My vision blurs at the edges, a hazy swirl of shadows and dim light. Before I can catch my breath, Alhaji's weight crashes down on me, pinning me to the cold floor. His hands are rough—tearing, claiming, ripping my clothes apart like I'm not even human.
I gasp, weak and unsteady as I try to push him away. Useless. He's too heavy, too determined, too drunk to care. The sharp stink of gin clings to him, thick enough to choke me.
It doesn't last long. A few thrusts, a groan, and it's over. His body stiffens, then he spills himself over me before going limp.
For a fleeting second, I think it's done. But then the anger comes. A low curse under his breath, then the sharp crack of his palm against my cheek. My head snaps to the side, pain blooming hot and sharp.
"You think this is funny?" His voice slurs, but the threat is clear. "I used to last longer than this till I met you. Fix it."
I taste blood as he shoves a tiny bottle of gin into my trembling hand. "Touch yourself." His eyes are bloodshot, wild. "Make me want you again."
I can't see him clearly—the world still spins—but that doesn't matter. Nothing ever does. My fingers curl around the cold glass, shaking as I obey. What choice do I have?
Tears burn hot down my face, but I stay quiet. Slowly, I slide the bottle in, wondering if this act is also considered as haram. Crying won't save me. Begging won't stop him. My body trembles beneath his gaze, and the sound of my broken sobs fills the room.
For one brief, shameful moment, I feel something raw. Unexpected. A pleasure that feels painful and exciting at the same time. Even though I'm sore and bruised, the sensation is real. It belongs to me. I close my eyes and try to bask in it.
But it doesn't last.
He grunts in satisfaction when his arousal returns, tearing the bottle from my grip as he forces me back beneath him. This time, his movements are rougher, faster—like he's punishing me for something I can't control. His breath, hot and sour, brushes my face, but I barely notice.
My mind is somewhere else.
Somewhere distant.
I'm not thinking about survival anymore. I'm thinking about freedom.
I'm thinking about how to kill him—and how to do it without going to jail.
⸻
When he's finally done, Alhaji rolls off me with a grunt, adjusting his kaftan like nothing happened. Without a word or glance in my direction, he staggers to his feet and walks out, the door slamming behind him.
For a long moment, I can't move. Every part of me aches—inside and out. My vision is still blurry, but at least I'm not blind like I feared. Clinging to that small relief, I drag myself upright, legs trembling.
In the bathroom, the harsh light stings my eyes. I grip the sink, forcing myself to breathe as warm water runs over my shaking hands. The mirror reflects a face I barely recognize—swollen lips, a red mark across my cheek, eyes that have seen too much. I splash water on my face, but nothing washes the weight in my chest away.
Back in my room, I collapse onto the bed and let the tears fall until I feel hollow.
I force myself to breathe. To exist. To find a distraction.
A sharp beep cuts through my thoughts . My phone.
I don't want to look.
But I eventually do.
A text from Baba.
How are you coping, my daughter? Hope you're taking good care of Alhaji?
A bitter laugh escapes me. I picture him sprawled on some battered sofa, a thick woman rubbing his bald head while he cradles a beer in one hand and his phone in the other. Asking after me like he cares. Like he isn't the reason I'm here.
Oloriburuku, unfortunate man.
I shove the phone aside. Thinking about him or about any of them isn't worth the pain.
Instead, I grab my AirPods, desperate for escape. A song I'd heard on TikTok pops up—Kill Your Husband. The beat is light, playful, like the artist meant it as a joke.
I don't find it funny.
I close my eyes as the lyrics pour through me. The words paint a picture . A solution. Maybe the singer was joking.
But maybe—just maybe—it isn't such a bad idea.
The thought lingers as I drift into sleep, fists curled tight beneath the sheets.
⸻
The next morning, my body aches in places I don't want to think about. My head is heavy, my eyes still blurry, but at least I can see. I force myself out of bed, wincing with every step.
I can still smell the gin, even though he's long gone.
The early sun warms my skin as I lower myself onto a bench near the door. The estate is quiet as usual. My mind spins, thoughts I shouldn't entertain creeping in. Before I know it, tears fall—hot, heavy. I don't bother wiping them away.
What's the point?
I'm so lost in thought I don't hear him approach.
"You okay?"
I glance up.
Ali.
Sweat glistens on his skin, his black tank top clinging to his frame. He had been jogging. I know his mother's quarters are nowhere near mine, so he didn't just end up here by accident.
But right now, I don't care.
I'm just… grateful.
He pulls a napkin from his pocket, handing it to me. I take it without thinking. "Thanks."
For a moment, he doesn't move. He just watches me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and something inside me twists—something warm and yearning.
"You shouldn't cry," he says softly, like he knows exactly why I am.
A bitter laugh escapes me. "Easier said than done."
I expect him to leave, but he doesn't. Instead, he steps closer, his presence pulling me in like gravity. My heart pounds when he crouches in front of me, his knee brushing my leg. I should pull back—I know I should.
But I don't.
I can't.
His fingers brush mine, and the spark is undeniable.
But then—
A loud throat-clearing snaps us both back to reality.
I jerk away as Sisi steps onto the veranda, a knowing smile playing on her lips. Behind her, two maids exchange glances.
"Morning, amarya," she says smoothly, voice laced with sarcasm.
Ali stands immediately, his expression hardening. Without a word, he turns and walks away, leaving me sitting there—heart pounding, breath uneven, already missing his touch.
Sisi waits until he's out of sight before speaking. "He's a fine one, isn't he?"
I roll my eyes, wiping my face one last time with the napkin. "Is it a crime to experience a bit of kindness in this house?"
She laughs but doesn't hide the curiosity in her gaze as she steps inside my apartment, leaving me alone with thoughts I have no business entertaining.
Especially about Ali.
"The maids brought some jewelry for you," Sisi says as the women place boxes on the table. "They'll bring more later, but Uwar Gida will eventually take you shopping. It's time you started looking like an Alhaji's wife."
I nod quietly, though I don't give a damn about jewelry. But I can't say that—Sisi would think I'm stupid.
She glances at her watch. "You're not the first to imagine killing him, dear."
I freeze, hoping I had misheard.
"What?"
She doesn't look at me. "You're not the first to imagine killing him," she repeats. "I once tried to, actually."