Chapter 1:
Jos, Nigeria — 2020
“Ibrahim Khalil, please… open your eyes… you are scaring me, Ibrahim.”
Safiyya whimpered as tears flowed down her face. Sweat continued to form on her forehead despite the cold weather of Jos in mid-December, while her husband lay there on the leather carpet of the living room of their two-bedroom apartment.
“Layla has been asking of you since morning, asking when her Abba is coming back… Please wake up, Ibrahim… hande mim boni—it's over for me.”
Safiyya continued to whimper as she shook her husband’s lifeless body.
One would swear Safiyya was holding blazing coal due to how fast she let go of her husband’s body. Upon suddenly making up her mind, she decided she was turning herself in. She was going to tell the police authorities that she didn’t mean to end his life—that it was a mistake. She didn’t push him with the intention of taking his life. She would tell them she had never attempted to raise her hand against her husband; this was her first time, and she did not do it with the intention of harming the father of her children.
Without a second thought, she reached for her hijab on the arm of the sofa—she was turning herself in—and moved toward the door when a voice came from behind her.
“Mama… I want to pee.”
Her daughter’s sleepy voice came as she rubbed her eyes, unaware of what was going on around her.
It was at that moment that Safiyya’s legs could no longer bear her weight, and she fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
How did she end up here?
When did she become a monster capable of ending someone’s life—her husband’s life? Her Ibrahim Khalil, the father of her three children: Layla, Yusuf, and Yusrah.
“Mama…”
Layla’s voice came again, this time more desperate as she stepped further into the living room, the sleep slowly leaving her eyes.
It was at that moment that a thought struck Safiyya: What would become of her children if she turned herself in? Who would take care of them? How would society see and treat them?
And it’s not like her turning herself in would bring her husband back to life.
With all those thoughts in her mind, she let go of the doorknob she was holding, also letting the hijab in her hand fall to the ground.
She was no longer turning herself in.
Because she didn’t kill her husband, Ibrahim Khalil—she decided.
Jigawa State, Nigeria — 1993
“One day, Insha Allah, it will be your voice I hear on this radio,” Harith spoke without looking at his daughter, his fingers busy with the stubborn knobs of the old radio pressed close to his eyes as the 6 p.m. news played softly.
“No, Baba,” she said, shaking her head. “By then, I’ll buy you a new radio—you won’t have to fix it every time.”
Before her father could respond, she sprang from the mat and stood in front of him, clearing her throat.
“Erm… erm… hello there, good evening, and thank you for joining us today. My name is Safiyya Harith, and I’ll be your host for today.”
She held her hand up like a microphone, chin lifted with pride.
Harith leaned back against the wall, stretching one leg out as he gave her his full attention. A soft smile spread across his face as he watched his daughter perform, as though there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be.
“Safiyya… yiri wadi”—food is ready.
Her mother, Hauwa’u, called from the kitchen at the end of their compound, urging her to come and take the food to her father.
Hauwa’u loved to do everything herself, but she knew she needed to let her daughter learn how things worked in the kitchen, so she tasked her with arranging the food every time she finished cooking.
It was already time for Maghrib prayer when Safiyya finished arranging the food on the already spread mat, so her father decided to leave for the mosque first while Safiyya and her mother prayed before they all ate together.
Hauwa’u sighed quietly, closing her eyes and pretending to be asleep as Harith entered their bedroom, gently closing the door behind him. She felt the side of their canopy bed dip under his weight as he took his usual position, using his left hand as a pillow and resting the other on his forehead, staring up at the canopy because sleep had already left his eyes.
In the last two hours, that had been his fifth visit to the toilet. It was becoming harder each time—no matter how long he squatted, little or no urine came out, and the constant lower abdominal pain was becoming unbearable.
He tried as much as he could to hide his pain from his wife, but Hauwa’u could see right through him. She had been trying to convince him to go to the city to see a doctor, but he remained adamant, refusing every time she mentioned it.
Hauwa’u had made up her mind. Next week, she would go to the market to get medication from a herbalist she had heard about—a man from Kafin Hausa here in Jigawa State. She had heard his medicine worked really well.
The next market day, which took place every Wednesday in Kafin Hausa, Hauwa’u made sure to arrive very early. Despite her earliness, she still met many people already there—people with different illnesses.
She saw a toddler who kept fainting as his mother waited in line. Another young woman, probably in her early twenties, spoke in tongues, then suddenly began reciting the alphabet rapidly before smiling at herself. She looked down and used her fingers to count numbers, clapping afterward. She repeated this over and over.
Hauwa’u watched her with pitiful eyes, and at that moment, she thought her husband’s condition wasn’t even that serious compared to what she was seeing.
After what seemed like forever, it was finally Hauwa’u’s turn to see the herbalist. She explained all the symptoms her husband was showing, and the herbalist concluded that Harith was suffering from ciwon sanyi—an infection. He gave her many herbs, instructing her to boil some with potash and give them to Harith three times a day, while he took sit baths with others. She was also told to return after two weeks with her husband because the herbalist was displeased that the patient was not present and that Hauwa’u was collecting medication on his behalf. Hauwa’u promised to bring Harith the next time, even though she knew he would refuse; it was just to convince the herbalist. After the herbalist instructed his workers on which concoctions to prepare, she settled her bills and set off back home.
When one is too desperate for something, they begin to imagine the outcomes they desire, and that was the same for Hauwa’u. During the first days of using the herbs, she swore by her Creator that she saw improvement in Harith’s health—but not anymore. His condition was deteriorating further. She couldn’t even recall the last time Harith had gone to the market; he had been lying down continuously. The night before, Hauwa’u had sent Safiyya to arrange with Idi Mai Mota, their neighbor who was a taxi driver and came home occasionally, to take them to the city hospital the next morning because Harith could not endure the long journey on a bike in his critical condition.
The next day, around 7:43 a.m., they arrived at General Hospital Dutse, the capital of Jigawa State. Seeing his condition, Harith was rushed to the Emergency Care Unit. After what felt like an eternity, the doctors finally finished examining him. The consultant removed his gloves, tossed them into the waste bin a few feet away from Harith’s hospital bed in the male ward, and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Why did you wait for his condition to worsen like this before seeking medical attention?” When Hauwa’u lowered her head, unable to say anything, the consultant continued. “What is your relationship with the patient?”
Her voice low, she replied, “He’s my husband.”
Safiyya felt helpless seeing her father lying unconscious. She had never seen him like this before. He had always been full of life—telling jokes, lifting her in the air and catching her, or meeting her at the school gate after class to carry her home while they talked about everything and nothing. But here he was, barely able to move a finger. One would not even know he was alive if it weren’t for the slow rise and fall of his chest.
For the first time, Safiyya noticed how tired her father looked. His hair had far more gray than she had ever seen. She vividly remembered the first time she saw gray strands and joked with him about aging fast, plucking a gray hair and telling him she wanted them to grow old together, that he should wait for her. He had laughed, shaking his hair, as she fanned him while he listened to his radio. Then he had said, “In Islam, gray hair is considered a blessing. Each gray hair will become light for its owner on the Day of Judgment. But for those who remove it, three more will grow in return…”
Safiyya gasped, dropping the hand fan she was holding and covering her mouth in shock. “Does that mean more will grow now that I’ve plucked this one? Now you’re not going to wait for me to grow old together?” Tears welled in her eyes.
The consultant cleared his throat. “Hajiya, your husband has kidney failure, and it is very critical. He’ll need to start dialysis as soon as possible.”
“K—kidney failure?” Hauwa’u whispered, trying to make sense of the words. Just three weeks ago, the herbalist had told her that Harith was suffering from ciwon sanyi—an infection—and now he had kidney failure? How was that possible? She tried to stay strong, blinking back tears so as not to break down in front of her daughter.
“But just a few weeks ago, I was told he suffers from ciwon sanyi,” she muttered to herself, still unable to process the news. She hadn’t realized she said it aloud until the consultant asked, “Who told you that?”
“The herbalist I’ve been getting his medication from,” she replied, keeping her head down.
The consultant shook his head. “We always tell you the same thing. Whenever you notice anything unusual, rush to the hospital. This has been the anthem, but people never listen.” With that, he left, followed by his interns.
Over the last two days of Harith’s hospitalization, a few neighbors had come by to check on him. When Hauwa’u mentioned to her close friend Azeema that Harith was to start dialysis the next day, Azeema responded, “This dialysis you’re talking about only makes one’s condition worse.”
“What do you mean, Azeema? You want me to just sit and watch him suffer?” Hauwa’u asked. Azeema shook her head and gave her hands a tight squeeze.
“You’ve seen how much my husband suffered to settle his father’s hospital bills when he was diagnosed with kidney failure over two years. In the end, he still lost his life, and we’re in debt,” she continued.
“I still want to give it a try, Azeema. I can’t leave him like this,” Hauwa’u said firmly. She stood up to grab the box of gloves beside her husband’s bed just as the nurse arrived to give Harith his injection. She wasn’t going to listen to her friend and let her husband die without trying every possible thing to save him. He had done everything for her—he was her father, her mother, her husband, her home, and the father of their beautiful thirteen-year-old. He had fought for their love when his family objected to their marriage because of financial differences. He had never given her a reason to complain. She would never forgive herself for the mere thought of giving up on him. He was her heaven on earth, the man she would gladly marry again in Jannah, Insha Allah. She would never forget how he consoled her when, after two years of marriage, she still hadn’t conceived, holding her through every step of the way. Her Harith deserved every good thing in this life and the next, and she would go to any length to give it to him.
“Have you settled his dialysis fees? He’s supposed to start today,” the nurse asked, wearing the gloves Hauwa’u had handed her as she prepared to inject Harith, who was fast asleep.
“I’m heading to the pay point to settle the bills now,” Hauwa’u replied, fixing her hijab. After the nurse left, Hauwa’u informed the woman tending her husband in the five-person hospital room that she would step out for a while and requested her to keep watch over Harith. She left with Azeema.
“You should focus on your husband’s recovery and don’t worry about Safiyya. She’s doing well. She insisted on tagging along, and I was barely able to convince her,” Azeema said as they walked out.
“Thank you so much, Azeema. Allah Wadu Barka—may Allah bless you.” Hauwa’u escorted her friend out before going to the pay point to settle the hospital bills. That afternoon, Harith began his medical procedure.
It had been two weeks since Harith’s admission, and his condition was improving. During morning rounds, the consultant said he was ready to be discharged but would need weekly dialysis.
“Here, Abba, your afternoon medication,” Safiyya said, dropping the last yellow pill into her father’s palm. He gulped it down, dropped the cup by his side, rested his head on the pillow, and gently closed his eyes. He was slowly getting better, and his family couldn’t have been happier, Alhamdulillah.
“Pass me my cap,” he said weakly as he stood from the bed.
“Are you going out, Baba?” Safiyya asked, passing him his cap.
“Yes, Boddo am,” he answered, walking toward the door just as Hauwa’u raised the curtain, murmuring a salam under her breath.
“Ha’an, why are you not in bed, Baban Safiyya?” she asked, brows furrowed in confusion.
“I’m going to meet with Alhaji Mudi over the ginger that is supposed to arrive from Yobe today,” he replied weakly. Harith imports and exports farm produce, and since his medical condition, his business partner had not been updating him. Even though Hauwa’u had never mentioned anything, he knew their financial situation wasn’t good. He realized it fully when, the other day, his wife served food without meat—a rarity. Almost all his savings were being used for medical treatment: weekly dialysis, medication, and transport. At this point, they had nothing left.
“Baban Safiyya, you’re still not healthy enough to start going to the market,” Hauwa’u complained. She knew what he worried about—she knew him better than anyone. Her husband was a proud man.
“Don’t worry. I won’t stay long, Insha Allah,” Harith reassured her with a small smile before walking away. He could hear her sigh as he left. He sometimes hated how his wife could see through him. He hated appearing weak to his family; he was supposed to be their safe space. Feeling weak hurt his pride.
Safiyya was happy her father was home and that all three of them were under the same roof again. But at just thirteen years old, she noticed the constant tiredness and weakness in his eyes, the additional gray hair, and the worried expression that never left her mother’s face, even when she tried to mask it. Her heart broke at the sight.
Not to mention the little routines she missed: coming out from school and finding Baba standing by the gate, walking hand in hand home, stopping at Uwa Mai Gurasa to get her some, waiting while she finished it, then heading home together, despite her mother’s complaints about him spoiling her. It was their little secret.
