ASALIN LABARIN SU

THE ORIGIN OF THEIR STORY

The true name of "Umma" is Zainab. She was born and raised in a small, peaceful village on the outskirts of Katsina State. Zainab was the only daughter of her parents, raised with immense love, discipline, and deep Islamic values. Her father was a humble Quranic teacher and a subsistence farmer, well-respected for his piety. Zainab grew up into a strikingly beautiful young woman—possessing a radiant fair complexion, a gentle demeanor, and a heart completely devoid of malice.
When she reached the age of marriage, many suitors from the village came forward, but her destiny was tied to a man named Bello—the very same man who would become the tormentor of her life.
Bello was a young man from the city who occasionally visited the village to buy grain for his small trading business. To the villagers, Bello appeared to be a hardworking, respectful, and responsible gentleman. He put on a flawless facade of humility, hiding his volatile temper and dark heart beneath a mask of city charms. When he asked for Zainab’s hand in marriage, her father, believing Bello to be a decent Muslim who could provide his daughter with a comfortable life in the city, gladly gave his blessing.
The wedding was celebrated with joy, and Zainab followed her new husband to the city of Katsina, her heart full of hope and dreams of a blissful home.
However, the illusion of a happy marriage shattered barely a month after the wedding.
The moment Zainab moved into his small compound, Bello’s true colors began to bleed through. His small trading business folded due to his lazy attitude and terrible management, plunging the household into severe financial hardship. Instead of seeking honest labor or turning to Allah in prayer, Bello turned his frustration, bitterness, and anger entirely on Zainab.
His attitude worsened drastically when Zainab became pregnant with their first child, Aliyu.
Bello exploded in a fit of rage the day she broke the news to him. He revealed his deep-seated aversion to family life, screaming that children were nothing but financial burdens meant to drain his resources and lock him permanently in poverty. He demanded she abort the pregnancy. Terrified and pious, Zainab vehemently refused, stating she would never commit murder against a soul created by Allah.
From that day onward, physical abuse, verbal insults, and emotional starvation became Zainab’s daily bread.
When Aliyu was born, Bello looked at his own son with nothing but cold detachment and disgust. He refused to provide naming ceremony requirements, forcing Zainab’s elderly father to send down foodstuff and a ram from the village just to save his daughter from public shame.
Despite growing up under the dark shadow of an abusive, neglectful father, Aliyu inherited his mother's beautiful soul, resilience, and sharp intelligence. He became his mother's protector at a very tender age, absorbing his father's blows just to shield his pregnant mother.
Four years later, despite Zainab taking every cautious measure available to her to prevent another pregnancy under such hostile conditions, she conceived Suhaima. Bello’s cruelty reached demonic levels. He beat Zainab ruthlessly during her third trimester, completely unbothered by her condition, and cut off all feeding allowances. He completely abandoned his duties, leaving the young Aliyu—barely a child himself—to take to the streets, doing strenuous menial jobs like carrying heavy loads in markets and sifting grain just to feed his mother and buy milk for his baby sister.
Now, locked in a cycle of generational poverty and severe domestic trauma, Zainab finds herself trapped with a third pregnancy. Bello's resentment has amplified into an unstable, dangerous mania, leaving the family walking on eggshells as they navigate hunger, severe physical battery, and the terrifying threat of abandonment.
Yet, even as the cold harmattan wind blows through their dilapidated room and her body aches from the evening's brutal beating, Zainab grips her prayer beads tighter in the dark, wondering how much longer her faith can withstand the crushing weight of her reality...

Short Literary Analytics (The Narrative Arc)

1. The Theme of Deceptive Facades

The backstory introduces a classic structural trope in African domestic realism: the contrast between rural innocence and urban deception. Bello uses his "city status" and a manufactured persona of piety to secure a virtuous wife, only to shed that persona once she is isolated from her support system.

2. Generational Resilience vs. Generational Trauma

• Bello views poverty not as an economic condition to solve, but as a curse brought upon him by his own family. His projection of self-hatred onto his young children is a defense mechanism for his personal failures.

• Aliyu serves as the narrative’s "child-hero." Forced into premature adulthood (parentification), his willingness to work hard and protect his sister counters his father's toxic masculinity, setting up a classic dynamic of moral foil.

  3. Religious Stoicism (Sabr)

  Zainab’s character embodies the concept of Sabr (Islamic patience and endurance). Even when subjected to marital rape, starvation, and severe battery, her immediate instinct upon escaping a traumatic event is to perform ritual purification (Ghusl) and engage in divine remembrance (Istighfar). This frames her not merely as a passive victim, but as a spiritually resilient anchor holding the broken family together.

A woman knelt in the middle of the courtyard, weeping bitterly. She gasped for air and sobbed so intensely that it seemed she might faint at any moment, all under the weight of the harsh words her husband was raining down upon her. Off to one side, her two children—a boy and a girl—held each other tightly, weeping out of sheer pity for themselves and their mother.
The father's voice cut through the air, heavy with unbridled rage and absolute malice:
"Since this is how it's going to be, I will leave this town and abandon all of you entirely! I have told you time and again that I do not want children at all. I am not ready for this because I despise them. On top of that, look at the wretched poverty we are trapped in! Yet here you are, breeding like a hen, getting pregnant again barely after giving birth. I am sick and tired of it!"
He spat the words out, panting heavily from the sheer exhaustion of screaming and shouting at the top of his lungs. He glared aggressively at his wife and children, his heart filled with an intense, malicious hatred for them. In that moment, he felt a dark urge to strangle them all just to rid his sight of them forever.
Through her suffocating sobs, the wife pleaded:
"Please, have patience, my husband. I did not grant these children to myself; it is Allah who bestowed them upon me. How could I ingratefully abort a child that is legitimate? Remember, children are a blessing. There are people out there spending fortunes searching for them without success. Yet you, whom Allah has blessed freely, are seeking to turn your back on His gift."
Before she could even finish her sentence, he struck her across her beautiful face with two vicious, stinging slaps. She collapsed further onto the ground, clutching her burning cheek where he had struck her, tears flowing silently from her eyes.
He thrust a menacing finger in her face, snarling furiously: "I don't need your advice or your sermons! If you don't do as I say and abort this pregnancy, then wallahi, I will leave this town. I am not prepared to raise children, especially with this overwhelming poverty tormenting me!"
The moment he finished speaking, he snapped his head toward the children, barking a terrifying shout at them. Terrified and trembling at the sight of their father, they bolted into their mother's room to hide.
He let out a sharp hiss and muttered, "Bastard children, full of wretched hypocrisy. The moment they see their mother crying, they start their own useless wailing. Filthy brats."
With that last insult, he glared at his wife one final time, hissed loudly, shook out his clothes, and stormed out of the compound fuuuu, marching in a furious, reckless hurry.
Slowly and quietly, the children lifted the door curtain, peeking outside to check if their father had finally left. Reassured by the dead silence, they rushed out and ran straight to where their mother remained huddled, weeping.
They threw their arms around her, comforting her and begging her to stop crying. They were always her sole comforters whenever their father finished tearing her dignity apart.
With great difficulty, she managed to stand up, and they all retreated into the room. They sat together on an old, worn-out straw mat spread across the floor. Looking at her children with an overwhelming sense of love and profound pity, she gathered their hands into hers and spoke:
"Aliyu, I am entrusting Suhaima into your care. Even when I am no longer in this world, I want you to protect her for me. I never want her to cry from the pain of being an orphan. I want both of you to stand firm and pursue education to better your lives, even if I am not around to see it. I want your father to be proud of you in the future. Always remain obedient to your father in whatever he commands you, and never stop praying. One day, this will all just be a distant memory; everything will pass as if it never happened."
Weeping, Aliyu replied:
"Umma, please stop talking about dying and leaving us. We will live together with you, Insha Allah. I promise to take excellent care of my little sister, Umma. I will do everything in my power to bring her joy and ensure Suhaima lives a happy life."
He spoke as tears streamed down his face, though deep within his heart, a quiet hatred for his father burned intensely. Suhaima, who was still too young to fully comprehend the gravity of the situation, simply watched them and wept.
Umma drew Suhaima close to her body, soothing her until her crying subsided into quiet, rhythmic sighs. After a moment, the little girl looked up and murmured:
"Umma, I’m hungry."
Umma looked at Aliyu, and Aliyu looked back at his mother. Deep down, both wondered what they could possibly give Suhaima to eat. There was absolutely nothing left in the house. Usually, Aliyu would go out to do strenuous menial labor just to scratch together enough money for a meager meal. If they were to rely on their father, they would starve to death before he ever provided for them.
Neither of them had the heart to answer Suhaima. Sensing their silence, the little girl burst into tears again; they hadn't even eaten breakfast, and the afternoon Zuhr prayer was already approaching. Comforting her gently, Aliyu drew her close and wiped the tears from her face, saying:
"Be patient, my little sister. I am going out right now to find something for you to eat. But promise me you won't cry and worry Umma, okay?"
She nodded, swallowing her tears. Aliyu quickly dashed out of the room, while Umma watched his retreating figure with deep sorrow. He was a boy who rightfully belonged under the protective care of parents, yet here he was, fending for himself, his mother, and his little sister, all because they were cursed with a wretched excuse for a father.
Suhaima waited for Aliyu until exhaustion took over, and she fell fast asleep against Umma, sucking her fingers. Once she was deeply asleep, Umma laid her down gently on a makeshift bedding.
Umma stood up and walked out into the courtyard. Picking up a soft broom, she began sweeping the compound. As she swept, tears of self-pity fell continuously from her eyes. Yet, a part of her heart remained steadfast in prayer, thanking Allah despite the miserable state she found herself in. This was her destiny—to be tied to a cruel, heartless husband who showed nothing but ingratitude to Allah for the gift of two beautiful children, while she carried their third in her womb.
From the time Aliyu left, he did not return until dusk, just before the Maghrib prayer. In his hand, he held a small black plastic bag. The moment Suhaima saw him, she sprang up, ran to him, and eagerly snatched the bag to inspect its contents.
Inside was some Garin Kwaki (cassava flakes) and a small tie of sugar. Looking up at him with a bright smile, she said:
"Yaya, thank you! May Allah bless your business so you can keep making money, just like my friend’s older brother who works and brings home delicious treats for them!"
Smiling softly, he patted her head and said, "Ameen, my little sister. Just keep praying for your Yaya and your Umma."
"I do, Yaya! I pray every day after my namaz. But I will never pray for Baba, because he is wicked and beats our Umma. He insults us and beats us every single day. I hate him too, just like he said he doesn't want us and hates u..."
Before she could finish her sentence, a violent, ringing slap landed on her face, sending her crashing to the ground. The plastic bag tore open, and the Garin Kwaki scattered, ruined across the dusty earth of the courtyard.
Unbeknownst to them, their father had just walked into the house. Having overheard Suhaima's words, he delivered a slap heavy enough to completely disorient an adult, let alone a child. Without an ounce of mercy, he pounced on Suhaima and began beating her brutally, as if fueled by demonic rage. Umma, who was just concluding her Maghrib prayer in the room, rushed out to warn Suhaima to stop talking like that—knowing it was around the time her husband usually returned. Instead, she was met with the horrifying sound of the brutal beating. Umma squeezed her eyes shut tightly as tears spilled over, praying desperately that he wouldn't inflict a permanent injury on the little girl.
Beating her ruthlessly in his rage, he roared: "You wretched, cursed brat! I never loved any of you anyway! How dare you say you won't pray for me, but only for your mother and your brother? I hate you all! I will never love you, you useless, impoverished bastards!"
Crying out, Aliyu pleaded: "For Allah's sake, Baba, please stop! Stop beating her! Look at Suhaima, she is just a little girl, she cannot survive this beating!"
He released Suhaima, panting heavily as if he had just carried out backbreaking labor. Glaring fiercely at Aliyu, he growled:
"For your mother's sake, are you talking back to me with the truth?!"
Before Aliyu could even react, the father turned his fury upon him. He pulled both children together and beat them mercilessly, mercilessly raining blows until they were completely battered and black and blue. Only then did he stop, sneering:
"This is only the beginning of how I will beat you, you worthless brats. May Allah cause you all to die so I can finally have peace from the sight of you!"
Umma quickly closed her eyes, breaking down into heavy sobs upon hearing the horrific curses her husband hurled at her children—words she was tragically all too used to hearing from his mouth.
Having spewed his venom, he stormed out of the house, ranting and raving like a madman. The moment Umma heard him leave, she rushed out to her children, who were lying helpless and broken on the ground, weeping from the sheer agony of the beating.
Overwhelmed and frantic, Umma didn't know what to do first. She quickly fetched some warm water she had set to boil before Maghrib and began bathing Suhaima. She washed her gently, massaging her bruised body with the warm water to soothe the pain, before carrying her into the room and laying her down. She then returned to Aliyu, guiding him to the restroom with the warm water, and said:
"Have patience, my Aliyu. Hurry and bathe, and use the warm water to soothe your body."
He could only manage a weak nod. Umma then went out to salvage whatever clean Garin Kwaki she could find from the dirt, gathered it up, and soaked it in water for them.
Returning to the room, she helped Suhaima sit up, dressed her in clean clothes, poured the soaked grains into a cup, and handed it to her. Starving, the little girl took it eagerly and drank it down without stopping.
Umma stared at her, her eyes fixed on the girl's swollen face, her heart overflowing with profound pity for them. As she sat there, Aliyu limped into the room. With great physical difficulty, he managed to perform his prayers and sat down. Umma handed him his portion of the soaked grains, but he shook his head, saying:
"Umma, you drink it. I'm full."
Tears filled her eyes as she shook her head in return, pleading:
"No, Aliyu. Take it and drink it, if you want me to have any peace of mind."
Left with no choice, he took the cup and began to drink slowly. Umma took the remainder and drank it as well. Suddenly, the door curtain was violently yanked back, and someone walked in without a greeting. Neither of them bothered to look up toward the door; they knew exactly who entered a room in such a manner.
Without casting a single glance in their direction, the father walked straight to the inner corner of the room and sat on the iron bed. He unhitched a package of Tsire (suya/skewered meat) and Gurasa (local flatbread) that he had bought, and began to eat with absolute leisure. Instantly, the small room was engulfed in the rich, savory aroma of the meat and bread. Everyone in the room, including Umma, involuntarily swallowed their saliva.
As a pregnant woman, her cravings were naturally intense, especially since she had barely eaten. She found herself swallowing repeatedly, and little Suhaima did the same. Aliyu watched his sister, his heart burning with a fierce, quiet rage at his father's vile behavior. He stood up abruptly and said:
"Umma, I'm going to sleep. Goodnight."
He knew that if he stayed in that room a moment longer, his heart might burst from sheer resentment and grief. Umma looked at him tenderly and replied:
"May Allah wake us up in health."
"Ameen," he muttered, exiting the room in a quiet fury.
"Bastard. Full of nothing but pride and a black heart," the father muttered after him.
No one answered him. Eventually, Suhaima drifted off to sleep, still swallowing subconsciously from her yearning for the meat. Umma laid her down properly and covered her with a wrapper, as it was the cold harmattan season.
Umma stood up, walked over to the far edge of her iron bed, and lay down, staring into the dark, worrying about what the future held for her children. With her stomach grumbling from hunger, sleep eventually began to claim her. Midway through her slumber, she felt her husband groping her, a clear sign of what he wanted from her. Hot, silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Every night, she had to endure this routine from her husband, despite the fact that he barely provided enough food to keep her alive. It was the reason she woke up every morning completely drained, exhausted, and weak. She wept silently while he went about his business until he was satisfied, turned his back to her, and left her alone. It wasn't long before the room filled with the sound of his heavy snoring.
With great effort, she managed to get up and went to the bathroom to wash herself, as she could never sleep in that state. As she stepped back out into the courtyard, she was shocked to see Aliyu sitting under the biting, freezing night air. Surprised, she asked:
"Aliyu, is everything okay?"
He raised his head, tears glistening in his eyes, and whispered: "Umma, I just can't sleep. My heart is aching with a terrible pain."
Deeply moved by his grief, she comforted him:
"Have patience, my Aliyu. Verily, with every hardship comes ease. I don't want you harboring this deep worry in your heart lest you fall ill. You know you are our only hope and support. Now, stand up, perform your ablutions, and pray. Lay all your burdens before Allah."
She stood there watching as he performed his ablutions and retreated into his small room. Finally, she returned to her own room and lay down. Her body felt entirely lifeless; otherwise, she too would have stood up to perform voluntary prayers to cry out her problems to Allah. Nevertheless, she pulled her prayer beads close and began seeking forgiveness (Istighfar) and sending blessings upon the Prophet (SAW). Wrapped in those prayers, a heavy sleep finally took her away...
THE ORIGIN OF THEIR STORY...