I stand at the front of the courtyard, watching as Alhaji basks in the praise of imams and traditional leaders. They take turns shaking his hand, voices loud with congratulations. He wears that familiar smug expression—the one that says he always gets what he wants.
"Allah ya ba da sa'a," one of them says. May Allah grant more success.
"Amin," Alhaji responds, pride thick in the air.
I should go inside, mind my business. But something about the scene holds me in place, like I'm watching a play where everyone else knows their lines but me.
A soft chuckle breaks my thoughts. "The boy isn't even in Nigeria yet, and see the celebration. What happens when he actually arrives?"
I don't need to turn around to know it's Sisi. Her voice carries that mix of sarcasm and boredom she always wears like a second skin.
I stay quiet, eyes drifting to where Uwar dances with a group of women, her wide hips swaying in rhythm. She claps her hands above her head like a woman half her age, looking happier than anyone else.
I must stare too long because Sisi leans in closer, lowering her voice just for me. "If Uwar keeps dancing like this, her son might have to hug her in a wheelchair."
I turn to her slowly. "The heir is her son?"
Sisi's perfectly shaped brows lift in mock surprise. "Of course. She's the mother of the magada." Her lips curl into a smile. "And honestly? I'm content with it. I couldn't have tolerated any of the other wives being in that position." She snorts, shaking her head. "Except me, of course."
I barely hear the last part. My mind is still processing the revelation. The heir, Alhaji's precious Alhaji 2.0, is Uwar's son. No wonder she looks like she won the lottery.
Sisi eventually grows bored of my silence and drifts back into the crowd. I stay a little longer, letting the noise and movement wash over me. A strange tightness grips my chest—something between envy and fear—but I swallow it down and force myself to move.
I find Uwar still dancing, sweat glistening on her forehead. When she notices me, her face lights up. "Hauwa!" She grabs my hands, squeezing them tight. "A doctor! My son is finally coming home as a certified doctor."
I try to smile, but the words dig deep into my already messed-up thoughts. Alhaji wants a doctor, he just doesn't want his wife to be one.
"My greatest joy is that he is finally coming back as a doctor, something I should have been if not for marriage." Her smile falters slightly, but she shakes her head as if brushing away the weight of old regrets. "At least my son will have what I was denied."
"I'm happy for you, Uwar," I say quietly.
And I mean it. But the knot in my stomach only tightens as I turn and make my way back to my apartment.
Halfway there, Halimat brushes past me, humming under her breath. I offer a quiet sannu —a simple hello —but she ignores me, lost in her own world.
I let it go. I'm too tired to chase kindness where it doesn't want to be found.
A maid stands outside my door, hands clasped neatly in front of her. "What would you like for breakfast, Amarya?"
I don't hesitate. "Brown bread, fried eggs, and a pot of tea."
She nods and hurries off, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
If I can't get peace of mind in this place, the least I can have is good food.
_______________
I'm halfway through a TikTok video when a message pops up on my screen.
My son has arrived.
The sender is an unsaved number. I stare at it, confused.
Who the hell—?
Then it clicks. Uwar Gida.
How does she have my number?
I shake my head, deciding to save that question for later. There are bigger things to worry about—like the fact that he's here.
Ali. Alhaji 2.0.
I toss my phone onto the bed and pull open the wardrobe. If the energy in the house yesterday was anything to go by, the sitting room will be packed with business associates falling over themselves to greet the magada. Alhaji's heir. His golden boy.
And I have to look… decent.
Alhaji made one thing clear: I can walk around the estate without a hijab—as long as no visitors are present. But today, the house is practically overflowing with them.
I sift through the small pile of hijabs my father bought the night before the wedding. Most of them still smell faintly of plastic, cheap and scratchy—nothing like the luxurious scarves the other wives wear. I settle on a dark-colored one, the least offensive option.
As I wrap it around my head, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My face is bare. No makeup, no jewelry. Nothing to hide the tiredness beneath my eyes. Still, I square my shoulders and give myself a firm nod.
I can survive this.
The noise from the main house grows louder the closer I get. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the low hum of conversations in Hausa and English. Everyone is here for one reason—to see him.
When I step into the hallway, the sheer number of people crammed into the living area makes my chest tighten. Men in kaftans and babbar riga sit in clusters, sipping drinks and exchanging pleasantries. Women, likely from wealthy families, glide around in shimmering veils, their perfume thick in the air.
I scan the crowd for a familiar face and find one—Sisi.
She stands near the staircase, dressed in a silk emerald-green abaya that clings to her curves. The moment she spots me, her lips stretch into a slow, knowing smile.
"Come," she says, her voice low and sweet as she beckons me closer. "He's inside the sitting room with his parents… and some well-wishers."
The way she drags out that last word, thick with sarcasm, almost makes me laugh. Almost.
I bite down on my smile and follow her, my heart pounding harder with every step.
I have no idea what to expect.
So I'm not ready for what I see.
If the maids had tried to prepare me for Ali, they failed. Miserably.
Because the man sitting across the room isn't just fine.
He's breathtaking.
Nothing like his father.
Where Alhaji is dark-skinned and heavyset, Ali is fair, his complexion smooth and warm like his mother's—caramel under sunlight. He has the kind of face that makes a woman forget her name. Strong jawline, high cheekbones, lips that curl into the faintest hint of a smile. But it's his eyes that do it. Deep brown and sharp, like he sees everything and misses nothing. And his brows? Thick, perfectly arched, like they were crafted by God himself on a good day.
He wears a crisp white kaftan that hugs his broad shoulders, the gold embroidery adding a quiet luxury. Everything about him—his posture, his ease radiates confidence. Not the loud, attention-seeking kind. No, this is the quiet power of a man who doesn't need to raise his voice to command a room.
And, ya Allah, does he command it.
I stand there, frozen, mouth slightly open. My heart thuds hard against my ribs, and for a few seconds, I forget how to breathe.
I might stay like that forever if Sisi doesn't tug at my sleeve.
"Hauwa," she hisses, amusement dancing in her tone.
Snapping out of my daze, I lower my gaze and greet him softly. "Ina wuni, Yaya."
Ali's lips curve into a slow smile. "Lafiya," he responds smoothly, his voice warm and rich, like honey laced with steel. "What's your name?"
I swallow. "Hauwa."
His gaze lingers. "I'm glad to be home, Hauwa."
The words shouldn't mean anything. But the way he looks at me…
I know they do.