He didn’t come out until he had bathed, prayed, and finished eating. Then he came into the room and found me breastfeeding Abulkhairi. He sat on the edge of the bed watching us. When I finished, I handed the baby to him and he took him, playing with him gently. In my heart I said: He knows how to play with his child, and from the way he handles the boy you can tell the child means a lot to him. But as for me—or rather, as for women—he didn’t know how to relate to us.
He lifted his head and looked at me; our eyes met briefly and his face darkened. I lowered my gaze.
“Why is it that when I tell you I don’t like something, you don’t stop?” he said.
“See what it has caused—your elder sister left angry with me, something that has never happened before. Don’t think that will make me change my mind about not wanting you to associate with her.”
I was silent for a while, then said, “But what is your reason for stopping me from associating with people—my own relatives included? Do you think that’s fair to me? Don’t forget that before marrying you I had a good relationship with my family. Now you won’t even let me visit them.”
“I’m not stopping you from associating with them,” he replied. “You’re still young. Try to understand what I’m trying to make you understand. I won’t explain all that now.”
He carried Abulkhairi and went out. I watched him leave and sighed softly.
---
I didn’t go home until a full week after my sister left. I sat before my mother; her happiness was beyond words. Tasi’u and the others kept trying to take Abulkhairi from me. Umma refused, and even Yaya Auwalu closed his shop early when I called to tell him we were home.
Ishak didn’t come to pick me up until evening. He called to say he had arrived; I didn’t ask him to come in because I knew he wouldn’t. I went into the room, greeted Umma, and asked if she could start a small home business. She agreed. I took money I had saved from Abulkhairi’s naming ceremony and gave it all to her to try with. She asked where I got so much money; I didn’t explain. I just carried Abulkhairi and left.
Ishak’s movements reduced somewhat, especially since he now came home earlier for Abulkhairi—though on busy days he still returned very late. I often marveled at how he cared for the child. What puzzled me was why, even after I had given birth, he never told me anything about his other children.
One day he returned early. We were sitting in the living room; Abulkhairi slept on his lap. He answered a call—it was my sister—so I asked to greet her. During the call I casually asked about Rukayya. Ishak shot me a look I couldn’t understand. Rukayya greeted me sweetly and asked, “Where is little Daddy?” I smiled and replied, then asked why she hadn’t asked about “big Daddy.” She did, and I handed the phone to Ishak, who was still staring at me. I left them and went into the room.
Though I felt some satisfaction, a lump of sadness stuck in my throat. Ishak looked down on me, but I said nothing.
Later he came in, arranged Abulkhairi’s sleeping place, and lay facing me. I turned to the wall to avoid his gaze, but sleep wouldn’t come. After about an hour he called my name. When I responded, he said he wanted to talk—he knew I must have heard things from my sister.
---
The next day he bought fabrics and household items. He also bought food for me and Abulkhairi. That evening I asked, “Is this how we’ll live here when you travel—just me and Abulkhairi?” He didn’t understand at first. When I explained, I said I was afraid. I felt he should understand without me saying it. It wasn’t right to leave me alone with a five-month-old baby. If people realized he wasn’t around…
“That’s enough,” he cut me off and continued reading. Abulkhairi slept; I put him to bed. When I returned, he asked my opinion. I said I had none. In my heart I thought: A man who won’t let his wife relate with anyone doesn’t even relate well with neighbors. Still, I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone with the baby.
That night, as I was drifting to sleep, he woke me and said we would travel together. I packed lightly. We drove for hours and reached Kaduna—my sister’s house.
She was overjoyed, holding Abulkhairi, praising his size. She said he looked like his heir. Ishak smiled. Rukayya later returned from school, greeted me, then her father, and was asked to carry her little brother. Ishak quickly took the baby from her when she tried to sit him down.
I relaxed around the girl; she was calm and often came to me because of Abulkhairi. The next morning Ishak left for his hometown, and I stayed with my sister, helping her sell goods. At lunch she asked about my marriage. I said everything was fine. She advised patience.
We shopped for the children, took photos of Rukayya with Abulkhairi, and returned home the next day. Rukayya cried, not wanting Abulkhairi to leave.
As Abulkhairi grew more alert, I noticed Ishak softening slightly, and I began to long to return to school. I spoke to him carefully, asking to continue my education even if I didn’t work. He said nothing at first. Eventually he said my return to school would never be possible.
I begged him to state his conditions. He stared at me and said, “You want to study? Here’s your choice: either remain married without schooling, or leave the marriage and go back to school.”
My heart sank. I loved my marriage despite everything, but choosing it would mean surrender. Choosing school felt like a rare escape.
“Which do you choose?” he asked.
“School,” I replied.
“Fine,” he said and lay down.
I slept thinking I’d soon return to school and become a nurse. In the morning he gave me a letter, saying it was my choice and he had made it easy for me. He told me to go home and explain everything. As I was leaving with Abulkhairi, he stopped me and told me to put the baby down. “He is my son. I have full authority over him.” He took the child from me.
I returned home in a state I can’t describe.
Umma asked what was wrong and where the baby was. I said he was with his father. I waited for my father. When he returned in the evening, I gave him the letter Ishak had given me—still unopened. Calmly, he opened it and began to read.
He didn’t come out until he had bathed, prayed, and finished eating. Then he came into the room and found me breastfeeding Abulkhairi. He sat on the edge of the bed watching us. When I finished, I handed the baby to him and he took him, playing with him gently. In my heart I said: He knows how to play with his child, and from the way he handles the boy you can tell the child means a lot to him. But as for me—or rather, as for women—he didn’t know how to relate to us.
He lifted his head and looked at me; our eyes met briefly and his face darkened. I lowered my gaze.
“Why is it that when I tell you I don’t like something, you don’t stop?” he said.
“See what it has caused—your elder sister left angry with me, something that has never happened before. Don’t think that will make me change my mind about not wanting you to associate with her.”
I was silent for a while, then said, “But what is your reason for stopping me from associating with people—my own relatives included? Do you think that’s fair to me? Don’t forget that before marrying you I had a good relationship with my family. Now you won’t even let me visit them.”
“I’m not stopping you from associating with them,” he replied. “You’re still young. Try to understand what I’m trying to make you understand. I won’t explain all that now.”
He carried Abulkhairi and went out. I watched him leave and sighed softly.
---
I didn’t go home until a full week after my sister left. I sat before my mother; her happiness was beyond words. Tasi’u and the others kept trying to take Abulkhairi from me. Umma refused, and even Yaya Auwalu closed his shop early when I called to tell him we were home.
Ishak didn’t come to pick me up until evening. He called to say he had arrived; I didn’t ask him to come in because I knew he wouldn’t. I went into the room, greeted Umma, and asked if she could start a small home business. She agreed. I took money I had saved from Abulkhairi’s naming ceremony and gave it all to her to try with. She asked where I got so much money; I didn’t explain. I just carried Abulkhairi and left.
Ishak’s movements reduced somewhat, especially since he now came home earlier for Abulkhairi—though on busy days he still returned very late. I often marveled at how he cared for the child. What puzzled me was why, even after I had given birth, he never told me anything about his other children.
One day he returned early. We were sitting in the living room; Abulkhairi slept on his lap. He answered a call—it was my sister—so I asked to greet her. During the call I casually asked about Rukayya. Ishak shot me a look I couldn’t understand. Rukayya greeted me sweetly and asked, “Where is little Daddy?” I smiled and replied, then asked why she hadn’t asked about “big Daddy.” She did, and I handed the phone to Ishak, who was still staring at me. I left them and went into the room.
Though I felt some satisfaction, a lump of sadness stuck in my throat. Ishak looked down on me, but I said nothing.
Later he came in, arranged Abulkhairi’s sleeping place, and lay facing me. I turned to the wall to avoid his gaze, but sleep wouldn’t come. After about an hour he called my name. When I responded, he said he wanted to talk—he knew I must have heard things from my sister.
---
The next day he bought fabrics and household items. He also bought food for me and Abulkhairi. That evening I asked, “Is this how we’ll live here when you travel—just me and Abulkhairi?” He didn’t understand at first. When I explained, I said I was afraid. I felt he should understand without me saying it. It wasn’t right to leave me alone with a five-month-old baby. If people realized he wasn’t around…
“That’s enough,” he cut me off and continued reading. Abulkhairi slept; I put him to bed. When I returned, he asked my opinion. I said I had none. In my heart I thought: A man who won’t let his wife relate with anyone doesn’t even relate well with neighbors. Still, I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone with the baby.
That night, as I was drifting to sleep, he woke me and said we would travel together. I packed lightly. We drove for hours and reached Kaduna—my sister’s house.
She was overjoyed, holding Abulkhairi, praising his size. She said he looked like his heir. Ishak smiled. Rukayya later returned from school, greeted me, then her father, and was asked to carry her little brother. Ishak quickly took the baby from her when she tried to sit him down.
I relaxed around the girl; she was calm and often came to me because of Abulkhairi. The next morning Ishak left for his hometown, and I stayed with my sister, helping her sell goods. At lunch she asked about my marriage. I said everything was fine. She advised patience.
We shopped for the children, took photos of Rukayya with Abulkhairi, and returned home the next day. Rukayya cried, not wanting Abulkhairi to leave.
As Abulkhairi grew more alert, I noticed Ishak softening slightly, and I began to long to return to school. I spoke to him carefully, asking to continue my education even if I didn’t work. He said nothing at first. Eventually he said my return to school would never be possible.
I begged him to state his conditions. He stared at me and said, “You want to study? Here’s your choice: either remain married without schooling, or leave the marriage and go back to school.”
My heart sank. I loved my marriage despite everything, but choosing it would mean surrender. Choosing school felt like a rare escape.
“Which do you choose?” he asked.
“School,” I replied.
“Fine,” he said and lay down.
I slept thinking I’d soon return to school and become a nurse. In the morning he gave me a letter, saying it was my choice and he had made it easy for me. He told me to go home and explain everything. As I was leaving with Abulkhairi, he stopped me and told me to put the baby down. “He is my son. I have full authority over him.” He took the child from me.
I returned home in a state I can’t describe.
Umma asked what was wrong and where the baby was. I said he was with his father. I waited for my father. When he returned in the evening, I gave him the letter Ishak had given me—still unopened. Calmly, he opened it and began to read.