In Kaduna State, in Kajuru Local Government Area, in the village of Rimau, in a small house at the edge of the town.
It was 2:38 a.m. on a Friday night in 2001.
He could barely lift his right leg but managed to push open the door of the house. Both his hands were pressed against the right side of his torso, and despite pressing, blood still trickled from the area he had touched.
Slowly, gathering all his courage, he dragged his feet into the house. His eyes squinted tightly, straining against the extreme pain and suffering. His walking betrayed the intensity of his condition; after each step, he would pause for several seconds before taking another.
He moved clumsily around the middle of the house like a skilled craftsman, hands stretched behind him. Tears ran down his eyes, his face reflecting the extreme turmoil in his heart. From the pounding of his chest, he sensed a terrible event about to unfold. The long hours he had endured had left his body exhausted and unwell.
“Indeed, this is not good,” she thought. She knew her father Luka and her brother Zidane had never had her best interests at heart. And now they had involved Pastor Nuhu in the matter—she knew something bad was inevitable. Even when the summons arrived, she tried to prevent him from leaving, but he was determined to go. His face held a faint, gentle smile as he exited the house, waving to her—a signal that he would return.
She felt no fear of the night itself, her eyes fixed on the house’s doorway, waiting to see him in the moonlight that illuminated the courtyard at 2:38 a.m.
When she saw him entering, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. She hurried and wrapped him in her arms. Both of them trembled violently, like two fragile instruments about to break. Seeing his condition, she broke into loud, uncontrollable sobs, staring at the place on his torso where his hands pressed, too scared to remove them.
Summoning the last of his remaining strength and courage, he looked at her with a faint smile. He staggered, leaning against her slightly, pressing his right hand to the wall for support. He slipped down, seating himself on the floor with his back against the wall. She sat beside him, both their legs still trembling.
The second time, he mustered what little strength remained and smiled again. She could not respond—her cries were unstoppable, her heart filled with hatred for the harshness of life and the cruel customs of their town. These were traditions passed down from their ancestors.
He lifted his hand again, placing it on her chest. He fell forward, lifting his head from her chest, his gaze intense, eyes squinting as he stared.
“Wh... wh... where am I?”
He asked, his words fragmented but forceful.
Quickly, she rose from him and went to a small corner of the room. Not long after, she returned with something wrapped in a man’s cloth, placing it beside him. She opened the cloth, revealing a beautiful newborn baby. Its head, down to the forehead, was covered with soft, black, infant hair. The baby was asleep peacefully.
His trembling intensified, and he clutched the baby to his chest. For the first time since the chaos began, he felt tears streaming down his own face. He did not bother to wipe them, focusing entirely on the baby, gazing as if seeking answers.
“Dazuh… after you were born, I cut her womb to clean her blood… waiting for your return…” she said through her own cries.
He smiled, drawing her and the baby into an embrace, a release of pent-up emotion. Hot tears fell from his eyes onto the baby’s mattress. For the first time, his heart felt broken, shattered beyond anything he had imagined since his marriage to Rebecca.
“This is an abrupt interruption… Mustapha never imagined their story would end in such a short time,” he thought.
Softly, he spoke, his voice trembling, as if trying to steady himself.
“Truly, in the depth of love I have for you, Rebecca… in the promises I made you… in the love we have for our child, I only wanted to bring you joy, the peak of life’s happiness… But everything in this situation happens with my father’s approval. Since before my birth, it was written in the Book of Destiny. Our journey is short, Rebecca. One wish from me: mercy, before I return to my Creator. Embrace Islam, Rebecca. Truly, in my faith…”
His voice faltered, he gasped quickly, coughing hard. She stayed beside him, comforting him with soft, quiet tears, as if absorbing all the pain he felt. She knew it was not her fault, that death was not hers to wield—Musty had not been responsible, she had only been dragged into the events.
He leaned back, exhausted. When she looked at him, all she saw was blood and pus. He fell forward again, placing both hands on his chest, the pain there worse than anything else. His eyes stayed on the baby.
“This is my daughter in your hands. Through all the struggles, through the twists of fate, I hope you nurture her well. Raise her on the path of my religion. I have named her Bilhaqqi…”
“How can I become Muslim? What should I do to fulfill your wish?” she asked, interrupting him, her voice soft yet resolute.
He looked at her, eyes shining with joy, lips trembling with anticipation.
“Are you certain you will convert for your own will, or just to please me?”
“Both,” she replied directly, tears streaming.
He remained silent a moment, then recited the Shahada for her, repeating it carefully. They smiled at each other, relief washing over them. At that moment, the lights went out, leaving only the moonlight filtering through the house. His laughter seemed brighter, more beautiful than ever.
She covered her face with her hands, leaning forward to kiss him gently. His eyes closed, savoring the moment. His hand rested on the baby’s head, stroking it. After a while, she withdrew, carrying the baby back to the small room quickly.
“Alhamdulillah, now I have returned to God, my wish fulfilled,” he said softly, smiling.
He carefully opened the cloth, revealing the baby wrapped inside. The coolness of her tiny body made her eyes widen. She cried loudly like a newborn, turning her mouth to one side, clearly searching for her mother’s milk.
“You will fetch her milk,” he said softly.
She returned to the room, bringing fresh milk. She didn’t ask why; she knelt beside him, watching as he smiled. For several minutes, he observed her as the baby continued to cry.
“Be patient, Ummu Bilhaqqi. What I do for her will preserve her lineage. Even if you forget me, try to connect her with the Maru Kingdom of the state…”
Before he finished, he coughed violently. The baby cried harder. The intensity of the moment left them all trembling.
---
Later, violence erupts
Rebecca tried to flee with Bilhaqqi, but Zidane and his companions surrounded her, wielding weapons. They attacked her, threw her to the ground, and struck her repeatedly. Despite her fear, she tried to protect the baby, crying out as she endured the blows. They bound her roughly to a tree, leaving her in pain while searching for the child.
Rebecca felt the oppressive heat and terror as she fled, her eyes shut from confusion, thinking only of Musty. Despite hearing the commotion behind her, she did not abandon her plan—her sole goal was to reach the house where her love and the baby were.
From afar, the fire’s heat blew across the village. She moved stealthily through the wilderness, her mind fixed only on Musty.
Zidane noticed her before she could reach him. He caught her violently, throwing her to the ground. The other youths surrounded her with malicious weapons. She tried to rise, struggling and biting her lip, but he grabbed her hair, causing her head to hit the ground hard. He struck her again, making her fall back, mouth bleeding.
She struggled to get up, glaring at him in anger.
“Zidane! Leave me alone! Why won’t you let me breathe? What has my husband done to you? Are we not siblings? Isn’t Daddy my father? If…”
Another blow silenced her. She collapsed, screaming in pain. Her breathing became labored.
Zidane dragged her across the burning courtyard like a rag, striking her head with a rock. She let out a weak cry, her neck injured. He crouched nearby, laughing cruelly, pulling her hair hard, forcing her to look at him. His gaze was predatory.
She lowered her eyes slowly, repeating the Shahada Musty had taught her, preparing herself spiritually.
Zidane, a Christian from the village, cursed her and spoke in English:
“Rebecca, my sister, let me tell you something. I hate you. Do you know why? Because of your mother. She is a witch. She killed our grandfather. That hatred now falls on you.”
She raised her eyes, enraged. She had never known her mother and had no attachment to her, but she refused to let anyone insult her. A sudden surge of strength made her strike him across the face, adding blood to the wound.
“How dare you speak evil of my mother?” she shouted.
He smiled maliciously. He ignored the slap, brushing the blood off and laughing.
“Zidane, we are wasting our time. Just let us deal with her,” one of his companions said angrily.
“No, Markus. I’m waiting for something. When I saw her earlier, she was close to giving birth. Now the baby is gone—that means she delivered. Where is the baby? You shouldn’t have left her to die and left him,” Zidane shouted, grabbing her hair again.
“Ahhh!” she cried, clutching his hands with both her own.
He laughed and asked harshly, “Where is the baby?”
“He’s inside, yay… yay… with his father,” she replied, trembling.
“Lies, Rebecca. Markus, search everywhere. I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. I want to cut his liver in front of Rebecca, then kill her and her husband,” he said, dragging her roughly aside and ordering the others to bind her.
They tied her to a tree, leaving her exposed and bleeding. She awaited death, barely breathing, while fire blazed nearby. A fuel-soaked container was used to burn her, laughter echoing from the men.
Suddenly, a voice called Zidane from afar:
“Zidane!!!”
Rebecca’s eyes closed, repeating the Shahada in her heart. Zidane looked up, surprised, as Jacob approached.
“Jacob?! What happened?” he asked.
Jacob, breathless from running, pointed at Rebecca.
“The Pastor said don’t kill her. If you kill her, there will be trouble. The Spirit of Alheri roams the village. If Rebecca dies, the spirit will punish everyone here.”
A deep sadness hit Zidane. He wished he could erase Rebecca from existence. But when he looked at her, she smiled faintly, almost mockingly. She whispered softly:
“I’m a Muslim.”
Shocked, he froze, while the others began to release her to follow Pastor Nuhu’s orders.
In Kaduna State, in Kajuru Local Government Area, in the village of Rimau, in a small house at the edge of the town.
It was 2:38 a.m. on a Friday night in 2001.
He could barely lift his right leg but managed to push open the door of the house. Both his hands were pressed against the right side of his torso, and despite pressing, blood still trickled from the area he had touched.
Slowly, gathering all his courage, he dragged his feet into the house. His eyes squinted tightly, straining against the extreme pain and suffering. His walking betrayed the intensity of his condition; after each step, he would pause for several seconds before taking another.
He moved clumsily around the middle of the house like a skilled craftsman, hands stretched behind him. Tears ran down his eyes, his face reflecting the extreme turmoil in his heart. From the pounding of his chest, he sensed a terrible event about to unfold. The long hours he had endured had left his body exhausted and unwell.
“Indeed, this is not good,” she thought. She knew her father Luka and her brother Zidane had never had her best interests at heart. And now they had involved Pastor Nuhu in the matter—she knew something bad was inevitable. Even when the summons arrived, she tried to prevent him from leaving, but he was determined to go. His face held a faint, gentle smile as he exited the house, waving to her—a signal that he would return.
She felt no fear of the night itself, her eyes fixed on the house’s doorway, waiting to see him in the moonlight that illuminated the courtyard at 2:38 a.m.
When she saw him entering, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. She hurried and wrapped him in her arms. Both of them trembled violently, like two fragile instruments about to break. Seeing his condition, she broke into loud, uncontrollable sobs, staring at the place on his torso where his hands pressed, too scared to remove them.
Summoning the last of his remaining strength and courage, he looked at her with a faint smile. He staggered, leaning against her slightly, pressing his right hand to the wall for support. He slipped down, seating himself on the floor with his back against the wall. She sat beside him, both their legs still trembling.
The second time, he mustered what little strength remained and smiled again. She could not respond—her cries were unstoppable, her heart filled with hatred for the harshness of life and the cruel customs of their town. These were traditions passed down from their ancestors.
He lifted his hand again, placing it on her chest. He fell forward, lifting his head from her chest, his gaze intense, eyes squinting as he stared.
“Wh... wh... where am I?”
He asked, his words fragmented but forceful.
Quickly, she rose from him and went to a small corner of the room. Not long after, she returned with something wrapped in a man’s cloth, placing it beside him. She opened the cloth, revealing a beautiful newborn baby. Its head, down to the forehead, was covered with soft, black, infant hair. The baby was asleep peacefully.
His trembling intensified, and he clutched the baby to his chest. For the first time since the chaos began, he felt tears streaming down his own face. He did not bother to wipe them, focusing entirely on the baby, gazing as if seeking answers.
“Dazuh… after you were born, I cut her womb to clean her blood… waiting for your return…” she said through her own cries.
He smiled, drawing her and the baby into an embrace, a release of pent-up emotion. Hot tears fell from his eyes onto the baby’s mattress. For the first time, his heart felt broken, shattered beyond anything he had imagined since his marriage to Rebecca.
“This is an abrupt interruption… Mustapha never imagined their story would end in such a short time,” he thought.
Softly, he spoke, his voice trembling, as if trying to steady himself.
“Truly, in the depth of love I have for you, Rebecca… in the promises I made you… in the love we have for our child, I only wanted to bring you joy, the peak of life’s happiness… But everything in this situation happens with my father’s approval. Since before my birth, it was written in the Book of Destiny. Our journey is short, Rebecca. One wish from me: mercy, before I return to my Creator. Embrace Islam, Rebecca. Truly, in my faith…”
His voice faltered, he gasped quickly, coughing hard. She stayed beside him, comforting him with soft, quiet tears, as if absorbing all the pain he felt. She knew it was not her fault, that death was not hers to wield—Musty had not been responsible, she had only been dragged into the events.
He leaned back, exhausted. When she looked at him, all she saw was blood and pus. He fell forward again, placing both hands on his chest, the pain there worse than anything else. His eyes stayed on the baby.
“This is my daughter in your hands. Through all the struggles, through the twists of fate, I hope you nurture her well. Raise her on the path of my religion. I have named her Bilhaqqi…”
“How can I become Muslim? What should I do to fulfill your wish?” she asked, interrupting him, her voice soft yet resolute.
He looked at her, eyes shining with joy, lips trembling with anticipation.
“Are you certain you will convert for your own will, or just to please me?”
“Both,” she replied directly, tears streaming.
He remained silent a moment, then recited the Shahada for her, repeating it carefully. They smiled at each other, relief washing over them. At that moment, the lights went out, leaving only the moonlight filtering through the house. His laughter seemed brighter, more beautiful than ever.
She covered her face with her hands, leaning forward to kiss him gently. His eyes closed, savoring the moment. His hand rested on the baby’s head, stroking it. After a while, she withdrew, carrying the baby back to the small room quickly.
“Alhamdulillah, now I have returned to God, my wish fulfilled,” he said softly, smiling.
He carefully opened the cloth, revealing the baby wrapped inside. The coolness of her tiny body made her eyes widen. She cried loudly like a newborn, turning her mouth to one side, clearly searching for her mother’s milk.
“You will fetch her milk,” he said softly.
She returned to the room, bringing fresh milk. She didn’t ask why; she knelt beside him, watching as he smiled. For several minutes, he observed her as the baby continued to cry.
“Be patient, Ummu Bilhaqqi. What I do for her will preserve her lineage. Even if you forget me, try to connect her with the Maru Kingdom of the state…”
Before he finished, he coughed violently. The baby cried harder. The intensity of the moment left them all trembling.
---
Later, violence erupts
Rebecca tried to flee with Bilhaqqi, but Zidane and his companions surrounded her, wielding weapons. They attacked her, threw her to the ground, and struck her repeatedly. Despite her fear, she tried to protect the baby, crying out as she endured the blows. They bound her roughly to a tree, leaving her in pain while searching for the child.
Rebecca felt the oppressive heat and terror as she fled, her eyes shut from confusion, thinking only of Musty. Despite hearing the commotion behind her, she did not abandon her plan—her sole goal was to reach the house where her love and the baby were.
From afar, the fire’s heat blew across the village. She moved stealthily through the wilderness, her mind fixed only on Musty.
Zidane noticed her before she could reach him. He caught her violently, throwing her to the ground. The other youths surrounded her with malicious weapons. She tried to rise, struggling and biting her lip, but he grabbed her hair, causing her head to hit the ground hard. He struck her again, making her fall back, mouth bleeding.
She struggled to get up, glaring at him in anger.
“Zidane! Leave me alone! Why won’t you let me breathe? What has my husband done to you? Are we not siblings? Isn’t Daddy my father? If…”
Another blow silenced her. She collapsed, screaming in pain. Her breathing became labored.
Zidane dragged her across the burning courtyard like a rag, striking her head with a rock. She let out a weak cry, her neck injured. He crouched nearby, laughing cruelly, pulling her hair hard, forcing her to look at him. His gaze was predatory.
She lowered her eyes slowly, repeating the Shahada Musty had taught her, preparing herself spiritually.
Zidane, a Christian from the village, cursed her and spoke in English:
“Rebecca, my sister, let me tell you something. I hate you. Do you know why? Because of your mother. She is a witch. She killed our grandfather. That hatred now falls on you.”
She raised her eyes, enraged. She had never known her mother and had no attachment to her, but she refused to let anyone insult her. A sudden surge of strength made her strike him across the face, adding blood to the wound.
“How dare you speak evil of my mother?” she shouted.
He smiled maliciously. He ignored the slap, brushing the blood off and laughing.
“Zidane, we are wasting our time. Just let us deal with her,” one of his companions said angrily.
“No, Markus. I’m waiting for something. When I saw her earlier, she was close to giving birth. Now the baby is gone—that means she delivered. Where is the baby? You shouldn’t have left her to die and left him,” Zidane shouted, grabbing her hair again.
“Ahhh!” she cried, clutching his hands with both her own.
He laughed and asked harshly, “Where is the baby?”
“He’s inside, yay… yay… with his father,” she replied, trembling.
“Lies, Rebecca. Markus, search everywhere. I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. I want to cut his liver in front of Rebecca, then kill her and her husband,” he said, dragging her roughly aside and ordering the others to bind her.
They tied her to a tree, leaving her exposed and bleeding. She awaited death, barely breathing, while fire blazed nearby. A fuel-soaked container was used to burn her, laughter echoing from the men.
Suddenly, a voice called Zidane from afar:
“Zidane!!!”
Rebecca’s eyes closed, repeating the Shahada in her heart. Zidane looked up, surprised, as Jacob approached.
“Jacob?! What happened?” he asked.
Jacob, breathless from running, pointed at Rebecca.
“The Pastor said don’t kill her. If you kill her, there will be trouble. The Spirit of Alheri roams the village. If Rebecca dies, the spirit will punish everyone here.”
A deep sadness hit Zidane. He wished he could erase Rebecca from existence. But when he looked at her, she smiled faintly, almost mockingly. She whispered softly:
“I’m a Muslim.”
Shocked, he froze, while the others began to release her to follow Pastor Nuhu’s orders.