The Shadow Over Hassana

Hassana finally succeeded in catching a glimpse of Ubaidullah. He looked extraordinarily handsome, dressed immaculately in a rich, crisp, traditional Gizner fabric fabric. She had to exhaust every strategy and social maneuver at her disposal before she could finally orchestrate a brief moment to cross paths with him. When she offered a polite greeting, he answered flatly and dismissively, completely refusing to even look in her direction.
The moment his deep voice reached her ears, a frantic restlessness took root in her mind, rendering her utterly unable to find a moment of peace. Returning inside the compound, she isolated herself in a secluded corner, her mind aggressively weaving chaotic plots and counter-plots.
Suddenly, she felt a heavy, foreign presence envelop her entire body, resembling a dense, living shadow. A bizarre, unnatural biological shift surged through her frame; every single hair on her skin stood on end, and an icy, prickling sensation began rippling across her flesh.
Deep within her eardrums, she could hear the rhythmic, hypnotic beating of a sweet, enchanting drum. Instantly, her human thoughts morphed, realigning with the desires of the spiritual entity that had just possessed her frame—an entity that yearned to morph her identity into a tool of absolute dominance.
Stepping out of the compound, she began walking blindly. Despite the immense, grueling distance to Malam Yawale’s shrine, she journeyed the entire way on foot beneath the blistering afternoon sun. Arriving at the ritual grounds, she took her place in the long queue, sitting quietly as the unnatural spiritual energy continued to aggressively conquer her senses. She remained in this hypnotic state until the line finally shifted, and her turn arrived.
The moment she stepped across the threshold, Malam Yawale delivered a single, calculating look and instantly recognized her. Hassana sat down, offering a quiet greeting, before falling dead silent.
“I am listening to you,” the sorcerer rumbled, his voice devoid of warmth.
“I want you to perform a powerful binding ritual for me,” Hassana declared, feeling a sharp, agonizing pressure constrict her heart as she spoke. “There is a specific young man I have laid eyes upon, and I desire him completely. I want to bind him to me in marriage.”
Malam Yawale picked up a sharp tool and began carving occult symbols directly onto the surface of a small, fractured shard of a mirror. He looked up and said, “A ritual of this magnitude carries a massive, heavy financial cost. We can execute this specific dark binding via one of two distinct pathways.
Your first option is to step outside, inspect the young male disciples (Almajirai) serving at my shrine, and select whichever one appeals to your flesh. I will then carve verses of polytheistic shirk directly onto his genitals, and he will have raw physical relations with you. This carnal act will ensure the absolute fulfillment of your dark desires within a single day. However, upon completion, you must also pay me a flat fee of one million Naira.”

The Blood Price at the Shrine

Hassana stared at the sorcerer, a wave of brief panic washing over her face. In reality, the prospect of having raw physical relations with a stranger did not bother her morals in the slightest; in fact, the moment the sorcerer uttered the words, an dark impulse surged through her mind, making her feel as though she wanted to seize a man and violently violate him herself. Her sole, true panic was the massive financial barrier he had just raised.
“One million Naira?” she asked, her voice cracking under the weight of the sum.
Sensing her financial limitation, Malam Yawale laid out the alternative path. “Alternatively, you can agree to let me personally have physical relations with you instead. If you submit to me, you will not have to pay a single copper coin for the ritual.”
Before the words could even completely exit his mouth, she snapped, “I accept.”
Hearing her instant compliance, Malam Yawale reached down and pressed a button on his small, vintage mobile device. The phone unleashed a sharp, distinctive vibration—a pre-arranged signal to his outer guards indicating that his public operations had officially concluded for the day and would not resume until tomorrow. Outside, the remaining clients sitting in the long queue stood up and began dispersing from the shrine grounds.
The sorcerer stepped outside to conduct a final perimeter check, ensuring the courtyard was entirely barren of witnesses, before retreating back into the dark inner chamber. Standing directly in front of her, he violently stripped the long robes off his body and began carving the verses of polytheistic shirk onto his own skin, strictly adhering to the occult framework he had detailed moments prior.
Once the preparations were finalized, he commanded her to strip off every shred of her clothing. Entirely devoid of human shame or fear of Almighty God, Malam Yawale violated Hassana, forcefully taking her innocence.
She endured a level of physical agony that utterly transcended the boundaries of language. The violence of the act was not driven merely by the mortal strength of the sorcerer, but by the raw, demonic power of the legions of jinn spirits that served his shrine.
The moment the dark ritual was complete, Malam Yawale stepped out, fetched a basin of warm water so she could wash the blood from her skin, and they returned to the inner mat. He immediately began drafting specialized occult scripts, compounding a variety of dark powders and liquid formulations for her.
He handed her the charms, delivering precise instructions: she was to secretly lace Ubaidullah's food with the first mixture, and use the second compound as a specialized ritual incense (Hayaƙi) inside her room whenever he visited the compound. Hassana accepted the dark payload and exited the shrine. As she walked back toward her neighborhood, a sudden question pierced her mind: where on earth would she even find Ubaidullah to lace his food? Yet, clutching the charms, she pressed onward toward home.

Hamida's Ambition

Meanwhile, burning with intense humiliation and fury over the public rejection Ubaidullah had subjected her to at the clinic, Hamida aggressively drove her vehicle straight to a commercial mechanic garage. She forced them to immediately repair the tire she had violently damaged through her own reckless driving.
The moment the vehicle was serviced, she drove straight back to her family’s mansion. The massive residence was empty of family members, save for the domestic staff who were busy laboring through their endless chores.
Marching straight to her private quarters, she locked the door, bypassed the bedroom entirely, and stepped into the bathroom. Without bothering to remove her expensive garments, she wrenched the shower valve open, letting the cold water pour directly over her head. Tears of intense frustration and bitter malice streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the rushing tap water.
The vivid memory of Ubaid witnessed earlier—how he frantically panicked, his chest heaving as he rushed to transport that wretched Suby girl to the emergency room—burned through her mind with a toxic intensity. It stung far worse than his total refusal to consume the meal she had prepared for him. She still possessed a residual supply of dark compliance medicine; she could easily force him to consume it later.
Like a wet, battered cat drenched in a severe rainstorm, Hamida finally stepped out of the bathroom, water dripping heavily from her clothes. She marched to the full-length vanity mirror, uncoiling her expensive traditional wrap (Sari) and letting the soaked fabric crash to the tiled floor, leaving her standing in only the light shirt and trousers she wore beneath it.
“Could he seriously be attracted to a mere child?” she questioned aloud, her eyes narrowed at her reflection. She sharply shook her head, scoffing at her own thoughts. “No. It is structurally impossible for Ubaidullah to ever fall for Suby. She is a tiny, immature girl who doesn't even possess the basic physical attributes of a fully formed woman. Furthermore, she is entirely devoid of advanced formal education.”
With that dismissive thought, she completely pushed the topic of Suby out of her mind, stripped off her wet garments, and changed into light, revealing lounge clothes.
Exuding her characteristic arrogance and class privilege, she loudly summoned a domestic maid to thoroughly clean and dry her bedroom. She climbed onto her bed, flipped open her laptop, and began aggressively scouring the internet for medical job openings across the region.
Within an hour of continuous searching, fortune favored her; she discovered a prominent recruitment notice from the largest apex referral hospital in the entire Republic of Niger, which was actively seeking advanced healthcare professionals. She let out a sharp, ecstatic squeal of victory. She possessed absolute, unshakable confidence in her academic brilliance; she knew she would easily demolish any medical board exam they placed in front of her.
In reality, the financial compensation of the position meant absolutely nothing to her elite status; rather, being officially designated as a senior physician at the nation's premier hospital was a massive social trophy she desperately craved.
She spent the remainder of the day completely buried in her research, utterly ignoring her daily Islamic prayers. It was only when the sun set that she finally performed a single prayer for the evening (Magrib). Following the night prayer (Isha), she stepped out of her bedroom after detecting heavy, clumsy movements in the main living room.
It was her mother, Ummah, who had just returned from a exhausting marathon of visiting local occult sorcerers and witch doctors. Ummah’s feet were completely coated in thick, white dirt and dust, making her look like a deranged vagrant. Parched and starved from the grueling journey, Ummah was frantically consuming chilled fruits from the refrigerator to soothe her throat.
Hamida approached her, asking, “Ummah, where on earth did you journey to today?” She pointed down at her feet, grimacing. “Look at the absolute state of your legs.”
“Oh, hush! You are worrying about mere dust on my legs?!” Ummah snapped, wiping her mouth. “My absolute greatest source of frustration right now is that I completely failed to locate the shrine of the high sorcerer (Boka) that was explicitly described to me! My confidante and I have been wandering through the wilderness since the early hours of the morning, tossing about in the heat, yet our entire journey was completely in vain. We couldn't find the location.”
Hamida quickly slid onto the sofa beside her, lowering her voice. “Ummah, we already have absolute access to Malam Yawale. Is there seriously any occult practitioner alive who commands more power than him?”
“This entity is a high sorcerer (Boka), I tell you!” Ummah hissed, her eyes wide. “He operates on a plane that completely eclipses Malam Yawale. In his shrine and his methods, there is absolutely zero connection to God or religion. It is pure, raw, unadulterated dark power.”
“So, what exactly is your plan now?” Hamida inquired.
“We are heading back out into the wilderness tomorrow morning,” Ummah declared firmly. “If you truly want to secure your future, you need to prepare yourself and travel alongside us. As the ancient wisdom states: 'Journeying with your own head is far superior to sending a messenger.' It is far better for you to stand before the sorcerer yourself and detail your specific anxieties face-to-face. Since Ubaidullah has chosen to display such rigid, stubborn resistance to our wishes, it is time we forcefully drag his spirit to this high sorcerer.”
Hamida paused, studying her mother's frantic demeanor. “Ummah... I genuinely assumed that your desperate desire to see this high sorcerer was entirely for my sake, to bind Ubaidullah to me. But if that is the case, what hidden work or favor are you planning to request from him for yourself?”
Ummah suddenly choked on her fruit, coughing violently. Hamida quickly poured a glass of water and handed it over. Ummah snatched the glass, gulped down the liquid, and instantly stood up, fleeing the living room without uttering a single word. Hamida kept her eyes locked on her mother's retreating form, a deep suspicion taking root in her mind. She found it profoundly bizarre that her mother harbored a hidden, desperate crisis of her own that she was fiercely trying to resolve through a high sorcerer.
Flipping on the television, she ordered the domestic staff to fetch her a fresh bowl of chilled fruits and began eating.
Moments later, her brother, Abdul Hamid, walked through the front doors, offering a polite Islamic greeting. Hamida answered him dismissively without shifting her gaze from the television screen.
Abdul Hamid sat down beside her, reaching into the bowl to grab a banana. Peeling the fruit, he muttered casually, “Hey, little sister... I have finally discovered the exact woman I intend to bind to myself in marriage.”
Hamida spun around instantly, her eyes wide as a massive, ecstatic grin spread across her face. Bursting with genuine upper-class excitement, she bombarded him with questions: “Where is she from?! What senior professional position does she hold?! What prominent elite family lineage does she belong to?!”
Abdul Hamid stared at her for a long moment, his expression deadpan. “Drop the elite nonsense. Why on earth should I care about her family lineage? All that matters to me is that I love her deeply.”
Hamida’s smile instantly vanished into a look of profound disgust. “Hmph! The very moment you utter those words, it becomes a certified fact that you have picked up a wretched girl from the gutter of the working class! Well, I can only pray to God that she at least possesses extraordinary physical beauty. Because if you dare bring a hideous woman into this family mansion, the social embarrassment will be too much to bear. It would be a catastrophic case of a bastard child inheriting madness!”
Observing the absolute shock on her brother's face, she pressed onward arrogantly: “Oh, come on! Think about it! You are a senior Chief Medical Doctor! You know for a fact that you are socially obligated to marry a refined, sophisticated woman of high status—a woman you can proudly display on your arm without a shred of shame at high-society galas and corporate events!”
Abdul Hamid slowly shook his head, a look of profound disappointment in his eyes. “You know what? I completely regret my decision. I am absolutely refusing to show you her photograph now.”
“Oh, don't be ridiculous! It is far better for you to show me her face right now so I can analyze her appearance,” Hamida countered sharply. “If she lacks refinement, I will tell you flatly. My ultimate goal is for the woman you marry to completely eclipse Ubaidah in physical beauty. That is the only way you can publicly prove to Ubaidah that you have advanced far beyond her.”
Abdul Hamid let out a cold laugh. “Wallahi, she possesses a physical beauty that completely demolishes Ubaidah’s looks. The sole difference is that her biological parents are not wealthy. But I guarantee you, the exact moment she is introduced to the extreme luxury and privilege of Daddy’s estate, her true inner beauty will radiate like a true daughter of wealth.”
Hamida let out a loud, mocking cheer, clapping her hands. “Excellent! Then it is your job to forcefully transform her into a daughter of Daddy’s stature! Hold on, let me stand up right now, fetch a pen and paper, and draft a meticulous guide of luxury goods, designer wardrobes, and high-end skincare products you must purchase for her immediately. Within a single month of strict execution, she will shed her poverty and emerge as a true icon of high fashion!”
Without waiting for his consent, she bounced off the sofa, retrieved a notepad, sat back down, and began writing a comprehensive list of luxury requirements. Abdul Hamid leaned back against the cushions, silently watching her write. The moment she finished, he took the paper from her hands and began reading the items.

The False Piety of Abbas

Meanwhile, after concluding his phone conversation with Ubaidah, Sulaimanu intentionally delayed his return to the police barracks, allowing a massive block of time to elapse. Fortune favored him; by the time he finally stepped back inside the shared quarters, his fellow officers had entirely concluded their illicit activities. He could hear a few of them engaging in graphic, unrefined locker-room banter, while the rest lay scattered across the floor mats, fast asleep from pure physical exhaustion.
Entering his private room, he switched on the electric fan, collapsed onto his mattress, and began analyzing the sudden illness that had struck his younger sister, Suwaiba. Curiously, he did not feel an intense, overwhelming panic consume his mind; he maintained absolute confidence that Ubaidah would provide her with superior care and vigilance than anyone else alive.
By the divine decree of Almighty God, a deep, restorative slumber washed over him, accompanied by a beautiful, vivid dream of Ubaidah. When he finally opened his eyes for the dawn prayer (Fajr), the residual joy of the dream left him feeling spiritually refreshed, successfully purging the internal stress that had weighed on his mind. He thoroughly washed his body, stepped out of the barracks, and marched toward the local mosque.
Upon entering the prayer hall, Sulaimanu spotted Abbas—the very officer he had caught committing a severe transgression the night before—aggressively pushing his way to the absolute front row (Saff) of the congregation. The sight filled Sulaimanu with a wave of profound disgust and frustration.
He muttered bitterly to himself: ‘Has this man completely lost all sense of human shame? Just last night, he finalized the commission of a heinous spiritual sin, yet here he stands, proudly occupying the front row of the holy congregation. With what possible audacity or purity of spirit does he expect to stand before his Creator?’
Sulaimanu sharply forced the toxic thoughts out of his mind to focus on his prayers. Once the congregational prayer concluded, he chose not to return to the barracks immediately; he remained seated on the prayer mat for hours, performing extensive spiritual chants (Zikir) and pouring out deep supplications of gratitude to his Lord for shielding his path from the seductive traps of loose women.
It was only after the sun had fully risen above the horizon that he exited the mosque. Re-entering the shared barracks, he found the officers frantically rushing and competing with one another to access the bathrooms to wash the grime off their bodies. Sulaimanu simply turned his gaze away, reciting prayers of forgiveness under his breath, and retreated to his room.
Pulling out his mobile device, he fired off a text message to Ubaidah, before logging onto Facebook to browse through social updates. The digital distraction successfully occupied his cognitive capacity, completely preventing his mind from tuning into the toxic chatter of the men outside.
Before long, a profound, heavy silence settled over the entire building. Sensing the coast was clear, Sulaimanu finally stepped out of his room, only to find Abbas alone, manually scrubbing and washing the communal bathroom facility.
The moment their eyes locked, Abbas immediately lowered his gaze, his face burning with deep, submissive shame. Sulaimanu curled his lip in absolute disgust, scoffing openly.
“It is the wrath and shame of your Creator that you should be actively feeling right now, Abbas, not shame before a mortal man like me! What possible relevance do I hold in your sins? Do I inherit your divine rewards or carry the weight of your transgressions? The absolute entirety of the counsel I shall offer you is this: fear the Almighty, and flee from these vulgar sins that possess the absolute power to instantly incinerate a lifetime of good deeds.”
Abbas—who, during the early years of his career, had been a deeply moral and upstanding officer before the toxic influence of corrupt companions systematically dragged him into debauchery—let out a long, heavy sigh. He listened to his friend’s harsh lecture with absolute submission before whispering, “Please, step inside and take your bath. I have completely finished sanitizing the facility.”
Sulaimanu parted his lips in brief amazement, staring at Abbas's broken demeanor for a moment before stepping into the clean bathroom to shower. He exited within minutes, quickly dressed in his crisp, formal police uniform, wheeled his motorcycle out of the compound, and launched into the city to assume his official duties.

The Officer and the Doctor

The moment Ubaidullah dropped Suby and Ubaidah off at the compound, he drove his vehicle directly to his private commercial farm estate. Today, an extraordinary, foreign sensation enveloped his entire being; he felt completely transformed, resembling a newborn child stepping onto the threshold of an entirely unfamiliar existence he never knew existed.
The brief, innocent smile Suby had flashed him before parting had pierced straight through to the absolute core of his heart, igniting a powerful wave of emotional euphoria. He navigated the highway, his mind completely consumed by thoughts of her, until he finally reached his estate gates, which the security staff quickly swung open.
He remained seated inside his vehicle for a prolonged period, completely immobilized by his thoughts, before finally stepping out onto the dirt. The farm laborers quickly converged around him, offering respectful greetings. He began a casual inspection of the grounds before retreating to a highly secluded, private lounge built exclusively for his personal rest.
He pulled out his phone, a deep frustration washing over him as he realized he did not possess Suby's direct mobile number. He desperately wished he could dial her line or send a text message to gauge her physical status; an intuitive instinct whispered to his soul that she was currently trapped in a state of severe distress.
He attempted to endure the anxiety, but his emotional restraint quickly shattered. He dialed Ubaidah's line. The moment she answered and they exchanged brief pleasantries, a sudden wave of hesitation locked his throat, leaving him completely at a loss for how to articulate his concern.
“Hello? Ya Ubaid, are you there?” Ubaidah’s voice echoed through the speaker.
He took a deep breath, forcing the words out. “Where exactly is she right now? How does her body feel?”
“She is currently lying flat on the bed, completely consumed by a severe, raging fever,” Ubaidah answered directly. “Furthermore, she is absolutely refusing to swallow her medication. The only remedy I have managed to administer is reciting protective prayers over a basin of water and forcing her to drink it.”
Hearing this, Ubaidullah squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp pain piercing his chest. “I will immediately dispatch a senior military physician to your compound to thoroughly evaluate her condition.”
“No! Please, Ya Ubaid... I am begging you, do not send anyone!”
The sharp, fractured voice of Suby suddenly cut through the background of the call, her words muffled by heavy, breathless weeping. Ubaidullah’s internal panic instantly spiked to dangerous levels. He abruptly severed the connection and dialed Abraham—a close confidante who served as a senior ranking medical doctor within the military ranks. Within a matter of minutes, Ubaidullah detailed the emergency.
“Well, well! If anyone ever dares to accuse you of falling hopelessly in love, you had better not try to deny it to the world!” Abraham laughed heartily through the receiver.
Ubaidullah snapped, his voice sharp with urgency: “For the love of God, Abraham, we can discuss my romantic life later! Right now, you must rush to that compound and evaluate her. I am currently stationed deep in the outskirts of the city; by the time I manage to drive back into town, her condition will have completely deteriorated!”
“Alright, calm down,” Abraham replied, matching his serious tone. “Fire the exact location of the compound to my phone immediately.”
“I will send you Ubaidah’s direct mobile contact registry; the moment you arrive in the neighborhood, dial her line and she will guide you through the gates.” With the plan locked in, they ended the call. The moment the contact card was transferred, Ubaidullah bolted out of his lounge, threw himself into his vehicle, and launched back toward the city at high speed.

The Poisoned Heart of Mamu

I have never in my entire life witnessed a psychological trauma possess the raw physical power to instantly trigger a catastrophic biological fever until this very moment. My heart burned within my ribcage with a agonizing intensity, yet I was completely paralyzed by a total lack of options. I knew with absolute certainty that even if I gathered the courage to reveal Mama Lantana's occult warfare to Mamu, her naive mind would utterly reject the truth.
To compound the tragedy, our father, Abba, was completely under Lantana's spell; not merely our immediate family, but the entire neighborhood knew for an absolute fact that she had spiritually consumed his mind, leaving him a brainwashed puppet.
My head rested heavily upon Ubaidah’s lap as she continuously whispered defensive prayers over a basin of water, forcing me to swallow the liquid while gently rubbing the cool moisture across my face—a face that radiated a blistering heat far worse than any other part of my battered body. From my position, I could clearly hear every syllable of her conversation with Ya Ubaid, as she had deliberately placed the call on speakerphone (Main Libre).
Fighting through a sudden constriction in my lungs, I begged him with the last remnants of my strength not to send a doctor. When the line went dead, I genuinely assumed he had honored my desperate plea.
My assumption was shattered moments later when I heard Ubaidah answering a separate incoming call, loudly describing the precise landmarks to our family compound. True to his word, the military physician arrived within a remarkably brief window of time. Ubaidah slipped outside and guided him straight into our private quarters.
As they crossed the threshold, the loud, aggressive voice of Mama Lantana echoed from the courtyard: “What is the meaning of this?! Has our home degenerated to the point where strange, towering men are casually escorted into our private quarters in broad daylight?!”
“Ma'am, I am a certified medical doctor,” the calm, authoritative voice of the officer countered smoothly. “I am here for the sole purpose of evaluating a critically ill patient.”
“Oh, please! Save your elaborate lies, young man!” Lantana scoffed loudly, her voice dripping with artificial, mocking glee. “Keep moving along! Everyone in this city knows exactly what kind of illicit trade and 'business' you people operate under the cover of medical care!”
I was profoundly astonished by Ubaidah’s total restraint; she utterly refused to validate the woman’s venomous provocations with a response, guiding the physician straight into my bedroom. A sudden surge of adrenaline flooded my system, and I bolted upright on the mattress, crying out in terror: “Please! I am begging you, do not stick a needle in me! Just hand me oral pills, and I promise I will swallow them!”
“Well, it appears I am going to need you to firmly pin this patient down for me,” the doctor stated calmly, prepping the syringe.
Ubaidah advanced toward the bed to seize my frame, and I bared my teeth, screaming: “Wallahi, Ubaidah! If your hands dare to touch my skin right now, I will violently bite your flesh!”
She let out a short laugh, instantly lunged forward, and pinned my arms behind my back in a highly calculated, unbreakable military hold. Tears of pure terror streamed down my face as I unleashed a loud, piercing shriek of agony. The needle pierced my skin. The doctor quickly deployed the sedative, carefully unraveled the old medical bandages wrapped around my flesh, treated the underlying wounds with advanced antiseptics, and bound the area in clean, sterile gauze.
“Alright, take it easy, Madam. The war is officially over,” the doctor teased gently.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Ubaidullah directly in front of us, laughing. “My friend, I am giving you fair warning: you have an absolute mountain of grueling work ahead of you with this girl! It took every ounce of my professional strategy just to administer a basic injection; you would swear we were actively fighting World War III inside this bedroom.”
I could not decipher Ubaidullah's response through the earpiece, but the doctor chuckled softly before Ubaidah escorted him out of the compound.
When she returned to the room, Mamu walked through the front gates. Ubaidah quickly detailed the severity of my fever, but to my absolute heartbreak, Mamu displayed a chilling lack of emotional concern. Her face remained completely blank; there was no panic, no motherly embrace, completely obliterating any lingering hope I carried of receiving maternal care.
Moments later, Ubaidah’s phone vibrated with an incoming call from Ubaidullah. This time, she chose to ignore the ring, her face clouding over with a deep, heavy anxiety as she kept casting brief, suspicious glances at Mamu's detached behavior. Suddenly, the sharp blast of a vehicular horn echoed from the front gates.
Ubaidah bolted upright, whispering, “I am certain that is Ya Ubaid.” She sprinted out of the room, returning seconds later to grasp my hand firmly. “It is him. Force your body to stand up immediately; we are leaving this house.”
“Uda, I am absolutely terrified of stepping outside,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I cannot bear to look at the ground. I am terrified of seeing blood.”
“The ritual trench has been completely covered and sealed, Suby!” she ordered fiercely. “Stand up and let’s move!”
I rushed to the washbasin, splashed cold water over my face to clear the feverish film from my eyes, threw on a fresh hijab, and followed her out.

The Sorcery of the Roasted Heart

Ubaidullah was leaning against the frame of his vehicle; the moment his eyes locked onto our approaching figures, he stood up straight. He reached into the back seat, pulled out a massive, heavily packed shopping bag, and thrust it into Ubaidah’s arms. Without a single word of explanation, Ubaidah turned on her heel and marched right back into the compound, abandoning me entirely to stand before him alone.
My entire frame began to shake violently with social anxiety, forcing me to lean my weight heavily against the metal hood of his car for support.
“How does your body feel now?” he asked softly, his eyes boring into mine. “Have you finally concluded your marathon of weeping?”
I lowered my head instantly, a soft smile breaking through my anxiety as I realized he had actively witnessed my embarrassing tears.
“Should I place another emergency call to Dr. Abraham to have him return with his needles?” he teased. I violently shook my head in pure terror, triggering a deep, resonant laugh from his chest.
Our eyes locked in a profound, unyielding gaze. I sharply broke the eye contact, glancing nervously toward the compound gates. “Ubaidah is taking far too long to return,” I muttered.
“Ah, so you are that desperately impatient for her return simply because you are terrified that I might violently kidnap you and flee the city, yes?”
The sheer audacity of his romantic teasing left me completely burning with embarrassment. I threw my hands up, covering my face entirely. He let out another soft, melodic laugh before murmuring, “Go on. Return to the safety of your room.”
“Alright,” I whispered, turning to walk away. I had barely taken two paces when the deep timber of his voice struck the air: “Take absolute care of your life.”
I did not turn around, but the profound weight of that phrase hit my soul with such force that my feet completely froze to the dirt for several seconds before I finally managed to break the paralysis and flee inside.
Stepping into the center of the courtyard, I froze. Mamu and Mama Lantana were sitting side by side, methodically slicing the raw, bloody meat of a ritual goat. I utterly refused to utter a single syllable of greeting, bypassing them like a ghost and retreating to my bedroom.
The moment Ubaidah saw my flushed face, she burst into a loud, mocking cheer. “Aha! Look at Suby! She has officially plunged headfirst into the deep ocean of romance!”
“What on earth are you talking about? What romance?!” I countered defensively.
She shot me a knowing look, completely dismantling my denial, before emptying the massive shopping bag Ya Ubaid had provided. The contents were luxurious: a vast assortment of imported fruits, high-end commercial juices, and a comprehensive supply of expensive prescription medications. We quietly consumed the chilled juice, and shortly thereafter, Ubaidah offered her farewells, leaving me completely alone in the quiet room.
When the call for the afternoon prayer (Asr) finally echoed through the neighborhood, I forced my aching body off the mattress, stepped into the courtyard, and performed my ablutions. As I turned to retreat back to my quarters, my eyes caught a horrific sight: Mama Lantana was holding the raw, intact heart of an animal—a heart I knew with absolute certainty had been carved from the chest of that ritual goat.
Complex occult symbols and curses had been meticulously inked directly onto the flesh of the organ, and it had been violently skewered on a sharp wooden stake.
She was hovering over a bed of burning red coals, slowly rotating the heart, roasting the flesh over the heat. A twisted, ecstatic grin was plastered across her face. At that exact split-second, Mamu emerged from the bathroom facility, collapsing heavily onto a stone slab near the well. She clutched her chest frantically, gasping for breath as she desperately splashed cold well-water across her body.
My legs instantly turned to pure jelly, trembling violently. Utilizing every ounce of my remaining physical strength, I dragged my frame back into my bedroom, collapsing onto the concrete floor like a pile of discarded laundry.
My initial instinct was to frantically dial Ubaidah's line, but a sudden realization struck my mind: the time had officially arrived for me to stop offloading my horrific spiritual crises onto Udah's shoulders. She deserved peace; I had to carry this terrifying burden entirely alone.
Fighting through the dense, heavy constriction in my chest, I managed to perform my prayers on the mat. Just as I concluded, Mamu stumbled into the bedroom. She performed her prayers while seated on the floor, completely devoid of physical energy. The moment she uttered her final salutations, she collapsed flat onto the mattress, gasping weakly, “Fetch me... ice from the refrigerator... immediately.”
I scrambled to my feet, threw the appliance door open, retrieved the ice blocks, and handed them to her. She violently shoved the ice beneath her clothing, pressing it directly against the flesh over her heart. She began taking heavy, shallow, ragged gasps, looking exactly like a mortal human being drawing her absolute final breaths.
I retreated to the corner of the room, resting my chin on my palms in absolute, helpless despair, as tears streamed down my face. Suddenly, a desperate impulse struck my mind: I pulled out my phone and dialed Yaya Sulaimanu. Weeping hysterically, I informed him that Mamu was actively dying on her bed. But the response that exited his mouth instantly plunged my soul into an entirely new dimension of terror and despair.
“Does Mama Lantana have official knowledge of her illness?” his voice drifted through the speaker, sounding completely robotic and detached. “Listen to me, Suwaiba, I am structurally incapable of abandoning my post to visit the house right now. You know her character perfectly; if I dare to return home without her explicit, written clearance, she will unleash an absolute war of fury against me. Furthermore, I know for a fact that even if I gather the courage to call her line and request permission to visit my dying mother, she will never grant me clearance to leave.”
“Who exactly... is supposed to grant you permission to see your own biological mother?!” I screamed into the receiver, desperately trying to force his brain to break through the programming.
“Mama,” he answered flatly, referring to our stepmother.
I instantly severed the connection, my heart shattering into pieces. I turned my eyes back to Mamu; she was writhing on the mattress in absolute agony, her body contorting. I wept until my tear ducts ran completely dry.
Suddenly, a raw, primal surge of protective fury extinguished my fear. I bolted upright, marched out of the bedroom, and stepped into the blinding light of the courtyard.
Mama Lantana was still hovering over the brazier, methodically roasting the cursed heart while slowly dripping a thick, pitch-black, foul-smelling liquid onto the burning flesh.
My vision went completely red. Without a single second of cognitive hesitation or fear of the consequences, I charged across the courtyard, lunged at her frame, and violently wrenched the wooden stake clean out of her hands, tearing the roasted heart away from the heat.
Lantana let out a sharp gasp of shock, her eyes widening as she lunged forward to reclaim the ritual weapon.
With a roar of pure fury, I drove the sharp, splintered end of the wooden stake directly into the palm of her hand, forcing the wood to completely impale her flesh until the bloodied tip burst clean out through the back of her hand.
She unleashed a horrific, blood-curdling shriek of agony. I ignored her screams, spun around, grabbed a bucket of ice-cold water, and poured the entire contents directly over the burning heart to permanently extinguish the ritual fires.
Clutching the wet organ, I turned and sprinted back into the bedroom. The exact split-second my feet crossed the threshold, I found Mamu drawing a long, deep, perfectly smooth, peaceful breath of absolute relief...

The Extraction of the Iron Needles

Within a matter of seconds, a deep, restorative slumber completely claimed Mamu's body. Looking down at her peaceful face, a wave of profound, overwhelming sorrow washed over my soul, and I broke down weeping, still clutching the charred animal heart in my hands—an organ that every single biological indicator proved had been woven with dark sorcery to systematically stop my mother's heart from beating.
Outside in the courtyard, the loud, frantic voice of our father, Abba, suddenly echoed through the air. The raw, pathetic terror and trembling submission in his voice made it glaringly obvious that he had just discovered the violent injury I had inflicted upon his master, Mama Lantana.
I chose to remain hidden within the bedroom, refusing to step out, my mind racing as I tried to figure out how to safely dispose of the cursed artifact in my hands.
Suddenly, the memory of Ubaidah's mysterious maternal uncle, Suhail, flashed through my mind. I did not possess his direct mobile contact, leaving me with absolute zero options but to call Ubaidah, breaking my previous vow of self-reliance. The moment she answered, I erupted into frantic sobbing.
“What on earth has happened now?!” she demanded, her voice sharp.
“You must come to the house immediately, Udah! I am trapped in a catastrophic crisis!” I screamed. “Mamu was on the absolute brink of death because of an occult heart-binding ritual Mama executed with that goat! I stopped it, but I don't know what to do!”
She didn't waste a single second on words; the line went dead instantly. I remained on the floor, trapped in my panic, until the roar of her vehicle signaled her arrival. I sprinted out and handed her the charred organ. She took one look at it and ordered, “Move. We are leaving this house right now.”
Fortunately, I was already wrapped in my long hijab; I stepped past her, and we bolted out of the compound. The courtyard was completely barren; Abba had already rushed Lantana to a clinic to treat her impaled hand. We threw ourselves into her vehicle and launched down the asphalt toward Uncle Suhail’s hidden residence.
Upon our arrival, Ubaidah took center stage, delivering a rapid, highly detailed brief of the occult warfare to her uncle. The scarred Fulani medicine man accepted the charred heart into his palms. He began reciting deep, rhythmic esoteric verses under his breath, manually dissecting the roasted chambers of the organ.
What my eyes witnessed next redefined the limits of absolute horror: deep from within the muscular tissue of the heart, his fingers began extracting a vast network of tiny, razor-sharp, infant iron needles.
Every single time his fingers extracted a needle from the flesh, a thick, pitch-black, highly toxic fluid would drip from the wound, releasing a foul, putrid odor of decay that filled the entire chamber. He meticulously repeated the process until every single iron needle was successfully purged from the tissue.
He then fetched a heavy earthenware clay pot containing sacred, consecrated water, thoroughly washing the defiled organ before turning to us. “I must step outside immediately to permanently bury and seal these fragments beneath the earth,” he stated grimly.
Upon his return, his scarred face was set in a expression of absolute gravity. “Listen to me carefully, young souls: you must find a way to publicly expose and destroy that woman's operations. If you fail to strip away her cloak of secrecy, the absolute magnitude of the catastrophic evil and demonic slaughter she will unleash upon this household in the future will make this heart-binding ritual look like child's play.”
Ubaidah turned her head, her intense gaze locking onto my face. I let out a long, hollow, bitter laugh, my shoulders slumping in total defeat.
“Even if I stand in the center of the neighborhood and scream the absolute truth from the rooftops, there is not a single soul alive who will believe my words. Our father has been completely reduced to a brainwashed puppet; he is nothing more than a mindless ride she saddles and steers in whatever direction she pleases.
Even my own blood brother, the son born from Mamu’s exact womb, has been completely converted into Mama Lantana's loyal soldier. I literally called his line today, weeping as I informed him that our biological mother was drawing her final breaths, and his only response was that he had to secure Lantana's permission before he could visit her deathbed. Tell me, Uncle... who exactly am I supposed to inform to expose her secrets? There is no one.”
Uncle Suhail exhaled a long, heavy sigh of profound sorrow, his eyes softening as he looked at my broken frame. “If that is the reality of your household, my daughter, then you must fortify your soul and wage a war of continuous, unyielding prayer. For wallahi, prayer is the absolute only force in the cosmos that possesses the raw power to rewrite a catastrophic destiny.”
With those final words echoing in our minds, we stepped out of his shrine, bracing ourselves for the storm ahead.

2. Continuing Synopsis & Expanded Character Roles

The Dual Tracks of Household Ruin

This section of Romon Haƙuri shifts the narrative focus from the immediate spiritual survival of Suwaiba to the broader, systematic calculated corruption of the household by Mama Lantana and her daughters (Hassana/Hussaina/Ramatu).
The author introduces a dark mirror-contrast between two daughters from opposite sides of the polygamous divide: Hassana (Lantana's daughter), who willingly sacrifices her physical innocence to a demonic shrine to secure a wealthy husband, and Hamida (Ubaidullah's elitist sister), who seeks a higher occult authority (Boka) to forcefully break Ubaidullah's stubborn resistance to her marital ambitions.

                    [ THE CO-WIFE CONFLICT EXTENSION ]
                                    |
          +-------------------------+-------------------------+
          |                                                   |
    [ THE PATH OF BLOOD ]                               [ THE PATH OF ELITE PRIVILEGE ]
- Hassana undergoes violation at                  - Hamida pursues a high sorcerer (Boka)
  Malam Yawale's shrine for a hex.                  to forcefully bind Ubaidullah.
- Mama Lantana cooks a roasted goat               - Dr. Abdul Hamid seeks to marry Suwaiba,
  heart with needles to kill Mamu.                  unwittingly bridging the two families.

Evolving Character Dynamics

• Hassana: Driven by intense envy and lust after seeing Ubaidullah dressed in luxury Gizner fabric, she undergoes a terrifying spiritual possession before submitting to a horrific ritualistic violation by Malam Yawale to avoid paying a one-million-Naira blood price. She becomes a direct agent of transmission for curses.
• Malam Yawale: His role expands from a distant spellcaster to a dangerous physical predator. He utilizes verses of Shirk (polytheistic witchcraft) carved directly onto skin to anchor demonic entities (Jinn) into his clients, using carnal acts as a binding mechanism for his contracts.
• Hamida: Ubaidullah’s wealthy, arrogant sister. Her obsession with social status and class purity leads her to disregard all religious boundaries, actively plotting with her mother (Ummah) to deploy a raw, non-religious sorcerer (Boka) against her own brother's free will.
• Dr. Abdul Hamid: Hamida's brother and a brilliant senior physician. In a profound twist of dramatic irony, he falls deeply in love with Suwaiba, planning to lift her out of working-class poverty and completely oblivious to the horrific occult warfare consuming her household.

• Abbas: A police officer stationed with Sulaimanu. He represents the archetype of the Fallen Soul—originally a moral man who was corrupted by bad company into committing graphic sins, yet struggles with immense guilt and false piety in the public eye.

  3. Advanced Esoteric & Esoteric System Analysis

  1. The Mechanism of the Carved Mirror Sins (Madubin Shirka)

  Malam Yawale’s usage of a fractured mirror shard to carve scripts of Shirk represents the concept of Reflective Soul Trapping. In West African occult realism, a mirror does not merely reflect light; it acts as a portal to the spiritual realm.
  By carving a client's desires onto a mirror before performing a carnal act, the sorcerer traps the target's spiritual archetype (Ruhu) within the glass, allowing a demonic entity to assume the target's identity in the victim's dreams, forcing an artificial romantic or submissive obsession.

  2. The Heart-Binding Hex of the Iron Needles (Kulle da Allura)

  The continuous extraction of tiny iron needles from the roasted goat heart by Uncle Suhail reveals the exact anatomical framework of the curse deployed against Mamu:
  In this esoteric framework, iron acts as a permanent conductor of malicious spiritual energy. By skewering the heart with needles and roasting it over coals with a foul fluid, Mama Lantana was actively simulating a severe myocardial infarction or progressive coronary failure in Mamu's physical body. The black fluid dripping from the extracted needles represents the physical manifestations of the curse dissolving under Uncle Suhail's specialized counter-prayers.

  3. The Proverbial Subversion of the Twin Lineage

  The text highlights a severe generational curse through the proverb muttered by Mama Lantana regarding her twin daughters: "The gazelle does not leap without its offspring learning to sprint." This illustrates the deliberate transmission of dark magic from mother to daughter within the compound. Hassana's complete lack of shame or moral hesitation when transitioning from a physical possession into a ritual violation proves that Lantana’s children have been entirely hollowed out of human empathy, becoming multi-generational extensions of Malam Yawale’s shrine.

  4. Extended Hausa Cultural & Esoteric Vocabulary Glossary

  Hausa Term	Cultural / Contextual Literary Meaning
  Gizner / Shigar Gizner	An ultra-premium, highly lustrous brocade fabric imported from Europe, worn exclusively by upper-class Northern Nigerian men as an absolute symbol of wealth and status.
  Boka	A raw, traditional high sorcerer or witch doctor whose practices are entirely non-religious and pre-Islamic, utilizing blood pacts, roots, and elements.
  Almajirai / Almajiran Boka	Disciples or apprentices serving at an occult shrine, who perform manual labor, guard the perimeter, and sometimes act as physical agents for rituals.
  Hayaƙin Tsafi / Hayaƙi	Ritualistic smoke; the burning of specialized occult powders, animal parts, or roots to create an aromatic smoke that charges a room with a specific hex.
  Sari	An expensive, elaborate traditional South Asian wrap fabric adopted by elite families in Niger and Northern Nigeria for formal societal events.
  Mijin Ta-Ce	A completely dominated, henpecked husband; a man whose free will has been entirely eroded by psychological manipulation or marital witchcraft.
  Saff / Sawun Gaba	The front row of congregational prayer in a mosque, culturally reserved for the most pious, elderly, or morally upright members of the community.
  Kattat / Ƙattai	Towering, imposing, muscular men; often used dismissively or aggressively by elders to describe unfamiliar, threatening young males entering a home.