We prepared a visually appealing and delicious meal. The only detail I temporarily overlooked was tracking down suitable food warmers/flasks (kuloli) to store the dishes once completed. To be frank, the profit margins in this line of business didn't readily absorb the cost of buying a whole new set of high-end containers out of pocket.

Consequently, I pulled out my phone and dialed the lady I affectionately address as Hajiya. Seeing my number, she picked up immediately, exclaiming, “What's the word, sister? I was just thinking about you! I was wondering if you had started cooking because our guests are already beginning to arrive.”

I told her, “Hajiya, everything is completely ready. I'm actually calling to find out what we should pack the food into so it can be delivered.”

She replied, "By the power of God! You've finished everything already?" I confirmed that we had. “Oh dear, what should we do now? Could you please help me out? Come over, collect some money, and buy proper food warmers. It completely slipped my mind when we went to the market yesterday.”

"No problem at all, Hajiya. We will make it quick." She then gave me detailed directions to her house.

Samira, Hussaina, and Mama Uwa's young, slender daughter, Kuburah, joined me. (Mama Uwa's older children consist of a unbroken line of three boys, followed much later by a girl. Her very first daughter unfortunately passed away early in infancy. She then gave birth to another boy, followed finally by this girl named after one of our paternal aunts, whom we call Anty Kuburah). Kuburah pleaded, "Anty Bintu, please take me along!" I replied, "Alright, let's go." We all got ready and headed to the house together.

Upon arrival, we were struck by the sheer scale of the property—a massive plot of land built up elegantly in Kaduna. As Hussaina had mentioned to us during its construction, people used to wonder what the grand structure was meant for, unaware that its wealthy owners were preparing to move in.

Right from the courtyard, we encountered high-end luxury cars and the sophisticated children of the ultra-rich. This made us feel a bit self-conscious and out of place, causing us to subtly shrink back. I called Hajiya for further directions to locate her position. Following her guidance and asking around, we eventually found her on the upper floor.

Welcoming us with a bright face, she said, "Come right on in!" Three women were seated inside the room, seemingly locked in a serious deliberation over an upcoming event. We paid our utmost respects and greeted her formally.

Hajiya turned to the others and remarked, “See? I completely forgot about the food warmers until she just called me. And yes, this is the very team that is handling the catering for us.”

One of the women in the room spoke up condescendingly, looking us over, “My goodness, Hajiya, you certainly have a unique way of doing things! If you had told me sooner, I would have connected you with a high-end commercial restaurant. They are highly professional. These local Hausa women from around the neighborhood will cook for you, and in the end, you might end up thoroughly embarrassed before your elite guests.”

I quickly countered, “Well, as the saying goes, 'with a mother and a taste-test, one recognizes true quality.' Why don't you let us deliver the food first so you can judge for yourself? If it doesn't meet your standards, you can reject it right out of our hands. Come now, let’s drop the skepticism; you shouldn't discourage someone from earning their livelihood before they've even performed.”

Hajiya stood up, saying, "Come, let's step into the next room to talk privately." I followed her. It turned out that before our arrival, that other woman (Hajiya Ummah) had been aggressively undermining our capabilities, boasting that had she known, she would never have allowed us to be awarded the contract, claiming we couldn't execute it up to standard.

While in the room, I took a quiet moment to admire the exquisite interior decor. Hajiya turned to me gently and said, “You see our situation, right? I told you we are visitors. This wedding brought us back. It has been nineteen years since I last set foot in Nigeria; we live permanently in Saudi Arabia with our children. Our daughter is the one getting married here, which is why we returned. As we speak, my youngest daughter is still over there; she couldn't make it due to her school examinations. My son, who usually buys the fried snacks you make, overheard us discussing our catering dilemma and directed us straight to your business.”

She handed me a substantial amount of cash. As I took it, she added kindly, “Don't let Hajiya Ummah's remarks discourage you. People can be difficult sometimes; it just requires patience.”

I replied, “It's no problem at all, Hajiya.”

“May Allah grant them a peaceful home and bless this marriage. Amin. Now, young lady, hurry along so I don't delay you further. By the way, what is your name?”

"Bintu," I replied.

"Ah, you share my mother's name!" We then walked back out into the living room.

Just as we were preparing to leave, she stopped me. “My dear, wait. Take these invitation cards. Please do me the favor of distributing them to the women in your neighborhood. Tell them not to feel hesitant at all; we welcome them warmly to celebrate with us.”

I took a large stack of cards, bade them a warm farewell, and left. As soon as we stepped outside, Hussaina exclaimed, “Wow, the wealthy truly live well! This mansion looks like a paradise they built exclusively for themselves.”

We headed straight to the market, talking excitedly about the wealthy family. We purchased four matching sets of massive, high-quality insulated food warmers and loaded them up to head home.

The girls made it inside with most of the items before me. I walked into the house a few moments later, carrying the large commercial serving spoons (ludayan\ motsa\ miya) and deep strainers. The courtyard was a hive of chaotic, messy activity (wijiga\ wijiga) as everyone in the house worked tirelessly.

Hussaina and Samira were eagerly sharing stories of the wealthy estate. Mama Ladi was seated nearby. The moment our eyes locked, she shot me her trademark malicious glare.

Ignoring her completely, I greeted her politely and began explaining how the newly purchased equipment would be utilized for the catering job. She stared at me in absolute disbelief before turning to the others and saying scoffingly, “Didn't I tell you all? This girl of yours is an absolute omen (Karan\ dafi) that God has planted in this house! Look at her now—uninvited expertise and sheer audacity. How on earth did this girl manage to secure such a massive, high-profile contract for you in a city as big as this?”

Hussai and the others, entirely missing the venomous undertone of Mama Ladi's comment, responded enthusiastically, “Oh Mama, you should have seen the mansion! If it weren't for Bintu, who would even let us past the front gate? Today, we truly saw what real wealth looks like. There is serious money in this world! And the matriarch of the house was incredibly warm. If you saw how she treated us, you'd think we were her direct blood relatives. She even publicly shut down an elite lady who tried to insult our cooking standards.”

"Well, I must be on my way. I actually branched here on my way from the hospital," Mama Ladi grumbled, standing up. “I'll try to find time to drop by and greet them later, Insha Allah.”

Mama Uwa chimed in, “With this backbreaking workload you've piled onto yourselves, where will you even find the time to visit patients at the hospital? You've enslaved yourselves to this stressful labor in the name of a job. But then again, a poor person has no concept of leisure.”

Mama Lanto added proudly, “This work is propelling us forward because we know the value of what we are cooking. In the past, people could easily manipulate or discourage us from working, but now? No way. Even if another contract comes up tomorrow, count me in!”

I looked up and asked Mama Biyu, "Has anyone served Mama her food yet?" She informed me that Mama had just walked in. “Oh, perfect. Let's make sure she's fed. Kuburah, grab a plastic bag, go pack some choice meat from Mama's room, and put together a generous plate of food for her.”

Kuburah hesitated, staring at me as if she wanted to say something, but ultimately kept quiet. I went back to managing the food preparation with total peace of mind, though I kept a subtle, watchful eye on her.

Once Kuburah packed the food and handed it over, Mama Ladi took it, walked toward her, and whispered conspiratorially, “Look at how she has completely taken over everything in such a short time while you all just sit back. I keep telling you, this girl is a walking catastrophe for you all in this house.”

We eventually wrapped up all the preparations. By then, Mama Ladi's mood had shifted drastically into deep irritation, though I privately thought to myself: *“Whether they support this venture or not, it doesn't bother me in the slightest.”*

This time around, I didn't personally go to deliver the catering. Samira, Hussaina, and Hassana drove off with the food in a Hilux van provided by the wealthy client. They stayed away for quite a while.

I wondered what was keeping them, but they finally returned radiating pure joy. They reported, “Everyone absolutely loved the food! Both the men and women kept eating, asking for extra helpings, and praising how incredibly delicious it was, wallahi!”

We also ate and drank to our fill from the proceeds of the job. This project brought us immense prestige and social elevation. Even though some bitter onlookers viewed our aggressive hustle for money as a sign of desperation, the profound unity it brought to our household was undeniable. Anytime you walked into our compound, you would find everyone—including the children—happily working together as a team.

On Friday, a grand Islamic wedding feast (walima) was held. The women from our neighborhood who were invited attended and witnessed a truly magnificent, aristocratic celebration. Even Mama and the rest of our household elders attended the feast.

We mingled with elite, highly influential women. The hospitality was so immersive that an outsider would have assumed the wedding belonged to our own bloodline. We handled all the purchasing errands for the event. Whenever we tried to return any leftover change to the matriarch, she would wave her hand and say, “Oh, don't be silly! Keep it as your tip.”

It was only then that we learned more about their background. The family is originally from Katsina, but they reside permanently in Saudi Arabia. The husband had originally moved there as a foreign Ambassador and subsequently stayed back to build a massive business empire. Now, they were preparing to permanently relocate back to Nigeria, using their daughter's wedding as their introductory event. We truly basked in the overflow of their immense wealth. Every single day we delivered food, the matriarch insisted, “Make sure you eat your fill, pack enough for your neighbors, and let them enjoy as well.”

The wedding events finally concluded successfully. Stories of our catering triumph spread like wildfire across the entire neighborhood. Everyone had something to say about our sudden rise. Truly, if a person remains humble and keeps their pride in check, God opens doors of elevation from quarters they least expect. We felt incredibly fulfilled, and our business name gained massive recognition, bringing substantial financial blessings to every single one of us involved.

Even Mama, who had initially been tempted to listen to her sister's toxic, divisive advice, ultimately backed away from it—thanks to her own children, who firmly made it clear that even if she refused to participate in the hustle, they would do it themselves.

### GIDAN YA MAHMOUD (Ya Mahmoud's House)

Life had finally become peaceful and stable between Ya Mahmoud and his wife, Wasila. This turnaround began when he firmly drew the line against her toxic behavior, coupled with the timely intervention of Mama Biyu.

Mama Biyu had confronted Wasila fiercely, resetting her perspective by warning her: “Who told you that securing a husband's home means acting reckless or crazy? Who told you that any woman ever built a lasting legacy through sheer arrogance and constant tantrums? Every successful woman you see started by humbling herself and crawling before she could walk in her husband's home. Who do you think you are to come in here as a newlywed and behave as if you're an untouchable princess? You need to wake up immediately, pick yourself up, and actively establish your empire in his heart so that he sees no other woman but you.”

Mama Biyu had continued her stern lecture, “Instead, you came in here with mindless pride, behaving like a wild woman who has lost her bearings, exposing your complete lack of proper upbringing right from the start. Have you already forgotten the extreme lengths and methods we had to deploy just to secure this man for you? Or do you foolishly want to slide back into the miserable life of poverty that Allah just rescued you from? It is mandatory that you respect every single rule he lays down right now. Do exactly what he desires; that is the only way you will truly enjoy the fruits of this marriage. But with this terrible attitude you've rushed to show him, your name will soon be 'sorry' in the world of men, and you will become completely expired to him. Instead of playing your cards right, using this honeymoon phase to gently massage his ego so we can convince him to officially bring your daughter to live under your care—especially now that Baby's father is pushing for her to stay with us—you are throwing it away. He initially swore he would never live with your daughter, and it took my intense manipulation to quiet him down. Yet, because you are foolish, you forgot all of that and started acting up.”

These harsh words deeply humbled Wasila. From that moment on, Mahmoud noticed an incredible, unexpected shift in her character. Peace returned to their home, and their love felt completely renewed. In fact, her bad habits completely vanished; she now made it a point to wake up early for prayers even before he did.

One evening, Mahmoud returned home looking visibly exhausted. Wasila, who was beautifully dressed in a stunning, form-fitting long gown, kept her eyes fixed on him as he walked in and collapsed onto the sofa, groaning, “Oh, dear God, I am exhausted.”

She stood up, walked over to the refrigerator, poured him a glass of cold water, and knelt respectfully on the floor to present it to him. He looked up through his fatigue and said softly, “Thank you, my lovely wife.”

She lifted her eyes, beamed with happiness, and smiled warmly. "You're very welcome, sir." She then moved to an adjacent sofa close to him, watching him drink the water.

After placing the empty cup down on the table, Mahmoud fixed his gaze on her, studying her face. In that brief moment, her sharp intuition told her that something was deeply troubling him.

Noticing that the usual bright cheerfulness was entirely drained from his face, her anxiety spiked. She instantly worried that she had inadvertently done something wrong again, given the lingering undercurrent of suspicion that still fragilely defined their relationship.

She quickly slid off her sofa and sat cross-legged on the floor directly before him, asking in a trembling voice, “Is everything alright, my honey? I see you looking so troubled. Has something bad happened to you?”

He looked up and sighed, “It’s nothing bad, Wasila. I am just deeply worried about my children and their current living conditions. To make matters worse, whenever I try to call our Hajiya, she doesn't pick up my calls. I absolutely must find some time to travel back home to see them.”

The moment he mentioned his children, Wasila’s heart sank into her stomach. Deep down, she absolutely detested hearing him mention anyone from his past life, most notably his children, because she knew they represented a permanent, indelible blood tie to his ex-wife. She hated being reminded that he had children with another woman. She despised the very topic, which was why they never discussed them—until today, when he brought them up completely unprompted.

Mahmoud took a deep breath, exhaled sharply to release his stress, and added, “By the end of this month, Insha Allah, we will travel together to go see them. It's time my family gets to know you, since absolutely no one in my extended family has met you yet.”

Her heart skipped a violent, resentful beat. She utterly loathed the idea of meeting his relatives, fully aware that they held no affection for her, which in turn fueled her own deep-seated hatred for everyone associated with his life.

Noticing the dark cloud that instantly washed over her face, Mahmoud asked, “What's wrong? Don't you want to visit my family home?”

Trying to cover up her hostility, she quickly forced a smile and chimed, “Of course I want to go! As long as you are taking me with you, why wouldn't I go?”

He replied, "Excellent. From there, we can even proceed down to Jos to check on them." Hearing the mention of Jos, her face lit up genuinely, as that prospect actually pleased her.

From that day forward, Mahmoud began making active preparations for the trip. Since they had been married for a year now, he felt it was high time he took her home to introduce her properly to his kin.

However, when the time for travel finally came, he ended up embarking on the journey entirely without her. A close, intimate friend of his was getting married in Kano, and because the trip involved urgent wedding duties there, he decided to travel alone.

This turn of events was an immense relief to Wasila. She immediately called Baby’s mother, giggling over the phone as they shared a laugh about her narrow escape. However, Baby's mother firmly warned her to hide her joy: “Make sure he never senses that you're happy about this. Whenever he calls you over the phone, put on a sad voice and tell him how deeply disappointed you are that he didn't take you along, emphasizing how much you had looked forward to using this trip to bond with his extended family.”

Wasila executed the advice flawlessly. During their phone conversations, she acted thoroughly pouted, complaining that he had outsmarted her just so he could visit Hajiya all by himself, cheating her out of the sweet opportunity to pay her respects. Mahmoud apologized profusely, comforting her and promising that he would make definitive arrangements for them to travel together next time.

She didn't care about his promises, knowing it was mere talk; she knew his work wouldn't permit him to travel back to the North anytime soon.

After attending the wedding in Kano, Mahmoud hit the road to Kaduna the following afternoon. By evening, his car pulled up in front of his family house in our neighborhood.

The neighbors and family were utterly shocked to see him. It had become his trademark habit to never announce his visits in advance; he would just show up out of nowhere.

He stood outside briefly to greet the neighbors. He looked remarkably prosperous, fresh, and handsome—radiating the distinct aura of an educated, highly successful corporate worker. He sat down and chatted for quite some time with Malam, their next-door neighbor, before finally building up the courage to step inside the compound.

His steps were heavy and hesitant. His heart pounded fiercely against his ribs because a profound sense of guilt weighed over him; he knew he was in deep trouble with his parents for his past defiance of their wishes regarding his marriage choices.

The joyous screams of the family children running out to welcome him snapped him out of his anxiety. He forced a smile and lightly stroked their heads. His legs felt incredibly heavy, bogged down by the intense shame and embarrassment reflecting in