Buried Tuesday ,Rent Friday
They buried my husband on Tuesday.
By Friday, the landlord was asking for rent.
I’m Aisha.
I was 24 when death made me a “long widow” in Ilorin
24 with 6 children.
The oldest, Zainab, is 8 and already knows how to cook.
The baby, Yusuf, is 8 months and doesn’t understand why Mama’s eyes are always wet.
Grief hit me first.
It sat on my chest like stone.
I stopped eating.
I stopped talking.
My sister said, “Aisha, you have 6 mouths. You can’t die too.”
She was right.
But grief didn’t listen.
Fear came next.
At 4am I wake up and count heads.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
All breathing.
Thank God.
Then I count money.
₦340.
School fees is ₦12,000.
Rent is ₦60,000.
Fear tastes like metal in my mouth.
Shame followed me to the market.
Mama Nkechi saw me selling akara and whispered, “Poor Aisha. Husband died, now she’s hawking like a common woman.”
I wanted to pour hot oil on her words.
But I smiled instead.
Pride died that day.
My children ate better than my pride.
Anger exploded on Sunday.
My husband’s brother came.
He didn’t bring food.
He brought a paper.
“Return the bride price,” he said.
“You’re not our wife anymore.”
I held Yusuf tighter.
Rage burned my throat.
“I gave you 6 children,” I hissed.
“Take them back if you want the money.”
He left.
No one has knocked since.
Exhaustion is my shadow now.
Cook pap, wash clothes, trek Zainab to school, breastfeed Yusuf, fry akara, beg customers, pray, sleep 3 hours, repeat.
My body is tired.
My heart is tired.
Some nights I stare at the ceiling and think,
If I just sleep and don’t wake up…
who will feed them?
Then Yusuf cries.
And I get up.
Humiliation came last week.
Baby had fever.
Hospital said ₦8,000 for drugs.
I had ₦1,200.
I went to Alhaji, the rich man.
He looked at my body, not my eyes.
“Marry me,” he said.
“I’ll care for you and your 6 children.”
I saw it in his eyes -
he wanted a slave, not a wife.
I ran.
Despair whispered that night:
Sell yourself, Aisha.
One night = ₦2,000.
4 nights = hospital money.
I stood at the mirror.
My wrapper was thin.
My future was thinner.
My hand was on the door handle…
Then I heard it.
Small feet.
Zainab, my 8-year-old, came back from school.
She opened her nylon bag.
₦650.
Coins and small notes.
“Mama, I sold pure water after school,” she said.
“Don’t cry. I want to help.”
Heartbreak broke me more than poverty ever did.
My baby shouldn’t be my provider.
I pulled her close and cried.
Not grief tears.
Guilt tears.
Love tears.
But something else rose in my chest too.
Defiance.
If an 8-year-old can fight,
then Aisha can fight too.
I’m a widow.
I’m young.
I’m tired.
But I’m not dead yet.
Six mouths.
One heart.
One stubborn woman.
And this is just Tuesday.
