We are four children from our mother. Yaya Asma’u is the eldest; she is among the girls who were married last year. Next is Muhammadu after her, then me, and then the one called Hajja, who is our last-born—we call her Iki.

Our mother also has a household at Galadima’s place. She has three sons there, all living in Galadima’s house, while the girls stay with her; they are younger than us, so we respect them. They are Aliyu, Shu’aibu, and one called Galadima. Then there is Alhaji Karami’s side; he has three children—Yaya Khadija is the eldest. She too was among those married last year. In fact, three marriages happened within Galadima’s house, and one from Mama’s house. Sadiya follows Yaya Khadija, and then there is one younger sister.

Out of the twenty-seven grandchildren Allah blessed Hajja with, Allah tested her with an exceptional love for one child above all the others—so much so that people thought she loved him more than her own children.

Mus’ab Galadima.

From the day he was born, she showed him excessive love beyond expectation. Even when he was a baby and cried, Hajja would raise alarm after alarm until finally his mother handed him over to Hajja even before the time of weaning. He grew up on Hajja’s lap—pampered, spoiled, stubborn, and disobedient—because of the special treatment he received from her. No one corrected him during his childhood, not even his uncles who were still unmarried at the time.

Life went on like that until we were born. We are three in our set: Sadiya is the eldest, then Walidah, and I am the youngest. From childhood I loved my grandmother Hajja intensely. I loved her very, very much, and seeing that, she loved me too. But Mus’ab did not love me at all.

Whenever I went to Hajja’s place, he would start beating me. And Allah made me stubborn, defiant, aggressive, and impatient. There are about ten years between us, but at that time I was three years old while he was ten. Whenever he hit me, pushed me, glared at me, or even gave me a meaningless look, I would retaliate. That retaliation only increased Mus’ab’s hatred for me, and his hatred, in turn, nurtured mine. Mus’ab was shameless—he even beat his elder brothers. My impatience and the frequent fights I had with Mus’ab were always reported to Hajja. Eventually, she began scolding me and even forbade me from staying in her section. Whenever I came, she would say,
“Salma, this your impatience has exhausted me. Is it that you can’t come without tormenting my child?”

Crying, I would say,
“Hajja, he is the one beating me.”

“And you, have you no shame? Must you retaliate?”
That was how our constant struggles with Hajja continued until I became tired of going to her section. What I went to bed and woke up knowing was this: Mus’ab took pleasure in reporting me. Since I was tiny, if he beat me and I said “Allah is sufficient for me,” he would go and report that he saw me outside invoking Allah against someone. Then I would be beaten severely like a sack, crying like an orphan.

All these things piled up and produced a deep hatred for Mus’ab in my heart—an enormous hatred. And the way he treated everyone without respect only made me hate him more. Even Ummanah was tested by Allah with love for Mus’ab—genuine love. She never saw his faults, no matter what he did. Even if he beat me or framed me and I was punished, she felt nothing. I would sit crying endlessly, but it meant nothing to her.

As I said before, Galadima’s house is a house of unity and love—a home without discrimination. Everyone loves everyone. Each person has their own birth set. In terms of living conditions, we are not wealthy, but in food, clothing, shelter, and education, we were better than many. We lived quietly, with good upbringing; everyone loved everyone.

As for beauty, in the entire Galadima household, no one matched my sister Asma’u. Though they say she resembles Yaya Khadija, everyone knows she is the most beautiful in that house. I resemble her too, though I may not be said to be as beautiful as she is, but I would not rank below third in the household. Among the men, it was obvious—Mus’ab Galadima was the most handsome. He even resembled an Indian actor (Aditya Roy Kapur), except that Mus’ab had a broader face.

But I never saw any of that because of my intense hatred for him. In fact, I can say he never once called me by my name. How would he, when wealth and dealings didn’t even bring us together? That was how we grew, finishing primary school and moving to secondary school. In our house, it was never said that girls should not be educated. Our parents were educated, but no girl had ever gone beyond secondary school because once they reached senior level, suitors would start appearing like flowing water. Hajja used to say,
“Once suitors arrive, marry the girls off. When men finish wanting a woman, they discard her like tears.”

And that was exactly what happened. As soon as the girls reached senior secondary, proposals would come. Once they finished, weddings followed. Some husbands allowed their wives to continue schooling; others did not. The marriages done last year were the third set of weddings, because whenever there was one, five or three people—men and women—were married together.

Now we had entered SS1—just the three of us—and it was expected that we would be married together with Mus’ab and his fiancée, Junaidiya. The girl was as thin as a cigarette stick. I wondered how Mus’ab could love such a girl, with all his money, style, and class. Then sometimes I would ask myself, what is it to me?

By then, my hatred for Mus’ab had overshadowed my love for Hajja. I no longer went to her section whenever Mus’ab was around. Recently, I had been following Mus’ab around, insulting him and being rude. He would beat me severely, then my uncles or brothers would join in beating me. I never understood why in Galadima’s family Mus’ab’s words were always believed while mine were not. Perhaps because he spoke calmly, while I spoke loudly and denied his claims openly. So I was beaten again and again like a sack.

There was a time I intended to take revenge on Mus’ab. I went to their section when Maman Ciki was in the kitchen. I greeted as I entered and said,
“Maman Ciki, you’re working.”

“Yes, daughter,” she replied. I laughed because that was what she always called me.
“So Ummi hasn’t returned?”
“What’s wrong with you, asking all these questions?”
I smiled and said, “Nothing, see you later.”
“Come back, daughter,” she said softly, sounding uneasy. Suddenly my heart broke, and I abandoned what had brought me there.

What happened later was that last night he even caused Yaya Ilyasu to beat me. We were returning from evening Islamiyya when a classmate, Walid, stopped me. He was asking about his girlfriend, who was my friend. While we were talking, Mus’ab passed by. Walid quickly said,
“Salma, here’s your brother.”
I looked at Mus’ab and said,
“I see him. He looks good like a ram.”
He shook his head and walked on because people were around. He would never do anything that would disgrace him in public.

As I entered our compound, I saw him coming out of Hajja’s section. I rushed toward her section, but he grabbed my hand. I turned to insult him, and he slapped me.

“Allah is sufficient for me. May Allah afflict you with the calamities of this world.”
That was my usual prayer against him—one he himself had memorized.
“You will eat from your own house,” he said and dragged me inside. I screamed, hoping Maman Ciki would hear me, but Allah did not will it. He took me straight to Yaya Ilyasu.

“Brother, I am tired of what this girl does. It has reached the point that my friends talk to me about her rudeness in public.”

I raised my head quickly and said,
“Wallahi, he’s lying. Mus’ab, you are an oppressor.”
Yaya Ilyasu stopped me.

(Legend’s Pen, contact details, author credits, etc.)

Page Three

“Indeed, this is not rudeness. Salma, why are you like this?”
Angrily, I spoke again,
“Wallahi, he’s lying about me. He just hates me.”
Before I could finish, I was slapped.

The slap stunned me—I even saw stars. I left the room. I didn’t know what to do to Mus’ab to release my anger, except to take revenge through closeness—but I seek refuge in Allah from being near him. Even on the Day of Judgment, I want the distance between us to be like that between heaven and earth. If forgiveness is required, I am capable of forgiving him.

Whenever Mus’ab came close to me, I felt a strange tightening in my chest, a burning pain. If I say I hate Mus’ab, then I truly hate him. I do not wish to ever feel relief from that hatred, even for a day.

That day was Sunday—no western school, only Islamiyya. We were playing in the compound, my heart still bitter from the slap Yaya Ilyasu gave me the night before. Suddenly I felt restless, as if pushed to go outside.

Two handsome young men were standing near our house. They were extremely handsome and calm. I found myself walking toward them as if compelled.
“Good afternoon, girls,” one said with a smile.
“Good afternoon,” I replied, since it was noon.

“We’re fine. Please, do you know Alhaji Idi’s house?”
I nodded.
“You’re close—it’s the third house from ours.”

“Which house is yours?” the quieter one asked in a soft, sweet voice.
In my mind I thought, These are real gentlemen, not like Mus’ab who talks to women carelessly. Aloud, I smiled and explained which house was ours.

“Thank you, girls.”
As I smiled, my eyes met Mus’ab’s. He was standing with folded arms, watching us. The look he gave me made my heart pound. I quickly ran into Nana’s house.

Barely five minutes later, Iki came to tell me Uncle Mudi wanted me.
“Inna lillahi… what has this man gone to say that I did?”
Iki said nothing and walked off. I followed calmly.

In our courtyard, I found him holding a whip, with Mus’ab standing there.
“Uncle, I’m here.”
“Squat.”
“Uncle, what did I do?”
“Won’t you squat?”
Before I could, he started flogging me with all his strength—no mercy, no compassion—saying,
“You shameless, ill-mannered girl. You misbehave at home and are tolerated. Now it has reached outside—you see people standing and start acting shamelessly!”

Shock silenced me. What kind of hatred did Mus’ab have for me? What had I done to deserve this? Uncle Mudi continued flogging me until my cries filled the place.

.