Hajiya Zaliha's POV
As I chopped vegetables alongside Humaira in the kitchen, our casual chatter about our day couldn't shake off the nagging sense of unease that had been brewing inside me. My husband's deteriorating health weighed heavily on my mind, and I knew I had to find the courage to reveal the painful truth about the cause of his illness to our innocent daughter.
After we finished cooking, Humaira and I settled into the parlor. The scent of freshly prepared food lingered in the air, but neither of us reached for a plate. My heart pounded against my ribcage, the weight of what I was about to say pressing down on me like a heavy stone.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Humaira sat across from me, her fingers idly tracing the embroidered patterns on the armrest of the sofa. She looked weary, her usual spark dulled by the past few weeks of stress. But I knew that what I was about to say would shake her even more.
"Humaira, my dear," I began, my voice barely above a whisper but thick with emotion. She looked up at me, concern flickering in her eyes.
I hesitated for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. No matter how I framed it, the truth would hurt. But she had to know.
"There's something I need to share with you," I continued, my voice laced with sadness and trepidation. "Your father's trusted friend, Alhaji Shekarau, has betrayed him in the worst possible way."
Her brow furrowed, confusion flashing across her face. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I exhaled slowly, gripping the cushion beside me. "He's been embezzling funds from the company, Humaira," I said carefully, watching as realization dawned in her eyes. "Your father trusted him completely, never questioning his intentions. And now..." I swallowed hard, forcing myself to continue. "Now, we're on the brink of financial disaster. The weight of the hospital bills is crushing us, and I fear..." My voice caught in my throat, but I forced the words out. "I fear we may lose our home."
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, each second feeling heavier than the last.
Humaira blinked rapidly, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. She shook her head slowly, as if trying to reject the reality I had just laid before her.
"No," she murmured. "That can't be true. Uncle Shekarau... he's been like family. He wouldn't do this to Abba. He wouldn't do this to us."
I wished I could tell her otherwise, that it was all some terrible misunderstanding. But I couldn't. The damage had been done.
"I know, my dear," I said gently, reaching for her hand. "But sometimes, the people we trust the most are the ones who hurt us the deepest."
Humaira's eyes widened in shock, her breath hitching as she tried to process my words. Fear and uncertainty were etched onto her delicate features, her lips slightly parted as if searching for a response that wouldn't come.
I could see the turmoil in her eyes—the struggle between disbelief and the painful realization that our world was crumbling around us. Her hands trembled slightly, and before she could say anything, I pulled her into a warm embrace.
"Don't worry, Humaira," I whispered into her hair, my voice soft but resolute. "Life is unpredictable, but with faith and love, we'll navigate this darkness together, as a family."
She stiffened at first, then slowly melted into my hold, her fingers clutching the fabric of my dress as if grounding herself. I held her close, my own emotions threatening to spill over—sorrow for what we had lost, fear of the uncertain future ahead, but above all, a fierce determination to protect her and our family no matter what.
As we sat there in silence, the weight of our struggles pressing down on us, I could only pray that somehow, some way, we would find a way through.
---
Humaira's POV
After Abba's discharge from the hospital, we were happy to have him back home, but the sight of him struggling to adjust to his new reality was heartbreaking. His eyes, once bright and full of life, now seemed dull and tired. He was confined to a wheelchair, his strength and vitality diminished. Despite this, we were grateful to still have him with us.
The same day Abba returned home, my brothers arrived from Dubai, their faces etched with shock and concern as they took in Abba's condition. They had been away for so long and were not prepared for the drastic change in Abba's health. We were all trying to come to terms with the new situation, but it was clear that our lives would never be the same.
As we struggled to adjust to our new reality, Abba gathered us all and explained that we would have to leave Abuja for Kano. His voice trembled with a mix of sadness and resignation. "We're going to lose everything," he said, his eyes brimming with tears. "We can't stay in this house or town anymore." I felt a pang of sadness and loss as I thought about leaving behind everything I knew and loved - my friends, school, and the only life I had ever known.
The harsh reality of our situation hit me even harder when I thought about Abba's so-called "rich friends". Despite his wealth and influence, only a handful of them visited him in the hospital, and even fewer offered any substantial help. It was a painful realization that many of those he had considered friends had abandoned him in his time of need. They never came back to check on him, leaving us to face the struggles alone.
To make matters worse, Abba's mounting medical expenses had left us deeply in debt, a weight that threatened to crush us. Our financial struggles were further compounded by the decline of Ummah's once-thriving business, which had been a steady source of income. As Abba's condition worsened, Ummah devoted more time to caring for him, leaving her little time or energy to tend to her business. As a result, her loyal customers slowly drifted away, and her business eventually succumbed to the neglect.
In a desperate bid to stay afloat, Ummah and I made the painful decision to part with some of our most treasured possessions.
The small wooden box in my lap felt heavier than ever. Inside, rows of gold bangles gleamed under the dim light—Ummah's wedding jewelry, gifts from Abba, each piece a fragment of our past. My fingers hovered over the intricate patterns, tracing their warmth one last time.
"Are you sure about this?" I whispered.
Ummah exhaled slowly, her gaze fixed on the bangles. "We don't have a choice, Humaira.
The shopkeeper examined each piece with practiced detachment. When he named a price, Ummah nodded stiffly, swallowing the lump in her throat. I wanted to scream that it wasn't just gold he was weighing on that scale—it was our memories.
As we returned home in silence, I stole a glance at Ummah. The envelope in her grip was crumpled at the edges, her fingers tightening around it as if trying to hold onto something more than just paper. Her eyes were distant, her shoulders stiff. The silence between us was thick with unspoken pain.
But no amount of sacrifice could erase the debts that loomed over us.
---
Later that evening, Abba sat in his wheelchair, staring at the documents spread across the table. His hands trembled as he flipped through the pages—bank notices, debt collection letters, legal warnings. His shoulders sagged further with each word.
"He was like a brother to me," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I trusted him with everything."
I clenched my fists. Uncle Shekarau had vanished overnight, leaving behind nothing but ruin. The man who had once laughed at our dining table, who had held my younger brothers like his own sons, had stolen from us without remorse. And now, Abba was paying the price.
I had never seen my father cry before. But that night, as Ummah tried to console him, he turned away, wiping his eyes.
The house, once filled with laughter and warmth, now felt empty and hollow. We were forced to make the difficult decision to sell our beloved family home, a painful sacrifice that left us feeling lost and uncertain about our future.
As the days ticked by, I said goodbye to some of my friends, the weight of our departure settling in. Abba sold his last assets, letting go of his loyal workers with a heavy heart. The day they left, the silence that filled our emptying home was crushing.
---
The Day We Left for Kano
The morning air was heavy with silence. The house that once held warmth and laughter now felt hollow. I stood by the doorway, gripping my bag, my heart aching as I took one last look at our home—our former home.
Ummah adjusted her hijab, her hands trembling as she took one last look around. My younger brothers stood near the car, their faces solemn, absorbing the weight of our departure in their own quiet way. Abba sat silently in the front seat, his presence frail, his breathing shallow.
As we pulled out of the driveway, I turned my head, memorizing every detail—the chipped paint on the gate, the tree Abba had planted years ago, the window where Ummah would call us in for dinner. It all faded into the distance, swallowed by the vastness of the road ahead.
The journey to Kano was long and quiet. The car hummed along the highway, the landscape shifting from the open roads of Abuja to the narrower, dustier streets of Kano. The air felt different—thicker, hotter, carrying a scent of spice and sand. It was a city I had only visited once as a child, yet now it was to become our new home.
When we arrived at our house in Kano, reality hit me like a blow to the chest. It wasn't just the change in location—it was the life we had left behind in Abuja, the comfort that no longer existed. The house was ours, but it felt empty, unfamiliar. I stood in the doorway, gripping my bag, trying to believe we could start over. But deep down, I knew—nothing would ever be the same again.
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Struggling to Survive
Days turned into weeks, and we tried to adjust. Abba's condition worsened, his once-strong frame growing weaker by the day. The medical bills drained us faster than we could recover.
Ummah, determined to keep us afloat, opened a small roadside shop selling masa, sugar, and other essentials. The mornings were filled with the scent of sizzling batter, the heat of the fire mixing with the rising sun. I sat beside her, flipping the small rice cakes, the repetitive motion doing little to quiet the storm in my mind.
I should have been in school, preparing for my WAEC and NECO exams. Instead, I was here, watching my dreams slip further away with every passing day. My brothers, at least, were able to attend a government school, but I was stuck in limbo, waiting—hoping—that one day we would have enough money for my fees.
Each evening, after the shop closed, I would sit outside and stare at the sky, wondering how life had changed so quickly.