She moved slowly through the reserved area, her eyes cast down in a heavy veil of shame, focused on the computer screen before her. “Huuuuu,” she exhaled deeply, adjusting the veil she had wrapped around herself. She wore a bodysuit and chuckled awkwardly as her colleague replied with a similar laugh, “Hahahaaa…” They exchanged this laughter, a façade that Sumayya used to conceal her true emotions. It was her way of asserting herself, a declaration that she wouldn’t tolerate disrespect from her coworkers. Deep down, they all knew that there was a higher authority above them, and they were united in this knowledge. Employees began talking about the new addition to the team, Sumayya.

Sumayya swiveled in her chair, her ample figure taking up most of the space. Her curvy hips and generous behind were testament to her age, probably above twenty-five. She glanced around, distracted, her thoughts drifting as she whispered to herself, “Oh, Sumayya, is this the life you’ve chosen for yourself, hidden away in secrecy?” A middle-aged man nearby muttered, “I can’t take it anymore. I stole company money and ran. Will I be safe here?” Sumayya looked at him with an unreadable expression, hiding any trace of her own past. She thought, “Oya, oya, nabar Company. Here, we all have our secrets.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering her daughter, who now answered to debtors, some of whom were concerned. The person who had offered her this job was the same person who had given her a fresh start. Sumayya gazed at her glasses, watching them glint, realizing how much she had transformed. She smiled, recollecting what had transpired between her and Mmn in the days that had passed.

She needed a break from this bustling city. It was hot, scorching even, as she lay beside someone, their bodies entwined. She playfully kicked her feet, as if she could fly away. “I’m tired of this city,” she mused. “It’s not good for me. It prevents me from paying my debts. Who did I owe anyway? And where should I start now?” she wondered, her hand on her hips. She was a young woman in her late twenties, quite unconventional with the sounds she made, alone but spirited. She walked with an undeniable allure.

“Some Inyamura and Yoruba children who were playing nearby noticed her. Her hijab had slipped down to her forehead, revealing tears and a nervous demeanor. Without a word spoken, they quickly straightened up and called out to their friend, ‘Let’s run to Sima, Sima is here!'”

When Sumayya spotted them, she hardly noticed the boys in line, but they seemed to know something had gone wrong. They raised their legs to stop the children from rushing toward her until Sumayya reached them. She questioned them, “Call me Siman Gaye? Am I your father’s or your mother’s luck?”

The children tried to explain themselves, stammering nervously and looking nothing like the troublemakers they appeared to be. Salihu spoke up, “No, we didn’t mean any harm, Sima. Please, just be patient.” Sumayya’s anger simmered, but she reached out and grabbed Samuel, the one who had been attempting to divert his eyes and escape, forcing him to confront his wrongdoing.

“Oh Jesus!” Samuel pleaded, clasping his hands together in prayer. Simayya chuckled wryly, her face masking her amusement. “Jesus, your father! After I pray for you today, you’ll know that God is one. Sima, please forgive me… Sima, I’m sorry.”

Sumayya unleashed a sudden slap that took Samuel by surprise, and he yelped as if unprepared for the pain. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, resembling one who had bathed in warm water. He threw some insults at Sumayya, who didn’t back down, making a display that attracted attention. “Aaahhhhh,” he screamed for help, resorting to desperate cries for aid, showing his true colors as one who, in distress, called upon God despite earlier ungodly behavior. However, those who witnessed it were quick to turn away, recognizing Sumayya and wanting no part in the ensuing chaos and riches.

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