Khadijah story side.
The next morning was a Saturday, but it didn’t feel like a normal one.
There was a quiet urgency in the house.
My dad asked all of us to get dressed, properly dressed. No explanation. No hint. Just that firm tone that meant we shouldn’t ask questions.
Even more surprising… my mom was also getting ready.
She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her gele, admiring herself like everything in the house was perfectly fine.
Mom: I have a wedding to attend.
My dad didn’t even look at her.
Not once.
When we were all ready, he stepped back and looked at us, his eyes soft for a moment.
Dad: You all look beautiful. Let’s go.
We were about stepping out when my mom turned sharply.
Mom: Where exactly are you all going, dressed like this?
Dad: That’s none of your business. Kids, let’s go.
We moved toward the door, but her voice stopped us again.
Mom: Khadijah… what are you wearing?
I froze.
Before I could answer, my dad spoke.
Dad: What does it look like?
Her eyes narrowed as she walked closer to me, scanning me from head to toe.
Mom: Before I lose my temper, go and remove this masquerade outfit. Who bought it for you?
My throat tightened.
Khadijah: Daddy…
Dad: I bought it for her. So what?
Mom: Not in my house! As long as I am your mother, you will not wear this nonsense.
Before I could step back, she grabbed my khimar.
Hard.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric, pulling it roughly.
Mom: I will tear it off your body!
My heart jumped into my throat.
But in a second, my dad stepped forward and yanked her away from me.
Dad: Enough!
His voice thundered through the house.
Dad: You are really testing my patience. Don’t push me to the point where I lose control.
Mom laughed bitterly, folding her arms.
Mom: Go ahead. Beat me because of her. Let the whole community hear that you beat your wife for a girl.
Dad stepped closer, his voice low but dangerous.
Dad: Listen carefully. If you ever try to tear or burn this khimar again… that day, you will leave this house.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Dad: Try me.
Then he turned.
Dad: Kids, let’s go.
Mom scoffed.
Mom: Whatever. I’m going too. Can you drop me?
Dad didn’t even pause.
Dad: Don’t you have legs?
And he walked out.
Leaving her standing there.
The day passed quickly, but the tension stayed with me.
By the time we got home, the sky was already dim, the evening air heavy.
It was around 7:00 pm.
We stepped into the house and met my mom exactly where we left her—on the couch, pressing her phone like nothing had happened.
We greeted her.
She ignored us.
Then suddenly—
Mom: Iwon tie! Come here.
I walked toward her slowly.
Khadijah: Ma.
She didn’t even look at me properly.
Mom: Where did your father take you?
Khadijah: For nikah.
Her fingers paused on her phone.
Mom: Just nikah?
Khadijah: Yes.
She dropped the phone beside her.
Mom: Go and prepare yam porridge. Be fast. And don’t try what you did yesterday.
Khadijah: Okay, ma.
Amirah came beside me immediately.
Amirah: Aunty Khadijah, I’ll help you.
Khadijah: Okay.
The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of knife against yam.
Peel after peel dropped into the bowl.
For a moment, everything felt normal.
Then the front door opened.
Voices.
Footsteps.
We both paused.
My heart skipped.
I stepped out of the kitchen—
And there he was.
My dad.
Standing proudly.
Beside him…
A woman.
Beautiful. Calm. Covered.
And behind her, two other women.
My mom slowly stood up from the couch, confusion written all over her face.
She looked from one person to another, trying to understand.
Then my dad spoke.
Dad: You. This is my wife.
The words landed like a slap.
Her phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor.
Mom: …Wife?
Her voice cracked.
Mom: For who?
Dad didn’t even answer her question.
Dad: Pick your phone. It seems more valuable to you than your family.
Then he called me.
Dad: Khadijah!
Khadijah: Sir… welcome, Daddy.
Dad: Take this key. Open the fourth room.
My hands trembled slightly as I collected it.
Khadijah: Okay, sir… welcome, ma.
The woman smiled at me warmly.
New mom: Thank you, my dear.
Then she turned to my mom.
Her voice was calm. Respectful.
New mom: Good evening, iyale mi. I am your co-wife from today. I come in peace, not in conflict. I hope we can live together with understanding. My name is Aisha. Assalamu alaykum.
My mom didn’t respond.
She just stared.
Like the world had stopped moving.
My siblings rushed forward, surrounding the new woman with excitement.
She welcomed them like she had always known them—touching their heads, asking about their day, smiling gently.
There was warmth in her presence.
Something we hadn’t felt in a long time.
Later, after settling her things, my dad spoke softly.
Dad: Go and rest. I’ll go and pray.
New mom: I will pray too.
Amirah: We’ll join you.
New mom: MashaAllah. Let’s go.
I quickly finished the yam porridge, turned off the gas, and joined them.
The house felt… different.
After prayer, the air shifted again.
My mom was standing in the living room, waiting.
Still.
Silent.
As the new wife walked past, my mom called out.
Mom: You… come here.
The new wife turned calmly.
New mom: Are you calling me?
Mom: Who else?
She walked closer.
New mom: I’m here.
Mom stepped forward, her voice sharp.
Mom: You have the guts to marry my husband?
New mom didn’t react.
New mom: I am not here to fight. I am not here to take him from you. We are sharing him.
My mom burst into laughter.
Cold laughter.
Mom: Sharing? I know your type. You want to destroy my home.
New mom: I choose peace. For the sake of Allah.
She paused.
New mom: You can choose whatever you want.
Then she turned and walked away.
My mom stood there, breathing heavily.
Mom: I will show you who I am in this house…
When my dad returned, the storm finally broke.
Mom: You brought another woman into this house?!
Dad: If you want to shout, start now.
Mom: I cannot stay with her!
Dad: Then leave.
Silence.
Dad: I got tired of you a long time ago. You stopped being a wife… and a mother.
His words cut deep.
Dad: If you refuse your responsibilities, someone else will take them.
Mom: You think she will replace me?!
Dad: Just admit you don’t want to leave.
He turned away.
Dad: And don’t starve my children again.
Then he walked off.
Leaving her standing alone.
Mom sank slowly onto the couch.
And for the first time…
She cried.
Fatimah story side.
A few days later, my life changed again.
My dad took me to a tailoring shop.
No matter how much I cried, begged, or refused… they didn’t listen.
My mates were preparing for JAMB.
Moving forward.
Chasing their dreams.
And me?
I was learning how to sew.
Every stitch felt like a reminder of what I had lost.
My boss was strict. Harsh. My parents had warned her not to go easy on me.
So I learned… with pain.
At home, I became quiet.
No one asked why.
One afternoon, our boss wasn’t around.
We were five girls, sitting outside the shop, laughing and talking.
Then he appeared.
Tall. Confident. Handsome.
We all went quiet for a second.
Stranger: Hello, beautiful ladies.
All of us: Hi.
Stranger: You all look amazing.
All of us: Thank you.
Then his eyes stopped on me.
Stranger: Can I speak with you?
Fatimah: Me?
Stranger: Yes.
I stood up slowly and followed him.
We stepped aside.
Stranger: I’ve been noticing you for a while.
His voice softened.
Stranger: You’re different.
I frowned slightly.
Fatimah: Are you talking to me?
Stranger: The first day I saw you… I couldn’t forget you.
My heart skipped, but I kept my face straight.
Fatimah: Thank you.
He leaned closer.
Stranger: Just thank you?
Fatimah: Is “I love you” a question?
He smiled.
Stranger: I can take cae of you. Anything you want.
That irritated me.
Fatimah: Do I look cheap to you?
He quickly raised his hands.
Stranger: No, no… please. Just give me a chance.
I hesitated.
Fatimah: I’ll think about it.
Stranger: When?
Fatimah: I said I’ll think about it.
He smiled.
Stranger: I’ll be waiting.
I turned and walked away. But something about his eyes. Stayed with me.
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