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English Translation
The key opened the door of the white gate, and he stepped inside, turning the key from the inside to lock it securely. Similarly, as soon as he entered the parlor, he bolted the door behind him. He knelt down to untie his cover shoes, tossed them aside, reached over to turn on the TV socket, and then both he and his bag collapsed onto the long couch facing the television.
He first pulled a lighter from his trouser pocket, removed the toothpick from his mouth, slipped his hand into his bag to pull out a pack of cigarettes, extracted one, placed it between his lips, and lit it.
Before the show he wanted to watch finished loading on the DVD, he had already puffed through half the cigarette, exhaling smoke into the modest parlor. As the ANIME titled BLEACH began playing, he reclined and continued smoking his stuff with absolute peace of mind. . . “Biko sir, ana m abia obere oge. I forgot some papers at home.” Holding her phone between her ear and shoulder, she spoke into it while trying to insert the key into the white gate to open it.
“I will be right back, I told you I left my car engine running,” she continued talking into the phone as she slipped through the gate after successfully opening it. Without even bothering to push it shut, she walked straight into the yard since she expected to be heading back out shortly.
She snapped shut the flip cover of her small NOKIA phone, tossed it into her handbag, and switched the key she was holding for the bunch of keys ranging from the gate to the house. She slid the right key into the keyhole, turned it, opened the door, and walked straight inside, only to brake sharply in the middle of the parlor when her eyes landed on something that shocked her to the core.
“Nwam?!” she called out in utter dismay.
He tightly shut his eyelids, taking slow, deep breaths like someone in a very deep sleep. Seeing that he didn't move, she called out again, “Abdulhameed!”
She walked closer to the couch where he lay, his hand resting on his chest which rose and fell slowly, next to a plate of food and an empty bottle of 7up left right there.
“Nwam (my son),” she called for the third time, gently tapping his shoulder.
“Hmm?” Only then did he slowly open his eyes, blinking and shutting them again as though sleep had not yet claimed him enough. It was the sound of her gate opening earlier that had made him panic, jump up, yank out the TV and DVD power cords, and quickly lay back down, knowing she might catch him if he tried to clear away his food plate, so he had simply left them where they were.
Luckily for him, whenever he smoked at home, he would pull back the curtain right after finishing to let the smoke out, spray the house with air freshener, and pop a Tom-Tom sweet into his mouth.
“Nne, ilotala (Mama, you are back)?” he asked in Igbo, yawning.
“Abdulhameed, what are you doing at home during school hours?” she switched to English.
He pressed his hand against his forehead, wincing and frowning, “Headache, Nnem.” He offered the excuse he was certain was his only ticket to getting away with it today. He added, “The classroom noise was splitting my head, so I went to the clinic, got an injection, and was told to come home and rest.” He deliberately didn't mention any medicine to avoid being asked for the remainder of the prescription.
She reached out and felt his forehead; there was no fever out of the ordinary, but a mother's heart brimming with love for her son beat heavily in her chest, and instant pity enveloped her. She softened her voice, murmuring words of comfort in Igbo, and he leaned into the affection even more, prompting her to ask if they should go to the hospital.
“I saw the doctor at the clinic, Nnem. She said if I get enough rest, I'll feel better.”
She nodded slowly, her face clouded with anxiety. “I hope it's not the worry about what I mentioned yesterday that made you fall sick?”
He didn't answer, instead turning his head away to gaze to the side. Worry was the exact thing bothering him, which was why he hadn't found peace this morning until he puffed some smoke into his system. He saw no point in sitting in a classroom just to fulfill his mother's dream of becoming what she wanted, when she wasn't willing to let him fulfill his own dreams.
She knelt beside the couch near his feet, gently stroking the side of his face with tender care as she peered into his eyes. In a soft voice, she said, “Nwam, your father hates music. Choose something else, anything at all, and I will stand by you—just not music, since he hates it. I promised him you wouldn't do music.”
With tears triggered by her words welling up in his eyes, he turned to look at her. “Did he ever even love me enough to care about what I love?”
She closed her eyes, letting out a heavy sigh of displeasure at his remark. “Don't worry, I am enough for you in this life,” she said, stroking the thick hair on his head. They had tried everything at school to make him cut it short, but he wanted a trendy punk hairstyle shaved on both sides with a patch left in the middle, which was why he kept letting it grow.
Her ringing flip-Nokia phone made her stand up. She detached one of the keys from the ring and handed it to him. “Here, open my bedroom door and get your phone from the bedside drawer. Call me if anything comes up. If you feel a bit better before I return, you can take some money and go out to buy whatever you want.”
“Okay, Nnem, thank you,” he whispered internally, overwhelmed with immense joy. Her seizing his phone was the very thing that used to keep him trapped at home, but now that she was leaving, he was going to slip out too.
She kissed his forehead, her hand resting on his cheek, and hurried out of the house before another call could come in.
Fifteen minutes later, once he was certain she had gone far, he stood up and unlocked the bedroom. He first grabbed his BlackBerry phone, then opened her money stash and plucked out six 500-naira notes. Just as he was about to leave, pulling the door shut, who knows what crossed his mind? He turned back and added two more notes. He left the room key on the TV stand, walked out of the house completely without even changing his school uniform, and locked up securely behind him.
He stopped at the neighborhood shop, bought a 200-naira recharge card, loaded it, and dialed the number he had saved as "Fire."
“Wassup Nigga,” was what hit his ear the moment the call was answered.
He raised a hand to flag down a passing motorcycle, then replied, “Meet me at the studio now. The money is complete.”
“Weeehuu. Let me call Malam's son to go pick up that package for us then.”
Without answering, he hung up, hopped onto the motorcycle, and gave the rider directions to his destination.
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Chapter 4: DAƊIN ZAMA
Saliha Ahmad Na'ibi (Seemahwrites) Women of Words Writers #THE TRIO OF TALES (Three minds, Three stories, One journey)
04… “Subhanallah Fidela!” Maama dropped the knife she was using to peel yams and stood up upon seeing them arrive, Ilham limping while Aliyyu held a bloody white cloth.
“Yaya, take me inside,” Ilham spoke, panting heavily as if she were in labor.
He slapped away the hand she was holding him with. “Get away from me, just let go,” he snapped, shooting her a glare. She quickly scurried over to Maama, burying herself in her arm with a deep sigh.
With her heart filled with dread over what could have happened to the young girl just recently enrolled in school, Maama looked at Aliyyu while supporting Ilham against her body and asked, “What happened to her?”
With utter annoyance, she said, “She tripped, Aunty!” Aliyyu then turned his gaze back to Ilham, raising his hand, “Wallahi, I am going to slap you right now so you have a real reason to cry.” He tossed the bloody white socks onto the floor; in his anger, he even forgot to warn her beforehand not to tell Maama what happened, knowing her habit of exaggerating stories.
Maama looked closely at the bloody sock on the floor, and only then did she understand. She let out a sigh of relief, having feared some major injury had befallen Ilham.
“I almost smashed my head against a rock, Maama, because he was pulling me along like he was about to fly. And the injury hurts so much, look at how much blood it caused,” she sniffled, wiping away a tear.
“Sorry, go inside, take off your hijab, and lie down. Let me fry some yam for your father so we can treat your foot.”
She didn't let the joy bubbling in her heart show as a smile on her lips, because Maama believed that if she saw her looking cheerful, it meant she was healed. So, she began limping toward Maama's parlor door, greeted her, lifted the curtain, stepped inside, and dropped her cheerful demeanor.
She scrambled onto the long couch and stretched out after slipping off her hijab around her neck, feeling a wonderful sense of relief as she noticed how quiet the house was since everyone else was at school—unlike usual when Ihsan and the others were around to bully her.
Just as sleep was beginning to claim her, the aroma of food drifted into her nostrils as Maama walked in holding a small bowl of yams that had been boiled, wrapped in egg, and fried.
She swallowed hard, saliva pooling in her mouth as hunger began gnawing at her stomach.
“Fidela, wake up.”
Before Maama could repeat herself, she sat up eagerly, taking the bowl with both hands. Maama walked over to the top of the fridge, retrieved a container of pepper (yaji), and came back saying, “The sauce I made wasn't much, so I poured some for Taa to take to his office. Here is the pepper.”
She reached out and took the container, murmuring words of gratitude while her mouth practically watered. Without wasting any time, she generously dusted Maama's garlic-scented pepper all over the yam and dug into her meal.
“Which chemist washed and dressed your wound?” Maama asked, sitting beside her, her eyes fixed on the bandaged toe.
She tilted her head, “The one near our school. They said I shouldn't walk long distances for a week.” The lie she had carefully cooked up on her way home followed Maama's question.
Maama nodded thoughtfully. “May Allah grant healing. Starting tomorrow, Taa will drop you off on his way out.”
Her eyes went wide. “Maama, he leaves before 7 AM! Taa doesn't even eat breakfast at home. If I get to school by 7 AM, Wallahi they will just make me sweep since classes haven't started yet. Plus, he isn't around during Islamiyya time, and the shortcut we take has all these hoodlums. Today, I even ran into someone who cornered Yaya Aliyyu, and he gave him money to buy something from Malam Sama'ila's shop—he clenched it in his hand and brought it back to him.” She rattled this off in one breath before finally pausing.
Before Maama could process all of that information, Aliyyu—who had come back to issue a warning to Ilham—stormed into the room without even a greeting.
“You hypocritical snitch! It was my fault I used my own money to cover your leprous foot so it wouldn't rot and fall off, but no worries, there's more coming. And yes, I bought something—come beat me, you little witch!” He shot her a glaring look before dropping Maama's parlor curtain and walking away.
He hadn't even looked at Maama when he came in, but from his words, she understood that the message was directed at her and noted it. Since she wasn't his mother, she minded her business regarding whatever he chose to do.
“Did you hear him, Maama?”
Maama turned to look at the tears gathering in Ilham's eyes. “And what business of yours is it? Didn't I warn you to stay out of things you aren't asked about?”
She knew it—Maama would always scold her alone. Whether she was right or wrong, whenever it involved her older siblings, Maama would reprimand her exclusively while saying nothing to them.
In a subdued voice, she whimpered, “Maama, the drug addict even gave him money before Yaya Aliyyu intercepted it and bought it for him.”
Maama widened her eyes in shock. “And you accepted it?”
Maama's sudden shift in mood made Ilham quickly set the bowl aside and shake her head vigorously. “No, Wallahi, I didn't accept it!”
“Well, starting today, I do not permit or approve of you walking that path alone. Either you learn to get ready early and follow your older siblings, or I will tell your father.”
Ilham bolted forward, grabbing Maama's hands and shaking her head harder. “Wallahi, I won't do it again. Please forgive me, don't tell him!”
The way Maama looked at her with that vulnerability in her eyes reminded her of nine years ago, when she was brought into the house as their father's new bride. While she had kept her distance from his other children initially, three-year-old Ilham had crawled over to the bed where she sat that first night, plopping down right on the carpet covering the floor, peeking up from under the bridal veil. When their eyes met, Ilham had worn this exact look on her face.
That was why, despite all the turbulence and arguments that followed her arrival, she refused to give up on the little girl—not just because she felt a motherly affection for her, but because of the deep vulnerability she saw in those eyes.
“If you guys get this track to go viral, do you know how much money you'll make? And from then on, you won't need to pay for recording; studios will actually be hunting you down and paying you even before you record your tracks for the world. But 10,000 naira is strictly for the recording, excluding the new sound mix, since you guys said you want two tapes.”
Fire, who was busy puffing on a cigarette he had pulled from Abdulhameed's uniform pocket, blew smoke into the air, itching for a chance to stub out the cigarette butt on the studio owner's forehead or neck.
“But Yaya, what about what you said earlier—that if we pool the money together, you'll connect us to someone who will advertise our music tape?” Abdulhameed asked softly, since he wasn't making music just to play it in his room for himself.
He wanted his music played on the radio for everyone to hear, just like everybody else. He dreamed of being featured on television one day, so patience wasn't his strong suit. He knew that their music wouldn't sell itself, and they needed to lean on industry veterans with more experience.
The man looked him straight in the eyes. “My brother! Nothing is impossible if you have money. If your funds are enough, you can even meet Lil Wayne and collaborate with him. So go look for extra money and come back if you're serious about becoming big rappers known everywhere.”
Fire opened his mouth to speak, but Abdulhameed raised a hand to stop him.
“How much more do we need to add?”
The studio owner pursed his lips in thought before replying, “Well, since the recording cost is separate, you'll need about 5,000 for the sound, and another 5,000 for the advertisement.”
“Your dealings are a joke! Didn't you tell us 10k would cover everything since it's not a major production to begin with?” Fire snapped angrily.
“Things have changed. If you can't afford it, take your money and find another studio.”
Fire reached out his hand to take the money back. Truly, he couldn't even figure out how they had managed to scrape together what they had in just two days, leading to this nonsense talk. He knew Abdulhameed's father was back there looking for the expensive phone he lost because Abdulhameed needed to make up the missing 4,000 naira.
Abdulhameed stopped him again; he wasn't one to give up easily on what he wanted.
“Fine. If we bring another 10,000, can you guarantee you'll keep your promise?”
The man nodded, closing his eyes in feigned reassurance while secretly enjoying how easily he was scamming the young boys.
“We will bring it. You better keep your word, or running this shop will become impossible for you. I might not fight, but he will test his skills on you first,” Abdulhameed finished, pointing at Fire, who lifted his shirt to reveal a small dagger tucked into his waistband.
Abdulhameed turned and walked out of the studio, followed closely by Fire after he adjusted his shirt.
“My brother, at this point, we just have to break the town open and find that cash.”
“You won't do anything that will ruin our reputation after we blow up,” Abdulhameed replied in English, his eyes fixed on his black canvas shoes.
He began brainstorming where to start. He had no idea how to pull together 10,000 naira since he had no income source other than asking Nne for money whenever he needed anything. But since she had made it clear she didn't approve of his music, there was no way she would hand him 10,000 naira—that was the exact cost of his term's school fees, and Nne had enrolled him in a very expensive school.
He ran his hand through his hair and let out a long breath. He wouldn't steal from her again. Even the previous money had been taken with tacit approval without her setting strict boundaries, but he would never steal from Nne after all the sacrifices she made for him alone.
She alone gave him the privileges children with both parents often lacked; he wouldn't steal from her when he knew how hard she worked for his sake.
He pulled his BlackBerry phone from his pocket and handed it to Fire. “Lukman, how much will this phone sell for?”
Fire took the phone, turned it over in his hands, and handed it back, saying it might be worth 3,000 naira as is, or 3,500 to 4,000 naira with its original box if they found a direct buyer.
He had no other choice than to ask Nne eventually. Even if he sold his phone, she would just buy him another one, and he was confident she'd buy a replacement worth three times over.
“You know what? Let's meet at our usual spot. By tomorrow, I'll try to come with the money.”
As they stepped into the compound, the sound of Ilham's giggles reached their ears before they spotted her sitting on a white plastic chair with a silver tray balanced on her thighs, helping Maama pick through beans.
“Well, I'm not going to ask for chicken to be bought because of an injured toe, right? Since your mouth isn't injured, when he gets back, you can tell him yourself,” Maama's voice drifted from their outdoor kitchen where she had gone to set up dinner.
Ilham burst into another giggle, trying to sweet-talk her, “You'll eat it too when the pepper soup is ready, my Maama!”
“Am I not the one who will stop you?” Maama said as she walked out, noticing that Ilham hadn't even finished picking half the beans.
“You still haven't finished picking this small batch of beans, Fidela? Your husband is going to fall asleep waiting for you to bring him food!”
Neither of them paid attention as newcomers walked straight into the compound without a greeting.
They only noticed them marching past—fuuu—dragging their luggage behind them, followed by a loud hiss that successfully drew everyone's attention.
The first woman marched straight to her room, trailed by her companions. “Such a wonderful life, now that the master of the house's sister-in-law has been chased away, people can just lounge around,” remarked the second woman, eyeing the clean, swept concrete of the courtyard.
Ignoring them completely, Maama simply walked over, took the tray of beans from Ilham's lap, took it into her room, and left them to the wind.
Seeing this, Ilham stood up to follow her. The brief joy she had felt earlier when the house was quiet—since Iman and Ihsan had returned from school only to leave immediately for Islamiyya, while her older brothers were always hanging out at the family house in Baniza—was now vanishing. She loved the peace, but now this woman, who couldn't go a single day without her voice echoing across the neighborhood, was back.
“Hey! Don't you know how to greet people? Or has Jamila taught you disrespect toward your elders?”
Ilham pouted slightly, “A fiyan goggo Fatu, a fiyan goggo Halima,” she muttered her greetings in Jenjo.
Fatu didn't reply, shooting her a dirty look instead. Clutching a new carton patterned with sewing machine designs, Fatu walked toward the room the first wife had unlocked next to Maama's.
“Move, come help us bring in the luggage,” Goggo Halima ordered.
Ilham quickly pointed to her toe. “My foot is injured! Taa said I should rest, that's why I didn't even go to school today.”
“There's no such thing, you're just lazy! I'd love to see the person who will take you in hand and discipline you properly in this Baniza family.” Halima hissed, turning back to haul in the rest of their baggage.
Sensing her cue, Ilham scurried back into Maama's parlor and resumed her lounging.
Throughout their hustle and bustle, the co-wives kept throwing thinly veiled insults at Maama by belittling Ilham, until the poor girl was nearly driven to tears. Maama said nothing, as her own patience was wearing thin.
She opened her freezer, pulled out a frozen wrap of pre-boiled stew meat, added another because of Ilham's injured foot and the returned co-wife (since she now had to cook for everyone), grabbed the finished bowl of cleaned beans, and stepped outside.
Piles of luggage were scattered all over the courtyard right up to the wall of Maama's room. The co-wives had settled near Taa's parlor entrance, already setting up the new sewing machine.
Maama gave them a cold, obligatory glance and...
Summary
Abdulhameed sneaks back into his mother's house during school hours to smoke and watch anime Bleach. His mother, Nne, unexpectedly returns home early to retrieve forgotten papers. Panicked, Abdulhameed quickly hides his evidence and fakes a headache to earn her sympathy, manipulating her into letting him stay home. Later, once she leaves, he steals money from her stash, meets up with his friend Fire, and visits a recording studio to secure funds for their rap music aspirations, plotting to sell his phone to raise the remaining balance. Meanwhile, back at home, Ilham is enjoying a rare quiet afternoon helping Maama with chores until the unexpected return of harsh co-wives disrupts the household peace, bringing back familiar tension and hostility.
Description
The passage portrays a vivid domestic slice-of-life in a Nigerian household, capturing generational conflict, youthful rebellion, and complex family dynamics. It contrasts Abdulhameed's rebellious double life—driven by teenage ambition, secret smoking, and a passion for hip-hop music that defies his parents' wishes—with the struggles of young Ilham, an adopted or step-relative navigating household chores, physical vulnerability, and emotional bullying from older relatives. The arrival of the co-wives injects further friction into an already strained family environment, highlighting themes of maternal affection, sibling rivalry, and the pursuit of individual identity against rigid parental expectations.
Analytics
- Narrative Structure: Dual-perspective narrative shifting between Abdulhameed's clandestine activities (smoking, skipping school, and funding his music project) and Ilham's domestic reality at home with Maama and the returning co-wives.
- Character Archetypes:
- Abdulhameed: The rebellious, ambitious teenager caught between maternal devotion and a burning desire for a music career.
- Nne (Mama): A loving, protective, yet strict mother whose affection is easily manipulated by her son.
- Ilham: A vulnerable, marginalized young girl seeking solace in quiet moments amidst a chaotic household.
- The Co-Wives: Antagonistic figures who reintroduce tension and psychological hostility into the domestic sphere.
- Thematic Elements: Rebellion vs. tradition, parental expectations versus youth aspirations, socioeconomic pressures (hustling for studio money), and domestic hierarchy/rivalry within a polygamous-style household setup.
- Linguistic Style: A rich blend of Nigerian English, Hausa cultural markers (terms like Maama, Nne, Islamic/cultural greetings), and colloquial youth slang (Nigga, Wassup), enhancing authenticity and local flavor.
