave up without an answer. She called again, and this time it rang endlessly before Nafisa picked up. Before they could even greet each other, Nafisa cut her off: "Do you think everyone is single like you, calling married people during bed time?"

Rukayyah covered her mouth in shock. Before she could speak, Nafisa continued, "I'll call you in the morning, it's my cherie's time now." And she hung up without waiting for a reply.

Nafisa’s rudeness deeply upset her. She rested her chin in both hands, lost in thought. So a woman—no matter her beauty, status, wealth, power, or education—ultimately finds her true worth and protection in her marital home? If she were married right now, who would dare ask her to come work as a cook in people's houses and get treated with such disrespect?

She used her handbag as a pillow, stretched out fully on the long couch, and drifted into a deep sleep shortly after.

[12/17/2019, 19:15] Takori: In the middle of her sleep, she heard the muffled sound of Salima crying overhead. Startled, she sat bolt upright, her eyes wide like an owl's.

The quiet night air carried the echoes of the heated dispute between husband and wife. Despite her sharp hearing, she couldn't make out what Saifuddeen—who spoke in a soothing, calm tone—was saying, but Salima’s screaming was crystal clear: "... Why would you tell me to clear a room just because you brought home another wife?! How can you expect me to agree that you go fetch my younger sister and instead bring your own kinswoman?! This was planned deliberately! I've known for a while that people are bitter about the peace and quiet I enjoy in my home..."

Apparently, this time Saifuddeen lost his cool, and she managed to catch his final words, shouted in sheer frustration: "Then what do you want me to do? How do you expect me to act, for God's sake, Salima...?"

Furious, she cut him off: "Don't give me that, Alhaji! This is all Hajiya's hypocrisy..."

He spoke in a booming voice this time, one that sent shivers down Rukayyah’s spine and made her bladder cramp with fear so badly she nearly leaked: "It’s enough! Enough, Salima! Watch your mouth and know what you're saying! My Hajiya is a HYPOCRITE?! Don't ever say anything that will force me to disgrace you. I am telling you before God, I didn't ask for Rukayyah to come; it was Alhaji... If you don't believe me, do whatever you want, but Rukayyah is not going back until they say she should return of their own accord. Watch your tongue! Don't you ever repeat that kind of talk to me again. I will endure anything, BUT NOT INSULTING HAJIYA'S DIGNITY. And wallahi, your constant suspicion and lack of trust are what rob you of your peace of mind every single day. Before I ever knew you, I knew Rukayyah; she has been coming to our house since she was ten years old. Wallahi, if I wanted her romantically, I wouldn't have married you in the first place! And if Hajiya wanted me to marry her, she wouldn't have just sent her to your house; she would have issued a direct command, and I would have no way to disobey. My Hajiya is not like that. She has never opened her mouth to speak a disparaging word about you. Yet you are constantly accusing her and lacking love for her. You have no right to police her! You are a nobody! No matter what you say, I stand by my mother, but wallahi, despite all my love for you, I can walk away from you..."

Rukayyah’s body shook with terror, though the commotion eventually died down. She rolled onto her right shoulder, closed her eyes, and marveled at Salima. So she thinks Hajiya sent her here so Saifuddeen could marry her? She thinks Hajiya plotted this hypocrisy? she thought to herself. Why are some women like this?

Wallahi, she had never thought of such a thing; it had never crossed her mind. She hadn't dreamed of wanting Saifuddeen for even a single day. He was completely outside the category of men she envisioned building a life with, and he had never impressed her.

Apart from the vast gulf in status between them, she had no interest in an arranged family marriage, viewing it as a trap—a stifling union where one spouse gets suppressed, let alone a polygamous marriage! May God protect her! The memory of Jummai's ordeal with her mother was still fresh in her mind. (Oh, the bliss of ignorance!)

If Salima only knew how little she cared for her husband, perhaps she wouldn't have poisoned her own heart, ruined her marriage, and stressed herself out over nothing.

In Rukayyah’s eyes, this was pure madness—far beyond mere jealousy. Salima had only brought humiliation upon herself. Even if Saifuddeen hadn't intended to pay attention to Rukayyah, he was now forced to because she had witnessed firsthand how Salima disliked him, disrespected him, and even disrespected his mother. How could anyone be so foolish and lacking in sense?

Her assessment was spot-on. She heard him descending the stairs with heavy, rapid strides—thud, thud, thud—as if cracking the tiles.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly out of sheer terror, assuming he had spotted her sitting there eavesdropping on their marital feud and had come down to unleash his fury on her.

She curled into a tight ball, grabbing her handbag and clutching it close so she wouldn't struggle to find transport money back to Hajiya’s house.

Instead, she felt someone firmly tugging at the hem of her gown: "Hey RAK, hey Rukayyah... Rukayyah, why are you sleeping down here in the living room?"

She let out a massive sigh of relief. Slowly, she opened her blue eyes and looked up at him. He was dressed in pristine white Mark & Spencer pajamas, holding the waist with his left hand. The light revealed a patch of soft, jet-black hair lying flat across his chest, shining brightly in the electrical light.

So all her fear and hostility toward Saifuddeen Aliyu Dambatta... today, she was seeing the real Saifuddeen face-to-face. No wonder Salima was going mad with jealousy over him!

In appearance, he was the exact spitting image of Usman Jalingo, though distinguished by a lighter complexion and the youthful vigor of his skin. He was remarkably fair—perhaps even fairer than she was. In worldly comfort and luxury, he certainly outshone her.

If she were to look into a mirror, she would see her own face reflected in Saifuddeen's, though his was distinctly masculine—the mark of a true "man of means."

She knew she was a beauty and took pride in it everywhere. Yet even with all her vanity, she had to admit that Saifuddeen was far more handsome than she was, by a long shot.

No matter how hypercritical someone might be, they couldn't find a single physical flaw on him—only perhaps in his character, which was usually only known to intimates like his mother, father, or a wife blinded by love like Salima Modu.

All these architectural reflections and psychological assessments flashed through her mind in mere seconds. Meanwhile, Saifuddeen’s thoughts about her were equally swift.

His primary conclusion was that Rukayyah was a sleeping beauty—one of those people whose true beauty is only fully realized when they are asleep.

When she opened her eyes, he saw those striking, peacock-blue eyes—eyes whose color never changed, whether in anger, joy, crying, or sleeping. He finally understood why Salima had thrown such a fit demanding he throw Rukayyah out into the dead of night: Rukayyah simply wasn't the kind of woman a man could look at and casually ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

Furthermore, neither his mother trusted him around Rukayyah, nor did he trust himself. So why blame his wife?

Even if he were a notorious womanizer, he would never make a move on Rukayyah; he had never felt even a flicker of romantic attraction toward her—only annoyance. Rukayyah was practically Nafisa to him; if he could ever touch Rukayyah, it would be like touching Nafisa!

Above all, Rukayyah did not belong to the class of women he could ever see himself physically intimate with. She was just a sister figure—one of those inescapable family fixtures.

For the first time, he finally understood what Hajiya had been telling him all along: that he and Rukayyah were cut from the very same cloth, whereas Nafisa was the one who favored the Dambattas.

He clicked his tongue in deep annoyance with himself and the situation...

Summary

The excerpt follows Rukayyah, a young woman sent by her aunt, Hajiya, to stay temporarily with Hajiya's son, Saifuddeen, and his fiercely insecure wife, Salima. Rukayyah is independent, sharp-witted, and completely uninterested in Saifuddeen romantically, viewing him with mild indifference while focusing on her own architecture background and personal autonomy.

Upon arrival, Saifuddeen is immediately captivated by Rukayyah's striking, natural beauty, which he struggles to hide. Hajiya notices this lingering attraction and frantically tries to cover up Rukayyah's features with a strict hijab, secretly recognizing that her own son cannot be fully trusted around such striking beauty.

Later that night, a massive argument breaks out upstairs between Saifuddeen and Salima. Salima explodes with paranoid jealousy, accusing Hajiya of orchestrating Rukayyah's arrival as a plot to force Saifuddeen into a polygamous marriage with her. Saifuddeen loses his temper, fiercely defending his mother and declaring that Rukayyah is staying put, while also privately acknowledging that while Rukayyah is mesmerizingly beautiful (a "sleeping beauty"), she feels more like a sister to him than a romantic prospect. Rukayyah, overhearing the chaos from the living room where she was forced to sleep, remains unimpressed by marital drama and eager to return home.

Detailed Description

• Setting the Scene: The narrative opens in Saifuddeen’s luxurious, modern residence (reminiscent of elite Nigerian political homes). It highlights the stark contrast between Rukayyah’s unbothered, modern demeanor and the suffocating tension building around her presence.
• Character Dynamics:
  • Rukayyah: Confident, intelligent (an architecture student/graduate), indifferent to male charm, and deeply independent. She detests the idea of polygamy and arranged family expectations.
  • Saifuddeen Aliyu Dambatta: Wealthy, stylish, and accustomed to high society, yet trapped between a deeply insecure wife and an overbearing family legacy. He finds himself irresistibly drawn to Rukayyah's looks despite having no initial romantic intent.
  • Salima Modu: Consumed by jealousy and insecurity. Her toxic paranoia drives a wedge in her marriage and leads her to disrespect both Saifuddeen and his mother, Hajiya.
  • Hajiya: Manipulative yet protective in her own way. She understands the raw dynamics between the young people and tries to manage the situation through authoritarian commands masked as moral guidance.

Comments

• The Irony of Jealousy: Salima’s insecurity is completely misplaced. Rukayyah has zero romantic interest in Saifuddeen and finds the entire domestic setup tedious. Salima’s toxic outbursts ultimately push her husband away and validate his defensive stance.
• Societal Norms vs. Individual Autonomy: The text heavily critiques traditional family expectations—such as forced proximity, arranged family dynamics, and the unfair burden placed on women in polygamous settings. Rukayyah’s internal monologue reflects a modern woman's aversion to becoming a pawn in marital politics.
• Descriptive Depth: The author uses vivid sensory details (the aroma of mushroom curry, the visual contrast of the luxury Opel-Astra, the physical descriptions of hair and clothing) to ground the emotional tension in a tangible, cinematic reality.

Conclusion

This chapter serves as a masterclass in domestic tension, character psychology, and marital conflict within contemporary Hausa fiction. It exposes how unspoken attractions, deep-seated family loyalties, and toxic jealousy can turn a simple familial favor into a psychological battlefield. Ultimately, Rukayyah remains an unwilling catalyst in a household teetering on the edge of emotional collapse, highlighting the heavy price of suspicion and the fragile nature of trust in marriage.