She was walking, periodically looking back, approaching a door, where she eventually stopped and typed a message: “Come out, open it. I’m outside.” Glancing back at the window, she noticed an old man walking and knocking. “Tasleem, God is ready for you,” he said with folded hands, his eyes twinkling. She raised her fist and observed the door slightly ajar. “When did I open it?” she questioned.

“When you told me that you were on your way, I opened the door,” came the reply. “SBD, why did you go to the bathroom?” Tasleem inquired, expressing her discomfort with the neighborhood.

I watched as she adjusted her hijab, removing her long-sleeved white top. There, just below her bosom, was an opening revealing her pink vest under her Fulani attire. Her hair was adorned with a pink ribbon, while its natural color was white. Folding her hijab, she glanced in my direction and proceeded to a corridor adjacent to the kitchen. The house’s owner, Nada, had kept everything impeccably clean. I saw her turn on the hot water…