She was running as if she was about to fly, holding a bowl of palm oil soup. She had been taking food to the hospital earlier, but because of some carelessness, she had left the soup at home, so she had returned to fetch it.
She was walking briskly, step after step, without hesitation, fearing that if Yaya Abba returned from the mosque, he would scold her again for what she had done. You could hear the sound—riki-chaaa!—as she collided with someone coming towards her. The bowl of soup and her collided with him, pushing him back forcefully. As he stumbled, he grabbed her tightly, and his back hit the wall hard. The soup washed all over the front of his expensive gizna fabric. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly when the hot pepper from the soup splashed into his eyes, causing him intense pain. He shoved her away, and the slippery soup caused her to fall; she ended up all tangled in her hijab.
She stood up angrily. "Malam, what kind of disrespect is this? Don't you have eyes to see? You threw me into the soup! Do you know how much this new Islamic hijab cost? Besides the loss you caused me, can't you walk while looking where you are going?"
She was unleashing a torrent of abuse while he struggled to wipe the pepper from his eyes. She didn't even notice the people following behind him. Just as one of them lunged forward to slap her, he (the man in the suit) quickly raised his hand to signal them to leave her alone. She stepped back and put her hands on her hips. "Yes! You were walking with people to back you up in a fight, right? Well, by Allah, today you must pay me for my soup and my hijab!"
Only then did he look at her. His eyes were bloodshot—not just from the pain of the pepper, but from rage. He shouted at her, "In your house, were you not taught manners? Are you being rude to people because of this rag of a hijab and your stupid palm oil soup? Do you know the value of the clothes you ruined?" He gestured wildly at his stained body.
"You are the one who knows! Do you know how much was spent to make this soup? Or do you know the price of this hijab..."
"Shut up!!!" he roared at her, grabbing her.
At that moment, the people around them snapped out of their shock. Someone quickly patted his shoulder. "Sir, it is not befitting for someone of your status to lower yourself by arguing with her, please."
He shoved her aside and was about to pass when she grabbed his arm with a strength like a lioness. He looked at her hand—so thin—and then looked at the girl herself; he could probably swallow her whole.
"By Allah, no matter how tough you are, you must pay me before you leave this place." He was at a loss for what to do with her. He grabbed her arm, bundled her up, and threw her aside. They walked away, leaving her lying on the ground, screaming and gathering a crowd around her at the hospital.
Abba, who had just come out of the mosque, saw the crowd gathered and hurried over to see what was happening. When he saw it was Umaimah, fury overwhelmed him. He pulled her up forcefully and dragged her into the ward. The moment she saw him, her body began to tremble. As soon as they entered, he slapped her twice and asked what happened. As soon as she finished explaining, he unleashed a barrage of scolding, and she received a beating until Goggo intervened.
As for the food, they just had to buy another one that was spicy.
Umaimah was an orphan. She was under the care of her father's younger brother. In that house, she faced nothing but maltreatment; they even stopped her from schooling and burdened her with chores, making her stubborn. It was the wife of her guardian who was hospitalized, and despite the distance between their house and the hospital, she was the one who took breakfast, lunch, and dinner to her daily.
Like a madwoman, she headed home, filled with resentment over the ruined Islamic hijab that had been so difficult for her to acquire. When she got home, she tried to wash the clothes, but the palm oil stains wouldn't come out, which only fueled her anger. She prayed that Allah would bring her face-to-face with that arrogant man again.
One week, two weeks... almost five weeks had passed, and they hadn't met again. Goggo had been discharged, so she stopped going there.
Umaimah was never idle, which is why many people in the neighborhood relied on her. She was often called to houses to sweep, wash clothes for children, and after finishing the cooking, she would wash the dishes and rags. In her own house, no one cared about her; they took her helpfulness as a sign of degradation and inferiority, sometimes laughing at her and taunting her. She, however, preferred serving the neighbors who appreciated her work, unlike the daily abuse she faced at home.
All through that week, she was not at home; she was at Alhaji Yakuba’s house, helping with wedding preparations, especially decorating the rooms, because they trusted her immensely.
He (the man in the suit) was still furious. A young, poor, insignificant girl had insulted him. He had visited the hospital twice since then and hadn't seen her. If he had caught her then, he surely would have "broken" her to soothe his anger. He kept picturing her in her raggedy clothes, claiming that her hijab was worth more than his shoe-polishing rag.
He hissed, "I'm waiting for the day that girl and I meet again..."
"Oh, so you aren't ready yet? Please, sir, hurry up, everyone has gathered, and we are only waiting for you."
He frowned and stood up. "Okay, I'm coming."
Today, he was dressed in a stunning gizna fabric, looking like a high-class professional, walking with arrogance, though his heart was still bitter. The way he walked down the stairs made his friends burst into laughter, but he ignored them and kept moving. Mustapha gestured, watching him puff his nose like he was the groom, and they all laughed harder.
Hajia called Umaimah while they were busy preparing for the party. "You, are you not going?"
Umaimah smiled and said, "No, Hajia."
"Why?" She grabbed her hand and took her inside. She opened a wardrobe. "Look at all these clothes of Asma'u's; she said to give them away, so choose the one you will wear today. Go, and when you return, or by tomorrow, you can come and take the rest, because I have set them aside for you."
Umaimah’s eyes widened. "Me, Hajia?"
"Yes, you."
"Hurry up and get ready before the cars leave." She chose a milk-colored paper lace dress and skirt. Just as she was about to leave, she saw Hajia hurry back in and hand her shoes. "Take these for the bride, and here is a scarf to cover yourself. Hurry up and go."
She didn't even apply powder. She rushed and jumped into a car. When they were dropped off, Fiddausi, the bride's younger sister, saw her and said, "Great, Umaimah, come and help us take these items inside." She said "Okay" and started working. At that exact moment, he stood there, and as if guided by fate, he looked up and saw her holding drinks.
He quickly stepped out, then froze when he remembered where he was.
"Shall we go?"
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the car. "You guys go, I'm coming..." They all looked at him, so he quickly pulled out his phone and put it to his ear, making them think he was about to make a call. As they passed, he put it back in his pocket. She walked past him, busy dusting off her clothes. He smiled—so today she didn't want anyone touching her clothes!
She didn't notice him at all. She was about to pass when she felt someone grab her from behind the cars. She looked up forcefully and saw him. She yanked her hand away and pushed him. "Are you crazy to grab me?"
He was about to speak, but she turned and walked away. She entered the hall where everyone was seated. She saw a chair in the middle and reached to pull it out to sit, but he had been following her. He kicked the chair—timmm!—and walked past. Everyone’s attention turned to her. She struggled to reach him, but Fiddausi appeared in front of her. "Hello, Umaimah, I’ve been looking for you. Come help me serve."
Anger boiled within her as she watched him walk to the groom's table, sit down, and turn to glare at her.
Shame covered her. He opened the gathering with a prayer and gave a history of the groom, while she and the others were busy preparing food.
Fiddausi said, "We should start serving now."
Umaimah spoke up quickly, "Anty Fiddausi, bring it here, let me start from the top, where the groomsmen are."
"Great, may Allah bless you, Umaimah. Nobody wants to go up there." She took the tray and started arranging. On her third trip, taking cocktail juice and peppered meat, just as she reached the spot where she was supposed to place them, she accidentally spilled everything all over him—the tray, everything—riki-chaaa! Everyone at the high table stood up in shock...