I nod, unsure what to say. My throat feels tight, my heart unsteady.
"Welcome home," I manage, barely above a whisper.
His smile deepens—lazy, confident, laced with mischief. He holds my gaze for a heartbeat before Sisi tugs my sleeve, pulling me back into motion.
I don't realize I've been holding my breath until we slip out of the sitting room, leaving Alhaji's booming laughter behind.
The hallway is cooler, quieter—like I can breathe again. But the heat in my cheeks refuses to fade.
"Well," Sisi drawls, arching a brow. "You see why Uwar Gida was dancing like her life depended on it."
I shoot her a look. Of course, she pushes.
"You were staring, Hauwa," she teases. "Don't lie. Everyone saw."
"I wasn't—"
She laughs, wicked and low. "If you stared any harder, your hijab would've caught fire."
I roll my eyes and walk faster. Sisi keeps pace. "Relax. You're not the first wife to drool over him, and you won't be the last."
I hate how warm my face feels. "I wasn't drooling."
"Of course not." She smirks. "You were admiring. Respectfully."
"You talk too much."
"And you're too quiet." She studies me. "Although, I'm starting to think you've been playing innocent. Tell me…" Her smile turns knowing. "Are you already planning how to become his favorite?"
"Sisi." A warning.
She laughs again. "What? Don't act like it hasn't crossed your mind. If you're smart, you'll play your cards right. Men like Ali… they like a challenge. And they don't care about 'haram.'"
I don't answer. Because deep down, I wonder if she's right.
And that scares me.
_____________
By the time I reach my apartment, my nerves are still frayed. I close the door and lean against it. Silence presses in, but my mind buzzes.
I shouldn't care.
It shouldn't matter.
But Ali's smile, the way he says my name, lingers like heat on my skin.
A sharp knock echoes.
I hesitate, expecting Sisi.
It's not her.
It's Halimat.
She stands stiffly, arms crossed. "Alhaji wants to see you."
"Now?"
No answer. She turns and walks away.
Dread curls in my stomach as I follow.
When we reach his study, Halimat steps aside. I take a breath and knock lightly before pushing the door open.
Alhaji sits behind his heavy mahogany desk, his face unreadable. But the tension in the air—the weight of it—is unmistakable.
"You wanted to see me?" My voice feels too small.
He gestures to the chair. "Sit."
I do, heart pounding.
For a long moment, he just studies me, cold and calculating.
"You've met my son."
I nod. "Yes."
"What do you think of him?"
The question catches me off guard. "He… seems kind. Polite."
A ghost of a smile. "He is neither. Don't let appearances fool you."
I swallow hard.
"I brought you into this house because I saw wifely potential," he says, voice like a blade. "But don't mistake your place here, Hauwa."
His gaze sharpens. "Ali is not your concern. And I will not tolerate any… abominations."
A warning.
A threat.
"I understand," I whisper.
A heartbeat of silence. Then, a dismissive wave. "Good."
I stand on shaky legs and leave.
I should feel relieved.
But all I feel is trapped.
And somewhere beneath the fear… a spark of something else.
Because despite the warning, despite the risk—
I know I won't stop thinking about Ali.
And I'm not sure I want to.
_______________
I'm dozing off when the door swings open, slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the windows.
Alhaji.
The sharp scent of alcohol fills the room before I even see him. When he drinks, it's never a good sign.
His steps are heavy, uneven.
I lower my gaze, staying still. I've learned to sense danger before it strikes. Tonight, it's thick and suffocating.
He mumbles something, stumbling closer. It takes a moment to catch the name.
Lisa.
The fourth wife. The only one he ever—if you could call it that—loved.
I don't know much about her, only the whispers when people think I'm not listening. That she was beautiful. That she had fire. That, for a moment, she made him human.
And then, one day, she was gone.
Baba once told me the story. She asked for something no other wife dared—a life outside these walls. Culinary school. Friends. Freedom.
And somehow, he gave it to her. Maybe it was love. Or maybe he thought he could keep her if he loosened the chain.
But chains, no matter how loose, are still chains.
When she turned twenty, she slipped through his fingers. Her foreign friends helped her disappear. She fled the country. No one has seen her since. Except on social media.
But Alhaji refused to sign the divorce papers.
I don't know what triggered him tonight, what memory clawed its way back. But I know enough to stay quiet. To stay small. To survive.
I slip off my nightgown, fold it neatly, and lie on the bed, still and silent. Waiting.
It's easier that way. If I give him no reason to be angry, maybe he won't hurt me.
I'm wrong.
His bloodshot eyes land on me, and his face twists with rage.
"What is this?" His voice is rough, vibrating with anger. "You think this is what I want? You lying there like some paid whore?"
I flinch, sitting up quickly. "I—I'm sorry, I just—"
"Shut up."
He isn't talking to me. Not really. His mind is somewhere else, stuck in the past with a woman who slipped through his grasp.
I'm just the one left to suffer for it.
His lip curls as he takes another step forward. "Is that what you are, Hauwa? A whore?"
I shake my head quickly, pulse thundering. "No."
Wrong answer.
The slap comes before I can react. A sharp, blistering pain explodes across my face, and I hit the floor. My shoulder takes the brunt of it, but the real pain is behind my eyes, hot and searing.
The world tilts. My ears ring.
I try to open my eyes—one blink, then another—but something is wrong.
I can't see.
The left side of my vision is black. Empty.
My hands tremble as I touch my face, feeling the deep ache beneath my fingers.
Above me, his voice slashes through the silence.
"You are my whore," he spits, words slurred but sharp enough to cut. "And don't you ever forget that."
I'm not listening anymore.
Because no matter how much I blink, no matter how much I will myself to see…
I'm blind.