In the town of Sabo, near Zaria, my father, Mallam Shehu, runs a Quranic school with students coming from various distant places, including Maradi in Niger, Yawunde in Cameroon, and even Kumasi in Ghana. His branch of the school is quite large, with over five hundred students. It’s so well-known that if you ask for “Mallam Shehu’s branch in Sabo, near Zaria,” someone will surely guide you to it.

Among his children, the eldest is Hajiya Shema’u, affectionately known as Hajiya Zaria because she’s married to a businessman named Alhaji Umaru in Zaria. She’s his only wife, and they have four children, but their house is quite spacious. Even as they grow wealthier, they choose to remain in the same house unless each sibling decides to build their modern home according to their preferences. So, they all live together, along with their other living parents.

Hajiya Zaria is known for her generosity and her willingness to serve our parents. Whenever she prepares a meal, she sets aside a special portion for my younger sister, Badiaotu, who is the daughter of Innata, my father’s second wife. My mother greatly appreciates this gesture as she believes it’s the only time someone acknowledges her youngest daughter.

One Tuesday afternoon, my mother was cooking in the kitchen, and I was sitting nearby working on a dress for my daughter. My mother noticed my interest in my sewing and suggested that I join the Quranic students or use my free time to study. She said that whenever I write something on the blackboard, Badiaotu tries to replicate it before I erase it. I pretended not to know what she meant, but her suggestion stayed with me.

Then, there was a cheerful greeting of “Assalamu alaikum.” The voice was so familiar that I dropped my sewing, and my daughter also got startled. I rushed to hug Hajiya Zaria, and her accompanying daughter, Zainab, hugged the girl she was supporting. The Almajirai children hugged their clothes tightly. After the warm greetings, Hajiya Zaria helped lay down her daughter Zainab and inquired why the other children hadn’t come with them. Hajiya informed her that today was a school day, and even Alhaji, the boy named Mallam, was attending school now. I couldn’t help but laugh at the surprise.

As I sat there, happily admiring the stitches Hajiya Zaria had done for me, they had brought three coats made from my mother’s and father’s old clothes. My father came into the room, and he too admired the work. He asked if Hajiya Zaria and her husband were tired. My mother was quick to show him the clothes and explained how Hajiya Zaria and her husband had been of great service to us. My father appreciated their efforts and blessed them along with their descendants.