Our Fates: Book III of the Fate Trilogy

Fourteen: That Wife Of His

By 09:25 A.M., I’m seated in the living room, scrolling through Instagram, waiting for alhaji’s driver. Baba has gone to the primary school where he teaches Arabic while mama is taking her bath.

“Assalamu alaikum,” A female voice greets from the doorway. I turn and see my younger sister, Surayya with a bulging brown bag in her hand. She runs and lands on my side. “Yaya indo.”

I eye her, “I told you I don’t like that name.” She pouts. I smile. “How are you? And how is school?” She nods.

Mama does the teslim and comes in with Lubaba behind her, talking fast with popping a gum in her mouth. How rude.

She sits beside mama across from me, still talking, still popping. “Ke?” I call her. She pauses, turning to me.

“Ina kwana.” She flings at me and resumes her gist. Mama, who’s busy rubbing cream on her body and nodding to her youngest daughter’s yap, notices what’s happening.

“Ke, haka a ke gaisuwa?”

I smile. Of course Lubaba knows that’s not how to greet her elders. But it seems she has forgotten, and I don’t mind teaching her a big lesson.

“Leave her.” I say to mama, then turn to Surayya, “Go inside my room, you will see a set of pink boxes arranged like this,” I form a pyramid shape with my hand, “bring the second one.”

Surayya nods and goes to bring it. Lubaba is a lot like me so I know exactly how to deal with her.

A car honks from outside. My phone rings. It’s the driver. I turn to mom and smile. She smiles back.

 Surayya comes in with the bag. “Gashi, yaya.” Lubaba gasps. She knows the bag. I sent her a video of the set when It first arrived at my house. She gushed over it, begging me to dash her one of the smaller boxes, and I was going to, until now.

With Lubaba’s eyes still trained on me, looking remorseful now she knows what’s at stake, I turn to Surayya who is seated, rummaging through her bag. “Surayya?”

“She raises her head, lips folded. “Na’am, yaya?” I push the bag toward her, not caring that everything inside is of two pairs. “Take, everything inside is for you.” As her eyes bulges out in surprise, I add, “even the bag.”

“Kai!” Lubaba’s shrill voice rings out just as Surayya screams out “Allah?” I stand, adjusting my heavily embroidered pink and blue fitted gown with a matching pink veil folded on my shoulder, glass blue stilettos, and a white clutch.

Ignoring my stupid sister’s dazed expression as Surayya excitedly opens the bag and sorts through its content, I turn to mama who shakes her head at me: a warning. I shrug and wiggle my fingers.

Outside, the driver comes out and opens the door as I notice some kids under a mango tree behind us, standing and pointing. I really missed this feeling.

Mama comes out of the house, a hand over her face as a shield against the sun. Her eyes roam over the car as she nods, impressed. Lubaba follows as though she was pushed from behind, tears streaking down her face.

As she opens her mouth to speak, I wave at mama and tell the driver to move. We have wasted enough time already.

We arrive at an uncompleted multiple-storey building with two black cars parked in front. I frown. Why am I here?

As we park, the door by my right opens. The man in suit from the day before peeks inside, does a double take, then quickly recovers, nods at me, then leaves. I climb out and join him standing beside Alhaji mai Sujjada who turns to me, a brow raised.