As is my routine, I fix my house, and with haste, I prepare breakfast for the children. I do everything quickly because I don't want them to be late and get punished at school.
Whatever I know will make my children happy and put their minds at ease so they can study, I do—from their food and uniforms to the materials that help them learn. Every term, I buy them new uniforms because they attend a private school, and seeing how other children are treated, I try my best to do what I can. I always teach them that "you should never look down on anyone, just as no one should look down on you."
On this foundation, I raised them, and upon it, they have built themselves. Whatever they desire, I try to provide with the little means I have to sustain us.
Currently, there is nothing I love more than my children. They are the only ones who bring me joy; they are all I have left. If you ever see me laughing, it is because I am in the middle of my children, listening to their school stories and their dreams, which grow larger every day.
My children are three: Safwan is the eldest at 12, followed by Aysha, who is 9, and then the baby, Amra—the troublesome one—who is 6 and our entire joy.
I hope I haven't bored you with talk of my children, or that you think I am wasting your time. But the story wouldn't go the way I want it to if the children weren't introduced at the beginning.
You might be asking yourselves, "Where is their father?" Their father, Lawal Muhammad, is here, and we are still together, but... The realization that my cooking was about to burn startled me out of my long train of thought. I quickly finished preparing everything, as I also had to go to school for a 10 AM lecture.
Amra’s crying made me rush out. Seeing me, she ran toward me, stomping her feet in the way only a tantrum-throwing child can. "Mommy, look, Esha took my socks, right?" I held her hand as we walked into the living room.
"Where is Esha? Why did you take her socks?"
"Wallahi Mommy, I didn't take her socks! I just checked for mine, and she claimed that since I touched her stuff, she had to retaliate with mine."
I smiled to myself, thinking, "Troublemaker." I put on a stern face and pointed at Aysha. "Don't ever touch your sister’s clothes again. You know she doesn't like anyone making her things dirty."
Aysha held her ears, suppressing a laugh. "I am so sorry, Mommy. I won't do it again."
"Everyone, sit down and have breakfast before the school bus arrives." I made the tea; Safwan served himself and Aysha, while I was left with my "little darling" (as always, her tasks are mine alone).
Silence filled the house after they left. I sat down, had my breakfast, washed the cups we used, and went to my room to get ready so I wouldn't be late.
I looked at the bed where he was lying and turned away. I was certain he hadn't even prayed the dawn prayer; he was in the same state I left him when I went out earlier.
By the time I finished bathing and dressing, he was still lying there. I went to the side of the bed, suppressing the feelings I had about what he did to me yesterday, and started hitting the pillow.
"Abban Safwan," I called out softly, not wanting him to say I shouted. But silence. I continued hitting the pillow. He turned over, scrunching up his face—a face that, to this day, I can't quite identify what I see in, yet I have persisted with him.
Frustrated, I struck the pillow harder. This time, he sat up in the middle of the bed, sending me a glare. "What kind of wife are you? Are you trying to deafen me? Since morning, you and your children have been bothering people with endless noise, and now you come here shouting over my head!"
I swallowed my anger, knowing it wouldn't benefit me. "I was just leaving for school, and since no one is home, I didn't know who might come by."
"Is it because of your useless school that you will deny me sleep? I’ve told you, I have nothing to do with your school. If you're so smart, when you go, don't bother coming back! And Wallahi, if you ever disrespect my marriage, you and God!"
I left the room quickly, swallowing the tears that threatened to fall and reminding myself of the promise I made to never cry over Lawal again.
Once I entered school, I cast away my worries and focused on my task. It was just one lecture. By 12:00, I left school, rushing to get home and prepare food for my children before they arrived.
Fortunately, as soon as I stepped out, I caught a tricycle (napep). As I was paying the driver and turning away, a boy approached me and handed me the keys to the house. "Here, from Abban Safwan," he said. I took them and entered the house.

Story Overview & Analytics

• Genre: Contemporary African/Hausa Domestic Drama.
• Theme: The emotional toll of a toxic, one-sided marriage and the resilience of a mother living for her children.
• Character Dynamics:
  • Zainab (The Protagonist): A devoted mother, university student, and small business owner. She is educated, articulate, and struggling to maintain her dignity in a marriage where she feels unappreciated.
  • Lawal (The Antagonist): An emotionally manipulative and perhaps resentful husband who seems to view his wife's ambitions and family background as a threat to his authority.
• Narrative Style: The author uses first-person perspective to create an intimate, empathetic connection with the reader. The frequent internal monologues ("I said to myself," "I thought in my heart") highlight the gap between Zainab's public persona and her private suffering.
• Key Narrative Hook: The "school/education" vs. "marriage" conflict. Lawal clearly views Zainab's desire to study as an act of defiance, while Zainab views her education as her path to independence and stability for her children.