Today I dressed up in a way I had not done in a long time. My house was filled with fragrance and everything was perfectly arranged. My body smelled so good that even I could not count how much humra, incense perfume, body fragrance, clothes perfume, and powdered scents I applied inside and outside my body.
I invited my makeup artist to come with her full makeup kit. She did my face beautifully, and I paid her a lot of money because she spent the whole day at the house doing makeup and hair styling.
The lace I wore was the one I had reserved for Sallah but never had the chance to wear because I was busy frying meat.
I decorated the dining table with the foods and drinks my husband loves most in his life: fresh banana milkshake, fruit salad, seasoned offal, and fried rice.
All this preparation was because of my husband, my beloved Usman. Today marked eight years of our marriage, yet you would swear I was a newlywed of eight days.
I sent the children to their room to play until they fell asleep because I did not want them to spoil my living room or interrupt our romance. I prepared sweet words I would whisper into his ears and others I would tell him face to face.
I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself. Honestly, even a jealous person would have praised me. I looked beautiful—very beautiful, even excessively so. I turned left and right, held my waist, and changed poses in different styles just to please him. Naturally, I am tall, slim, and fair-skinned, thank God. My husband always praises my body shape, comparing it to spaghetti—four children, yet no belly.
At exactly 8:30 p.m., I heard the doorbell ring. I knew the king who owns the city of my heart had arrived—my Usman. I walked gracefully and opened the door.
I fluttered my eyes so he would notice my eyelashes and eyeshadow clearly. In a soft voice I said,
“My pride, welcome home…”
Before I could finish my sentence, everything changed.
In just one second, I was thrown out of that world into another spinning world. My head went down, my legs up. I lost consciousness and awareness. Sharp pain and burning spread across the right side of my face. I found myself sitting helplessly aside as if I had been thrown away. I held my cheek and remained silent, rubbing it.
It turned out he had slapped me—one heavy slap with his broad palm.
I wasn’t surprised because I knew the serious offense I had committed against him. But I was deeply shocked that Usman would raise his hand to touch me, because despite all the wrongs I had done before, he had never shown any sign of beating or slapping me.
“What is happening? Am I okay? Or am I having a terrible dream?” I asked myself.
But it was no dream—it was real. I saw Usman furious, approaching me, raising his hand to slap me again.
This time I would not allow it. I hadn’t expected the first one, which was why he succeeded. I quickly jumped aside and shielded my face. I screamed,
“Don’t you dare slap me again—I am not a slave you married!”
I didn’t feel another slap, just sudden silence. I raised my head quickly to see what stopped him.
What I saw hurt me more than the slap. I prayed never to witness such a thing again, even in a dream. Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
My unmarried neighbor, Mufidah Ansar, a young, beautiful woman, a full-fledged lawyer, stood there wearing a revealing nightdress—short, slit at the thigh, no underwear, her body clearly outlined. Her hair was loose, long, black, and flowing.
She was holding my husband’s raised hand, the one meant to slap me. Both of them were furious, staring at each other. She didn’t release him, and shock prevented him from pulling away.
Both of them were breathing heavily—but theirs was anger; mine was heartbreak at seeing them so physically close.
“Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,” I cried as I rushed forward angrily, trying to separate them.
As I pushed Mufidah away from my husband, Usman struck me again. She tried to stop him, grabbing his hand. Their bodies pressed together—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—struggling and grappling.
I prayed never to see such a thing again. Her so‑called “rescue” only brought me more disaster. I would rather be beaten than see my husband pressed against another woman like that.
I cried uncontrollably, grabbed Mufidah, and tried to throw her away from my husband. She thought I was clinging to her for protection.
She said,
“Maman Ahmad, don’t worry, I won’t let him hit you again. Go into the room and lock the door.”
I shouted,
“Where should I go? Let him kill me—he is my husband!”
The three of us tangled again. She stood between us, I tried to pull her away, Usman kept reaching to beat me, and she kept holding him back.
Her hair came loose, cascading down her back. I saw Usman’s eyes fix on it. Suddenly, strength surged in me. I bit my lip, gathered courage, and pushed Mufidah outside.
Panting, I said,
“Leave me—let him kill me. He is my husband!”
I locked the living room door, leaving her outside pounding and shouting warnings.
Usman removed his belt, grabbed my waist, and threatened me. Mufidah screamed that she would take him to court.
I clung to Usman, crying, demanding to know why he allowed Mufidah to touch him like that—why his betrayal happened right in my house, before my eyes.
The children ran out crying, and he stopped beating me. He locked himself in his room.
Chaos erupted. Neighbors gathered. Everyone thought he was killing me.
Eventually, he came out to retrieve his phone. Neighbors—Dr. Isa and Dr. Musa—intervened with their wives. They separated us.
Later, Usman apologized tearfully. He explained everything—the business deal I ruined by insulting a powerful woman on his phone, thinking she was just another admirer. That woman was the wife of the deputy governor.
He lost a huge opportunity because of my jealousy.
I collapsed, begging for forgiveness.
He hugged me tightly and said money could be replaced—but asked me never to repeat such actions again.
That night, he cared for me tenderly, cleaned my wounds, dressed me, and whispered apologies.
Yet my heart burned with jealousy again when I noticed similarities between what he chose for me and what Mufidah wore.
Today I dressed up in a way I had not done in a long time. My house was filled with fragrance and everything was perfectly arranged. My body smelled so good that even I could not count how much humra, incense perfume, body fragrance, clothes perfume, and powdered scents I applied inside and outside my body.
I invited my makeup artist to come with her full makeup kit. She did my face beautifully, and I paid her a lot of money because she spent the whole day at the house doing makeup and hair styling.
The lace I wore was the one I had reserved for Sallah but never had the chance to wear because I was busy frying meat.
I decorated the dining table with the foods and drinks my husband loves most in his life: fresh banana milkshake, fruit salad, seasoned offal, and fried rice.
All this preparation was because of my husband, my beloved Usman. Today marked eight years of our marriage, yet you would swear I was a newlywed of eight days.
I sent the children to their room to play until they fell asleep because I did not want them to spoil my living room or interrupt our romance. I prepared sweet words I would whisper into his ears and others I would tell him face to face.
I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself. Honestly, even a jealous person would have praised me. I looked beautiful—very beautiful, even excessively so. I turned left and right, held my waist, and changed poses in different styles just to please him. Naturally, I am tall, slim, and fair-skinned, thank God. My husband always praises my body shape, comparing it to spaghetti—four children, yet no belly.
At exactly 8:30 p.m., I heard the doorbell ring. I knew the king who owns the city of my heart had arrived—my Usman. I walked gracefully and opened the door.
I fluttered my eyes so he would notice my eyelashes and eyeshadow clearly. In a soft voice I said,
“My pride, welcome home…”
Before I could finish my sentence, everything changed.
In just one second, I was thrown out of that world into another spinning world. My head went down, my legs up. I lost consciousness and awareness. Sharp pain and burning spread across the right side of my face. I found myself sitting helplessly aside as if I had been thrown away. I held my cheek and remained silent, rubbing it.
It turned out he had slapped me—one heavy slap with his broad palm.
I wasn’t surprised because I knew the serious offense I had committed against him. But I was deeply shocked that Usman would raise his hand to touch me, because despite all the wrongs I had done before, he had never shown any sign of beating or slapping me.
“What is happening? Am I okay? Or am I having a terrible dream?” I asked myself.
But it was no dream—it was real. I saw Usman furious, approaching me, raising his hand to slap me again.
This time I would not allow it. I hadn’t expected the first one, which was why he succeeded. I quickly jumped aside and shielded my face. I screamed,
“Don’t you dare slap me again—I am not a slave you married!”
I didn’t feel another slap, just sudden silence. I raised my head quickly to see what stopped him.
What I saw hurt me more than the slap. I prayed never to witness such a thing again, even in a dream. Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
My unmarried neighbor, Mufidah Ansar, a young, beautiful woman, a full-fledged lawyer, stood there wearing a revealing nightdress—short, slit at the thigh, no underwear, her body clearly outlined. Her hair was loose, long, black, and flowing.
She was holding my husband’s raised hand, the one meant to slap me. Both of them were furious, staring at each other. She didn’t release him, and shock prevented him from pulling away.
Both of them were breathing heavily—but theirs was anger; mine was heartbreak at seeing them so physically close.
“Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,” I cried as I rushed forward angrily, trying to separate them.
As I pushed Mufidah away from my husband, Usman struck me again. She tried to stop him, grabbing his hand. Their bodies pressed together—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—struggling and grappling.
I prayed never to see such a thing again. Her so‑called “rescue” only brought me more disaster. I would rather be beaten than see my husband pressed against another woman like that.
I cried uncontrollably, grabbed Mufidah, and tried to throw her away from my husband. She thought I was clinging to her for protection.
She said,
“Maman Ahmad, don’t worry, I won’t let him hit you again. Go into the room and lock the door.”
I shouted,
“Where should I go? Let him kill me—he is my husband!”
The three of us tangled again. She stood between us, I tried to pull her away, Usman kept reaching to beat me, and she kept holding him back.
Her hair came loose, cascading down her back. I saw Usman’s eyes fix on it. Suddenly, strength surged in me. I bit my lip, gathered courage, and pushed Mufidah outside.
Panting, I said,
“Leave me—let him kill me. He is my husband!”
I locked the living room door, leaving her outside pounding and shouting warnings.
Usman removed his belt, grabbed my waist, and threatened me. Mufidah screamed that she would take him to court.
I clung to Usman, crying, demanding to know why he allowed Mufidah to touch him like that—why his betrayal happened right in my house, before my eyes.
The children ran out crying, and he stopped beating me. He locked himself in his room.
Chaos erupted. Neighbors gathered. Everyone thought he was killing me.
Eventually, he came out to retrieve his phone. Neighbors—Dr. Isa and Dr. Musa—intervened with their wives. They separated us.
Later, Usman apologized tearfully. He explained everything—the business deal I ruined by insulting a powerful woman on his phone, thinking she was just another admirer. That woman was the wife of the deputy governor.
He lost a huge opportunity because of my jealousy.
I collapsed, begging for forgiveness.
He hugged me tightly and said money could be replaced—but asked me never to repeat such actions again.
That night, he cared for me tenderly, cleaned my wounds, dressed me, and whispered apologies.
Yet my heart burned with jealousy again when I noticed similarities between what he chose for me and what Mufidah wore.
My jealousy reignited.