Chapter 1: The Curse of Infertility

RINGIM, JIGAWA STATE.
Our motto has always been: "The blood of Dabo, cascading Ringim, the home of honor and nobility." We live up to this standard because we are a people of deep-rooted dignity, courtesy, and tradition. This is a land of abundant water, thriving fish, and people who are masters of their farming craft. I will stop here so you don’t think I am merely flattering my homeland. Believe me, if you ever visit Ringim, you will know I speak nothing but the truth.
My name is Amina Abubakar Salihu, but I am affectionately called Afiyya—a moniker given to me because I was named after my paternal grandmother. My grandfather, Alhaji Salihu, was the Waziri (Grand Vizier) to the Emir of Ringim. As you can see, the blood of royalty runs deep in my veins.
Sometimes, I find myself wondering: Does infertility run in our family? Perhaps that is a harsh way to put it. Let me rephrase: small family sizes are definitely a recurring pattern in our lineage. While children are born, they are few and far between. Once a single child is born, the line often stops right there.
Hajiya Amina is my grandmother, originally from Ganjin Gebi. She was my grandfather's only wife; he never took another. Together, they had five children. My father, Abubakar, is the eldest. He is followed by Kawu (Uncle) Sa'idu. Then comes the middle child, Mummy Maryam. After her is Kawu Ahmad, whom we call Tijjani. The last-born is Uncle Salihu, popularly known as Babawo—my very own savior.
As history dictates, when the westerners introduced formal education (Boko), they targeted royal households first to set an example for the rest of society to follow. Our family was no exception. When the Emir's children were set to leave for school, my father and Kawu Sa'idu were selected to accompany them. Hajiya strongly opposed this. She believed the westerners wanted to indoctrinate the children and stray them from the path of Islam. It took immense convincing before she finally relented and let them go.
Kawu Sa'idu, however, completely rebelled. Every time they dropped him off at school, he would run away to his aunt’s house in Kyarama. Despite the vast distance between Ringim and Kyarama, he would make the escape on foot. Whenever my father returned home and complained to Hajiya, she would scold Sa'idu, but her heart wasn't really in it. She despised the school, yet felt obligated to obey the Waziri, and she couldn't stomach her children openly defying their father.
In the end, school finished without Kawu Sa'idu learning a single thing. When the Waziri realized his son was a lost cause academically, he dragged him to the market and told him he had better find a trade before he brought shame to the family. Even there, Sa'idu did nothing but loiter and wander around. His entire year was defined by chasing women and bouncing from one house to another. Out of sheer respect for the Waziri, the townspeople tolerated his aimless behavior.
On the other hand, my Daddy went to Kings College in Lagos for his secondary education. Upon graduation, he was offered a job, but he turned it down, insisting on furthering his studies abroad in the UK. Hajiya tried everything in her power to get him married before leaving, but he steadfastly refused. She even went to complain to the Emir's senior wife (Fulanin Sarki), but the Queen simply told her that she was facing the exact same struggle with her own son, advising Hajiya to leave them be and cover them with prayers.
My mother's name was Halima. Sadly, I never got to see her. She was a descendant of the Shehu of Borno. Originally, a diplomatic marriage alliance had been arranged between her elder sister, Mariya, and Baba Mustapha—the Emir's son, who was my Abbu's peer and classmate in the UK. When it was time for Mariya to travel for the wedding, my mother Halima was sent along to keep her company. After the ceremonies were concluded, the Emir decreed that since Halima was already there, she should be wed to my Abbu, since they were all relatives anyway.
Thus, the marriage was solemnized while both young men were far away in another world across the seas. Each man was simply sent a notification that he now had a wife waiting for him. Abbu always told me he had never seen a woman as beautiful, patient, and resilient as my mother. He told me their life together was built on mutual understanding and profound love.
A year later, the Emir's son's wife—whom we called Ummi Istanbul—gave birth. My mother, however, remained childless, showing no signs of conception. By the time this first grandchild was born, the men had finished their studies and returned to Nigeria, specifically to Ringim. They received a grand welcome, and Ummi's baby brought immense joy to the palace.
They settled down, and shortly after, my Abbuna secured a high-profile job in Lagos. Given my mother's growing internal distress over her inability to conceive, the job offer came as a blessing. Abbu knew that moving away from the village gossip would give her some peace of mind, even though no one in the family openly pressured her. Hajiya was a woman of extraordinary discretion and kindness. She always told me she had never met a daughter-in-law as respectful, patient, and pure-hearted as my mother. Meanwhile, Baba Mustapha and Ummi Istanbul left the country entirely, and life moved on.
On Kawu Sa'idu's side, he eventually married a woman named Zinatu. He picked her up during his aimless travels to Kano, and we called her Ummaah. I won't say much about her right now, but very soon, you will see the horrific role she played in destroying my life. If you remove Ummaah from Afiyya's story, the tale loses its meaning.
Kawu had no education and no real trade. He survived entirely on a standing monthly allowance that my Abbuna set up for him. Furthermore, Abbuna shouldered the complete financial burden of educating all of Sa'idu's children. Sa'idu was the only one blessed with a large family, having married much earlier than Abbuna. His first son was named after the Emir of Ringim, nicknamed Baba. His second son was named after the Waziri, whom we called Yaya. I will never forget Yaya as long as I live—a truly benevolent soul who embodied the nobility of his namesake. His third child was named after Hajiya, called Mino, followed by Siyama and Hafsa. By a stroke of fate, I was younger than Siyama but older than Hafsa.
As for the rest of the family, Mummy Maryam married one of the Emir of Ringim's sons and lived a comfortable life in New York. She had an only daughter named Rukayya, whom we called Rooks. Kawu Tijjani lived in Kano with his wife, Anty Salma, and their only daughter, Basma. Uncle Babawo lived in Lancashire, UK, and had no children of his own.
My Abbuna and mother stayed married for twenty agonizing years without a child. Abbuna grew immensely wealthy, highly educated, and became a highly successful businessman, but the cradle remained empty. Eventually, exhausted from endless hospital visits and fertility treatments, they stopped trying and surrendered their fate to Allah.
Then, at the very moment they had given up all hope, my mother began experiencing morning sickness. A hospital visit confirmed the impossible: she was pregnant. Two days later, they flew to Germany for prenatal care. Everyone who heard the news rejoiced, except for those secret enemies who prayed she would remain barren so they could inherit Abbuna's massive fortune upon his death.
Just one week before my scheduled birth, my grandfather, the Waziri, fell gravely ill, appearing to be on the brink of death. Abbu had no choice but to fly back to Nigeria to be by his father's side. Tragically, it was his final illness; just one day after Abbu's arrival, the Waziri passed away.
When the devastating news reached Germany, the shock threw my mother into premature labor. Because of her age and the long delay in conception, she was already scheduled for a Cesarean section. She was rushed into the operating theater, and after an intense procedure, a new creation was brought into the world—me!
It took a week before Abbuna could return to Germany. Once my mother was stable enough to travel, we flew back to Nigeria. But our homecoming was completely devoid of joy. My mother wept, wishing the Waziri had lived to see me and hold me in his arms, fulfilling the prophecy he used to comfort her with: "One day, Halima, you will hold your own child." The day had come, but he was gone. Abbu named me Amina, and Mummy Maryam gave me the honorific name Afiyya while she was heavily pregnant with Rooks.
Once the mourning period subsided, my mother went to her ancestral home in Borno to complete her postpartum rituals before returning. The Waziri's death had left a massive vacuum in the emirate. When the council met to choose his successor, the majority clamored for my Abbuna. However, a faction opposed him, arguing that his business interests kept him too far from home to govern effectively. They suggested Kawu Sa'idu instead.
Kawu Sa'idu desperately craved the title, salivating at the thought of sitting on the Emir's council. But it was not meant to be. The title was officially bestowed upon my Abbu, who, following Hajiya's counsel, appointed the Waziri's younger brother to oversee the duties in his absence. This decision deeply embittered Kawu Sa'idu and his wife, Ummaah.
Two weeks after my mother's return, we relocated to Lagos to begin our new life. Looking at my parents back then, anyone would mistake them for my grandparents because of how late in life they had had me. I was showered with unparalleled luxury, solid upbringing, and deep affection. But paradise does not last. Allah decreed a different path for me, throwing a trial into my life to test the strength of my faith.
When I was just one year old, my mother fell ill. After a brief two-day stay in the hospital, Allah took her soul.

Chapter 2: The Rogue of Kazaure

His name was Junaidu. His father, Malam Ibrahim, was a native and long-time resident of Kazaure, Jigawa State. Malam Ibrahim was a highly revered Islamic scholar, deeply versed in the Holy Qur'an and classical texts. Throughout the region, his name was synonymous with the fear of Allah and pristine integrity. Yet, he did not rely solely on his scholarship; he was a successful farmer and a merchant well-educated in western knowledge, which allowed him to run his religious school with structured precision.
But Allah tests His servants in diverse ways. No matter the depth of your faith, you cannot escape destiny.
Malam Ibrahim had four wives. His senior wife, the matriarch of the house, was Hajja Huwaila, a native of Roni. She gave birth to Junaidu, who was the third of her five children. In total, Malam Ibrahim had fifteen children across his four wives. His second wife was Hasiya, a local townswoman from Kazaure. His third wife was Fatima from Daura. His youngest wife was Sadiya, the daughter of a close friend who had been gifted to him in marriage.
As was typical of a scholar’s household, the home was generally peaceful and serene, though when four co-wives live together, undercurrents of jealousy and minor friction are inevitable.
According to the strict tradition of the household, a child had to memorize thirty parts (Izu) of the Qur'an before completing primary school. By the time you entered Junior Secondary School (JS3), you were expected to complete your graduation (Sauka), after which you were sent to a boarding school to pursue advanced Islamic jurisprudence. Studies began immediately after the dawn (Asuba) prayer and resumed after the night (Isha) prayer. Attendance was mandatory; anyone who lagged behind faced the terrifying wrath of Malam.
Some parents can decipher their children's characters from the very nature of their cries as infants, or how they interact with peers as they grow. Junaidu was a deeply problematic infant. His crying fits were intense and ugly. Whenever Hajja Huwaila heard that specific pitch, she would drop whatever she was doing to appease him. He possessed an incredibly volatile temper. If he was placed on a potty training seat and decided he was done, if no one came to clean him immediately, he would fiercely refuse to stand up once they finally arrived. If he woke up in the middle of the night parched, and there was the slightest delay in bringing him water, he would throw a tantrum and refuse to drink it.
These toxic traits led the household to believe that Hajja favored him out of fear of his explosive temper, dedicating all her attention to him. When his father, Malam Ibrahim, noticed this dangerous psychological trajectory, he began writing protective spiritual slates (Rubutu) for Junaidu every morning before heading out.
As Junaidu grew older, he began playing outside with the neighborhood children, though rarely. But on the rare occasions he joined them, the play always ended with him brutally beating someone's child. Back at home, whenever his siblings were playing, the moment Junaidu approached, everyone would frantically pack up their toys. If they didn't, he would trample over them or violently hurl their toys away. Everyone lived in absolute terror of him. He was a villain and a rogue.
He was enrolled in primary school, but he only attended on days he felt like it. He quickly became the undisputed leader of the school's notorious gang. Not a single day passed without his gang assaulting a student or beating someone into unconsciousness. The headmaster's office was flooded with daily complaints until, exhausted, the headmaster personally informed Malam Ibrahim of his son's monstrous behavior.
Malam Ibrahim returned home and sent for Junaidu. The boy walked into the room looking perfectly calm and collected—for that was his mask. To look at him was to see a picture of absolute serenity, but anyone who crossed him knew that while Allah had gifted him a peaceful countenance, he had completely corrupted it.
He stood tall, indifferently announcing his arrival. His elder brother, Suleiman, looked at him, looked at Malam, and sternly ordered Junaidu to find a place to sit. Junaidu didn't even grant his brother a glance, completely ignoring the command. This blatant disrespect enraged Suleiman. Standing up, Suleiman delivered a ringing slap across Junaidu's face.
Junaidu didn't even flinch. He merely let out a low, heavy hiss, his eyes burning with absolute rage. It wasn't until Malam firmly spoke to him that Junaidu finally squatted. Even the defiant, mocking way he squatted was enough to make one sigh in pure frustration.
"I have received countless reports that you skip school," Malam began, "and when you do go, you do nothing but beat people's children..."
"Which son of a bitch said that?" Junaidu interrupted, his face darkening as he stood straight up.
Suleiman lunged forward and struck him with a heavy punch, instantly drawing blood from Junaidu's mouth. Junaidu wiped the blood with his hand, stared at it, and like a rabid animal, charged at Suleiman. He grabbed his elder brother by the throat and began raining brutal punches upon him.
Malam Ibrahim scrambled to his feet, barely managing to tear them apart. The moment Junaidu released him, Suleiman collapsed to the floor, his body broken by the ferocity of the assault. His body had truly learned its lesson.
Clutching his head in shock, Malam screamed for his younger brother, Sarki. Without delay, they rushed the unconscious Suleiman to the hospital. The incident was never spoken of again, but from that day forward, Malam poured his grief into silent prayers to Allah.
From that day, a deep, poisonous hatred formed between Suleiman and Junaidu. They stopped speaking entirely, refusing to acknowledge each other even when bumping shoulders in the corridors. This structural rift broke Hajja Huwaila's heart and weaponized her co-wives, who used Junaidu's delinquency as a constant tool for mockery.
As he neared the end of primary school, Junaidu picked up smoking. His darkened lips began to betray his habit. He completely abandoned the mandatory dawn prayers and stopped greeting anyone in the compound. He refused to touch the family food, except occasionally at night.
Down by the local shops, there was a mechanic's garage. He began spending his afternoons there, earning pocket money. It was there he graduated from cigarettes to smoking marijuana (Wiwi). To conceal the stench of the drugs, he constantly applied medicated ointment (Robb) to his lips and chewed heavily on bitter kola (Namijin Goro).
Slowly, Malam Ibrahim grew weary of Junaidu's corruption and began to wash his hands of him. The truth was, ever since the day Junaidu brutally beat Suleiman, Malam had grown secretly terrified of his own son. Despite his lectures, and despite Hajja Huwaila's frantic interventions, Junaidu simply stopped coming home.
This is the classic tragedy of parental failure. A tree must be bent while it is a sapling; once it hardens, trying to bend it will break it. When Junaidu was a child destroying his siblings' toys, he should have been severely disciplined. Instead, whenever he threw those tantrums, Hasiya (the second wife) would clap her hands and cheer, laughing: "Look, the champion has arrived! He will scatter these lazy children who only know how to play instead of studying!" If the other wives complained, they were silenced, told that Junaidu was merely "curing" their children's insolence.
This toxic enablement handed Junaidu a license for tyranny. In the neighborhood, if he beat a child, the victim's parents looked away out of sheer respect for Malam's scholarly standing. At school, his form teacher stopped reporting his truancy, callously reasoning that the school was safer when a thug like Junaidu stayed away. Everyone played a role in his downfall. Upbringing is not a isolated family duty; the world is a harsh school, and society will always teach a delinquent the brutal lessons his parents failed to impart.

Chapter 3: Shadows of the Past

My mother's sudden death shook the community to its core. Because her illness had been so brief and shrouded in privacy, very few people even knew she was unwell. Her time on this earth had simply expired, leaving my Abbuna and me completely stranded.
Abbuna was shattered beyond imagination. Until the day he joined her in the afterlife, not a single day passed without him sighing: "If only Halima were alive. May Allah bless your soul, Halima." That was his daily mantra. Every single day, he would sit me down and tell me stories of her grace, unless he was out of town or I was away.
After she passed away at the National Hospital in Abuja, the bureaucratic paperwork was swiftly handled. Within hours, Abbuna booked a charter flight to transport her remains to Kano. Before our plane even touched down, the Ringim Emirate Council had dispatched a fleet of vehicles to the airport to convey her body to where thousands of mourners gathered to perform the funeral prayer (Sallace ta).
Throughout the journey, Abbuna held me tightly against his shoulder. I slept soundly, having been fed warm oat milk by my Nanny. Upon arrival, my mother's maternal relatives, who had flown in from various parts of West Africa, joined the procession to Ringim. My maternal grandmother was no longer alive. She was an Ethiopian national who had returned to her homeland after her separation from the Shehu of Borno, passing away shortly after. Thus, an incredibly diverse lineage of bloodlines converged in my veins.
While I slept, Nanny wrapped me securely on her back. That very afternoon, my beautiful mother was lowered into the earth. Abbu was structurally devastated; a single look at his sunken eyes would break anyone's heart. The mourners wept openly, looking at the tragic sight of a wealthy, successful man left entirely alone with an infant daughter.
When I finally woke up, Nanny fed me. I clung to her like a shadow. Having grown up in a quiet, isolated mansion in Lagos, I was terrified of crowds. Usually, when frightened, I would bury myself in my mother's or father's arms. In their absence, Nanny was my anchor.
On the third day, the crowd began to disperse. Throughout the mourning period, I refused to stay inside the women's quarters; I sat outside on Abbuna's lap, a sight that moved many to tears. On the seventh day, after the final prayers, the inheritance was legally distributed. None of my mother's distant relatives offered to take me in, nor did Abbu offer to give me away. They left, mourning the loss of their sister, and we were left to rebuild.
No matter how profound the grief, life demands that you keep moving forward. Time has a way of dulling even the sharpest knives of sorrow. Once the house emptied, Hajiya sat Abbu down and gave him a lengthy talk on moving on and remarrying. But Abbu looked at her and shook his head. He told her he had loved once, and he had no desire to ever take another woman.
Mummy Maryam offered to take me to New York to raise me alongside my cousin Rooks, but Abbu politely declined, stating that looking at my face was the only joy he had left in this world. Shortly after, we relocated to Abuja due to his corporate transfer.
Our new household consisted of Abbu, myself, Nanny, and a team of domestic maids. Initially, Nanny handled everything, but since she was now the closest thing I had to a mother, Abbuna relieved her of all heavy chores, ordering the maids to handle the house while Nanny focused entirely on my well-being.
Abbu frequently took me back to Ringim so I would grow up knowing my roots. My mother's family never reached out to check on me, so Abbu decreed that we would not seek them out either. When it was time for weaning, I transitioned seamlessly from formula to solid foods. Shortly after my second birthday, Abbu enrolled me in a premium creche.
For as long as my memory serves, my life has existed within the walls of top-tier schools. Education was hardwired into my soul. I have no conscious memory of my first few years, but by the age of five, I began to comprehend my reality. I recognized only one person as both my mother and my father: Abbu. He was my entire world. Anyone else I called "Baba" or "Aunt" was done merely out of formal courtesy; no one on earth had ever provided for me the way my Abbu did.
Because I had started school exceptionally early, I accelerated through my classes. During one of our routine visits to Ringim, I was lounging comfortably with my head on Hajiya's lap when Abbuna walked in. Upon our arrival in the town, he had first gone to the palace to pay his respects to the Emir. As usual, on his way out, a massive crowd of villagers had blocked his path, laying out their financial miseries and complaints so he would bail them out.
I had initially refused to enter the family compound, but Yaya—Kawu Sa'idu's benevolent son—had gently coaxed me inside. The moment I spotted Hajiya, I let go of Yaya's hand, rushed over to her seated figure, and buried myself in her lap, complaining:
"I was waiting for you! You didn't come to my house in Abuja, and I missed you!"
Hajiya tapped my head playfully and grumbled, "I don't understand this white man's language your father keeps teaching you. Speak to me in pure Hausa!"
Yaya stood by the corner, laughing heartily at our interaction before translating my English words into Hausa for her. Hajiya gathered me into a tight embrace, explaining that she was far too old to make the long journey to the federal capital.
As she was fussing over what I wanted to eat, Abbuna walked through the door. I immediately scrambled off Hajiya's lap and rushed into his arms. He smiled warmly, adjusting my cap as he sat down, and greeted Hajiya. Yaya quietly stood up to give them privacy. He extended his hand to me and said:
"Come on, Afiyya. Let me take you to see our side of the house."
I looked up at Abbu for permission. He nodded gently, helping me to my feet. Before I walked away, I lunged back and wrapped my arms around his neck, whispering, "I'll miss you."
He laughed softly. "Go on, my Princess."
Hand in hand with Yaya, we walked over to Kawu Sa'idu's quarters, located within the same massive royal estate (Ausa). When we arrived, the entire family was gathered in the courtyard. Ummaah (Zinatu) was stooped over a large firewood hearth, dishing out white rice mixed with palm oil and local spices. The children sat gathered on a massive, worn-out mat, staring hungrily at the pot, waiting for their portions.
As we offered our Islamic greeting, Mino jumped up excitedly, shouting, "Afiyya, welcome! Ummaah, look, Afiyya is here!"
Ummaah slowly turned around, casting a cold, venomous glare in my direction. Remembering Abbu's strict lessons on respect, I stepped forward, squatted politely, and greeted her: "Good morning, Ma."
Ummaah sneered, her face contorting with disgust as she barked at Mino, "Is Afiyya your mother's sister that you are screaming like an idiot? Foolish girl."
The excitement evaporated instantly, and Mino sat back down, completely deflated. Yaya frowned and intervened, "Ummaah, you didn't even acknowledge her greeting."
"Oh, shut up, you busybody!" Ummaah snapped. "Is this Afiyya girl made of solid gold that I am forced to answer her? I won't answer!"
Knowing his mother’s toxic temperament, Yaya bit his tongue, patted my shoulder, and told me to sit down while he stepped out for a moment. Terrified of being left alone, I stood up and gripped his hand tightly, refusing to let go. Mino quickly pulled me into her lap, where I sat stiffly, completely out of my element.
When the food was distributed, everyone grabbed their plastic bowls. They handed me a tiny, battered plastic container with a meager portion. I accepted it politely and placed it on the floor, refusing to eat because I wasn't hungry. The moment they finished theirs, Siyama aggressively snatched my untouched bowl and devoured it. When Mino tried to reprimand her, Ummaah cut her off, snapped that Mino should leave her alone, and grumbled that I had only come to diminish their food supply anyway.
Yaya returned carrying a newspaper wrap filled with freshly fried fish. He sat down with his portion and called me over: "Come, Afiyya, let's eat the fish."
Since my childhood, I could never resist fish; Abbu had accustomed me to having it served every single night at dinner. At the sight of the fish, I happily sat by Yaya's side. Siyama quickly crowded around us, and Yaya patiently fed both of us until the fish was gone.
Once we finished, I walked over to Ummaah, held out my hands, and asked her to wash them for me. She carelessly splashed a bit of water over my palms and told me to get lost.
I stood my ground and said, "But you need to use detergent or soap to get the fish smell off."
Ummaah violently shoved me away, screaming that I was being arrogant and showing off my wealthy city manners. That was the final straw. Incensed by the foul fish odor lingering on my hands and completely alienated by the hostility, I began to cry, throwing a tantrum until Yaya had no choice but to lead me back to Abbuna's quarters.
When we walked out, Ummaah shouted after us, "Your stubbornness made you drag her here, now take her back to her mansion!"
Yaya held my hand tightly as we walked away. When we reached our side of the compound, I found that Abbu had gone out again. I sat quietly by Hajiya's side, distracting myself by telling her stories about my school. It wasn't until nightfall that Abbu finally returned, bringing along fresh fish for dinner. After I ate, I drifted off to sleep.
Once I was asleep, Hajiya pulled Abbuna aside for a serious, private conversation, insisting that it was officially time for him to send me away to...

Chronological Overview of Events

[~45 Years Ago] -> Western education introduced to Ringim royalty. Abubakar & Sa'idu enrolled.
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[~35 Years Ago] -> Abubakar finishes studies in UK; returns to Ringim. Relocates to Lagos.
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[~15 Years Ago] -> After 20 years of childlessness, Afiyya is born in Germany. Waziri dies.
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[~14 Years Ago] -> Afiyya's mother (Halima) dies in Abuja hospital after a brief illness.
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[~10 Years Ago] -> Afiyya (age 5) begins primary school in Abuja, sheltered in luxury.
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[2026 (Current)] -> Afiyya visits Ringim, encountering toxic family dynamics at Sa'idu's house.

Character Roster & Affiliations

1. The Ringim Royalty (Grandfather's House)

• Alhaji Salihu (The Waziri): Patriarch of the family, Grand Vizier to the Emir of Ringim. (Deceased).
• Hajiya Amina: Matriarch, an old-fashioned woman from Ganjin Gebi who values traditional culture over westernization.
• Abubakar (Abbuna/Abbu): Eldest son, highly educated (UK graduate), immensely wealthy businessman. Afiyya's devoted father.
• Halima: Abbu’s late wife, daughter of the Shehu of Borno/Ethiopian heritage. (Deceased).
• Amina / Afiyya: The narrator. An only child born into immense wealth after 20 years of her parents' struggle with infertility.
• Kawu Sa'idu: Second son, uneducated school-dropout who lives off Abbu's monthly financial allowances.
• Ummaah (Zinatu): Sa'idu’s toxic, bitter wife from Kano who deeply resents Afiyya and Abbu's wealth.
• Yaya: Sa'idu’s second son. Generous, honorable, and named after the Waziri; serves as Afiyya's protector in the village.
• Mino, Siyama, Hafsa, Baba: Sa'idu's other children.
• Mummy Maryam: Daughter living in New York, mother to Rooks.
• Kawu Tijjani / Ahmad: Son living in Kano.

• Uncle Salihu (Babawo): Youngest son living in Lancashire, UK.

  2. The Kazaure Scholarly Lineage

• Malam Ibrahim: A highly respected Islamic scholar, farmer, and merchant in Kazaure.
• Hajja Huwaila: Senior wife from Roni.
• Junaidu: The third son of Huwaila. A highly dangerous, aggressive, and volatile individual who evolves into a notorious gang leader and drug addict.
• Suleiman: Junaidu's elder brother who attempts to discipline him, resulting in a brutal, bloody rivalry.

• Hasiya, Fatima, Sadiya: Malam Ibrahim's other wives.

  Structural & Thematic Analysis

  1. The Intersecting Themes of Legacy and Lineage

  The text deliberately sets up two parallel universes in northern Nigeria: Ringim (Aristocratic Wealth) and Kazaure (Scholarly/Religious Authority).

• In Ringim, the narrative explores the burden of privilege, the psychological weight of ancestral infertility, and the deep-seated sibling rivalries that arise when one brother (Abbu) succeeds internationally while the other (Sa'idu) remains financially dependent and bitter.

• In Kazaure, the story presents the decline of a disciplined household. Despite Malam Ibrahim’s flawless religious credentials, the household suffers from severe parental coddling and enabling behaviors from co-wives, which ultimately breeds a sociopathic antagonist in Junaidu.

  2. Socio-Cultural Nuances in Modern Hausa Literature

  The author utilizes realistic historical reference points:

• The Kings College & UK Education Pipeline: Accurately reflects how early northern Nigerian aristocrats sent their children to colonial institutions (like Kings College Lagos) and international universities to form the post-independence elite.

• The Toxicity of Kishi (Co-wife Jealousy): Seen vividly in both households. In Kazaure, the co-wives celebrate Junaidu’s destructive nature simply because it ruins the peace of the senior wife (Uwar gida). In Ringim, Ummaah directs her deep economic jealousy toward an innocent, motherless toddler (Afiyya) because Afiyya represents an elite class her own children cannot access.

  3. Linguistic Identity Conflict

  A central psychological element introduced is Afiyya's alienation from her rural roots due to her elite upbringing. Raised in Abuja by English-speaking nannies and private schools, her native grandmother jokingly rejects her English speech: "Ni bana jin wannan yaran nasarar... yimin hausa" (I don't understand this white man's language... speak Hausa to me). This highlights the growing identity split among upper-class northern Nigerian youth who are physically connected to their ancestral villages but structurally separated by language, education, and lifestyle.