Khadijah Story Side
The next morning was like any other. We got ready for school, and while I was in the kitchen cooking, Mom suddenly called Amirah to help me with the chores. I froze for a moment, did I hear her right?
Amirah didn’t hesitate. She gladly joined me, helping with the dishes and other housework. With her around, I finished everything on time, and I could feel something different in the air that morning. Even my dad noticed the smile I couldn’t hide.
I was genuinely happy.
When I got to school, I walked through the gate and, for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t miss assembly. Everyone seemed surprised—some even impressed.
A few days later, things in the house had been unusually calm. No shouting. No beating. I was careful not to do anything wrong, and somehow, peace had settled in.
That night, we were all in the living room watching a movie. That was when I gathered courage to bring something up.
I wanted a khimar.
But I didn’t tell Mom first. I turned to Dad.
Khadijah: Dad?
Dad: (pressing his phone) Yes?
Khadijah: I want to buy a khimar and socks… I want to wear them when I go out, and also to madrasah.
My mom suddenly lifted her head.
Mom: What did you just say? Maybe I didn’t hear you well.
Khadijah: (softly) I said I want to buy khimar.
Her face changed instantly.
Mom: Wanti bi e da? Not in this house! So you want to start dressing like those masquerades, abi? Don’t ever bring that nonsense up again—or you’ll see another side of me.
Dad: Woman, calm down now.
He turned to me.
Dad: You want khimar? Isn’t the one you have enough?
Khadijah: Daddy… the ones I have are short baby hijabs. My body is still exposed when I wear them. And most of my clothes are tight trousers and shirts.
Dad: As for me, I don’t have money for any khimar. Manage what you have.
He went back to his phone.
Mom: And as far as I’m concerned, as your mother, you will not wear that rag in this house. Masquerade clothes? What will people say—you want to look like a pretender? I didn’t stop you from praying. Wear your baby hijab and go to madrasah. Anything beyond that, I will not allow it.
Khadijah: (slowly kneeling) Mummy, please… it’s not masquerade clothes. I love it. Please, Mom.
Mom: I said no! Not in this house. You want to dress like a village girl in Lagos? Haba! Who does that?
Then she suddenly switched topics.
Mom: By the way, my friend is celebrating her husband’s birthday on Sunday. We are all going.
Dad: Why am I just hearing this now? You didn’t even ask me.
Mom: I was about to tell you. Take it easy, you are not God.
Khadijah: (suddenly raising her voice) Mom!
Mom: What?! If I slap you, you’ll learn to shut your dirty mouth.
At that moment, my dad stood up angrily and left the living room.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Khadijah: Mommy, he is your husband! Why are you rude to him? He is the head of this house!
Mom: Am I the one you are talking to like that?
Khadijah: Don’t touch me! You’re also rude to him!
Khalid: Yes, Mom. You’re unfair to Daddy.
Amirah: Honestly, you don’t act like a good example at all.
That was it. I stood up and went after my dad.
Khadijah and Dad
Khadijah: Assalamu alaykum, Daddy.
Dad: Wa alaykum salam. Come in.
I entered his room quietly.
Khadijah: I’m sorry about Mom. She was being immature… I’m really sorry, Daddy. Please don’t let her words hurt you.
Dad: It’s okay, dear. Sit.
I sat down beside him.
Dad: I’m trying my best to be a good father… but your mother…
He paused, then sighed.
Dad: My love for her died a long time ago.
Khadijah: (shocked) Dad? Why? What happened?
Dad: How do you expect me to love a woman like that? Always rude… never respectful… not even a good mother.
He leaned back, frustration building.
Dad: I’m even planning to marry another wife soon. The only thing stopping me is you children. I love you all… but your mother… she has never made me happy.
He shook his head.
Dad: She doesn’t even cook for me anymore. When last did she prepare food with her own hands? You are the one doing everything in this house.
Then he said it.
Dad: I want a wife who will act like a wife.
I held his hand gently.
Khadijah: Dad… I understand you. I really do. And I support your decision… if marrying another wife will make you happy.
I hesitated, then added softly.
Khadijah: But please… marry a religious woman. Someone good. Someone who will also take care of us.
Then I asked the question I had been carrying in my heart.
Khadijah: Dad… why does Mom hate me so much? Was I adopted?
He looked at me for a moment.
Dad: No, my child. You are not adopted. In fact… she is your biological mother.
I blinked.
Dad: But I am not your biological father.
Khadijah: What?!
He began to explain.
Seventeen years ago, your mother was a student at the University of Lagos. She was in 300 level. She lived with her aunt after losing her parents young. They sponsored her education, but they treated her harshly.
She was intelligent, studying accounting. She had a boyfriend back then, a coursemate.
And I… I was someone who truly loved her. I told her I wanted marriage. I didn’t come to play.
She rejected me many times… but I never gave up.
Then she got pregnant out of wedlock.
Her boyfriend denied responsibility. He wasn’t ready for marriage, and he walked away.
Your mother suffered deeply. Her aunt rejected her. She even considered abortion but was afraid.
Months later, I learned everything.
So I went to her family and asked for her hand in marriage.
They accepted. She thought her life was over… but I stepped in.
I married her while she was pregnant.
Three months later, she gave birth to you.
But she never loved me.
He paused.
Dad: She always says you ruined her life… not knowing she brought everything on herself.
He turned to me gently.
Dad: Just because I’m not your biological father doesn’t mean I’m not your father. Your real father never came back for you. But you… you made me a father.
His voice softened.
Dad: You are my first child. And I have never regretted you for a second.
I broke down in tears, burying my face in the bed.
Moments later, voices filled the house.
Mom: What is going on here?!
Dad: I told her the truth. I told her why you hate her.
Mom: What?! You did what?!
Dad: You can shout all you want, but don’t raise your voice at me. At least now she knows the truth.
Amirah: Mom… what is Dad talking about?
Mom: You won’t understand.
I couldn’t stay. I stood up and walked out, locking myself in my room, tears choking me.
Fatimah Story Side
After the day my mother caught me hugging my boyfriend, everything changed.
I received the worst punishment of my life. They stopped giving me transport fare. They stopped trusting me. My house became a place of constant punishment.
But honestly… nothing stopped me from living how I wanted.
They could punish me, but they couldn’t break me.
My mother never sat me down to talk. She only shouted. That became my life.
Months later, my WAEC result came out.
And it ruined everything.
My father checked it.
Dad: Fatimah!
Fatimah: Yes, sir?
Dad: Come here!
I walked slowly.
Fatimah: I’m here, Dad.
He handed me his phone.
Dad: Check your result yourself.
My hands were shaking as I opened it.
5 credits. 2 E’s. 2 F’s.
My heart dropped.
Dad: Good of you! Very good!
He shouted.
Dad: Iya Fatimah!
Mom: Yes, sir…
Dad: Come here!
He gave her the phone.
Dad: Do you see? She failed!
My mother collapsed into a kneel.
Mom: Fatimah… iya Olorun… what kind of child are you?
My father stood up in anger.
Dad: Do you want me to waste another 100k on this ungrateful child? Do you know how hard I worked for that money?!
He walked upstairs and came back with a belt.
I tried to run, but it was too late.
The belt came down on me repeatedly.
I fell to the ground, crying and rolling in pain… but no one stopped it.
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