Girl-child

By Maimuna Abubakar

The house girl business is ancient in Nigeria and the most common one in my area. I am from the north-central part of Nigeria, also known as ‘The Middle-Belt’.

It is common among women here in my local government area to keep girls at home as house helps, girls who, in most cases, are between the age of 13-18 while some may even be younger.

The idea of keeping young children as house helps has always eaten me up, and I have probed a lot of people regarding the rationale behind it. And because I am familiar with a number of these girls and even one of the parents, I decided to ask directly from the horse’s mouth.

For the sake of privacy, I will name the girls after colours. The first house girls I know are Violet, Lavender and Purple. They were about the same age, 12 or 13, I guess. They were brought to the city by a man from their village, who works in the city and became the supplier of these girls. These three girls stayed with people I know, and their job description involved doing all house chores and hawking.

In addition, the girls took care of the domestic needs of their madam’s children, such as the washing of clothes, sweeping and tidying of their rooms, making their meals etc., including children that are older than the girls. Their case, except for Lavender, is a bit favourable compared to others because these madams treated them almost the same as their children. They bought whatever they got for their children and enrolled them in Islamic schools (Islamiyya).

When I asked Violet who I was closest to why they don’t attend a school like the children of their employers did, she told me their parents are against it and asked that they should be enrolled in skill acquisition instead. Unfortunately, the reason these parents are against their children going to school was not disclosed to the wards concerned, as Violet told me.

However, she was very curious to learn. She would always ask me to teach her how to spell things or say when speaking to someone who doesn’t understand Hausa. As Violet got older while staying with her madam, she began to lose interest in her job. Every time she came back from their two-week annual break – they got to see their parents for only two weeks in a year – Violent kept telling me that she wished she never returned, that her father is an older man who she believes needed her assistance. Still, her stepmother insisted that she be married off with nothing from her family if she didn’t return to her job. So she was sent out to the city to fetch money to get her married to a man chosen by her family. Violet later told me that she kept coming back even though she hated it because it was the only choice she got if she didn’t want to get married at such an early age.

The story is the same for Purple. Although, unlike Violet, who was very enthusiastic and ready to learn, Purple always stayed home and watched movies while her madam was at work and the children had gone to Islamiyya. 

On the other hand, Lavender was not as lucky as Violet and Purple. Her mistress owns a local restaurant. She woke up as early as 5 am and slept as late as 12 am, and the cycle continued. She often faced sexual harassment from her madam’s customers, but she could not report them because the first and the last time she did, she was beaten black and blue after being accused of lying. So she had to learn to protect herself by cursing them and drawing others’ attention when anyone tries something inappropriate.

Lavender didn’t attend any school, nor did she acquire any vocational skills. She later ran back to her village and never returned. But I heard from Violet that she was taken to another state different from ours. These three girls were later called back home by their parents and were married off.

Blue is another girl I know who was brought to the city by a woman from her village. She worked with this lady who didn’t allow her to eat with the rest of the family, wash her clothes along with the lady’s children’s or even sleep on the same bed even though they were almost Blue’s age or younger. She couldn’t eat if the children didn’t eat because she was supposed to eat only the remnants of the family’s meal. She got beaten for slight mistakes like accidentally destroying anything from the lady’s home, even if it was as small as a plate. The lady always threatened to deduct it from her annual payment.

I asked Blue why she stayed despite this visible maltreatment, and she said it was because she had to earn to support her family. She never returned after she left this lady’s house, but I am almost certain that she was taken to another home.

On the other hand, Ash is a bit older than the rest of them, and she is the one whose mum I know. Financial hardship made Ash’s mother send her to her neighbour’s house as a house help in exchange for Ash’s school fees. When this neighbour decided to relocate to a new environment, Ash’s mother pleaded with her to take her daughter along to get an education. But this neighbour is a difficult one.

If Ash doesn’t finish her chores on time, she won’t be allowed to go to school. If the neighbour’s children don’t go to school, Ash won’t go too. If they are sick, Ash cannot go to school. Ash will also have to miss school if their school is on break. And because Ash does everything in the house, including cooking for about eight to ten kinds of dishes a day since the neighbour loves varieties and always have guest around, Ash is consistently unable to do her homework and often fails her tests and examinations. Not considering all the extreme labour Ash is carrying out, this neighbour told Ash’s parents that she is a dumb girl and only wastes her money on Ash’s education. She refused to allow her to attend extra lessons organized for students like Ash, who are left behind academically, especially since they are about to write their SSCE. Ash was only enrolled in Islamiyya when the neighbour’s kids were old enough to attend. 

Ash felt she couldn’t take it anymore, so she sought respite in marriage. She decided she wanted to get married as soon as she completed her WAEC and NECO, so she brought home a man she chose for herself. He is a young man who owns a kiosk close to Ash school. He asked Ash out when she was in SS2. But Mrs Neighbor said that Ash could not marry an illiterate. That Ash should either bring an M.Sc. or at least a degree holder or no one. She told Ash’s parents that it is in the girl’s best interest that she is trying to make sure Ash has both social and financial security.

Although Ash is not very far from her parents’ house, she seldom visits them because, according to this neighbour, no one will do the house chores while she is gone. Therefore, if Ash’s parents wanted to see her, they would go to the neighbour’s house. Ash’s mother, on several occasions, goes to this neighbour’s house while the neighbour is at work to relieve her daughter of the overbearing labour.

These are a few out of a hundred horrible stories of such girls. I’m not saying there are no house helps who have attained success or are in the process of achieving their life goals with their initial job as a stepping stone. There are!

I know someone who owns a fashion designing shop. I also know someone who has graduated from a higher institution and is already starting a career. Some are still pursuing their education at different levels. But, there are only a handful of such girls, they are rare, and their rarity proves the point that house help business as conducted in my locality especially is just typical child labour and abuse.

How do we curb this dangerous abuse that has been going on in almost all parts of the country?

Since the growing number of working-class women in our society means that mothers can no longer take care of their children 24/7, entrepreneurs can use this opportunity to create niche markets. They can then form a house help agency in or around areas where mothers with such needs are residing.

Again, we have thousands of graduates from the department of ECCE (Early Child Care Education) both from our various colleges of education and our universities. These entrepreneurs can implore their services. These agencies can then employ older women willing to take care of children. Young individuals, both men and women, can also be engaged as either part-time or full-time employees depending on such a person’s financial needs.

The agency can also run a temporary employment program for college students who are on holiday to earn money before resumption. These agencies can have two or more departments; those involved in housekeeping, those responsible for babysitting etc. That way, hopefully, these teenage girls whose parents have been taking advantage of them can also have a life of their own. 

Maimuna Abubakar is a Sociology Student at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. She sent this article via maimunaabubakar200@gmail.com.

By Ambali Abdulkabeer

More than any other incidents, the recent killing of one Hanifa Abubakar in Kano state by her wicked school head, Mr Abdulmalik Tanko, has been making the rounds on social media. People have angrily commented on the gory incident and demanded that the perpetrator be immediately killed in return. However, more than the angry ocean of comments made by parents who put themselves in the shoes of the diseased’s parents, it would be depressing to construe the motive behind the action. If truth be told, we live in a world rife with sheer inhumanity.

Based on the reports published by several newspapers, Mr Tanko, who is a father of three, had kidnapped the deceased and demanded 6 million ransom weeks before he eventually murdered her. He did that, according to reports, because the innocent girl recognized him. I can’t wrap my head around this. But, while we feel battered by his action, we should not forget that Mr Tanko is a representative of a larger, utterly redolent society.

In several parts of the country, such a case is rising. Our society has degenerated into a theatre of inexplicable death while we continue to pretend nothing is happening. It is not out of point to mention that ours is a world of wolves in sheep’s clothing. We no longer value human souls. Instead, we belittle the significance of life as enshrined in the sacred books available to us. Daily, people’s interactions are shaped by motives that stray away from the principles of humanity.

In all of this, I think we have to reflect on the happenings in our world. The fact that suspicion, manifest in hypocrisy and sheer wickedness, defines our relationships as a people should remind us of the destruction that has befallen the human race. As far as I know, no religion justifies the termination of the human soul on flimsy reason. No culture encourages such. What is wrong with us?

For instance, ALLAH reminds us in Qur’an 5:32 that killing of the human soul is a grave offence: “For that, cause We decreed for the Children of Israel that whosoever killeth a human being for other than manslaughter or corruption in the earth, it shall be as if he had killed all mankind, and whoso saveth the life of one, it shall be as if he had saved the life of all mankind.” Several Hadiths of the noble prophet Muhammad (SAW) also remind us of the enormous aberration that unjustifiable termination of human souls represents.

It is high time we began to pay attention to virtue in our society. I have always felt that Nigeria is descending into a society where morality and values are no longer cherished. People are driven by wealth, and this practice is not unconnected to the litany of woes that our society experiences. Cases of young people dying in their quest for ‘quick money’ are numberless. Unarguably, the high rate of unemployment, mismanagement of resources by those at the helms of affairs, utter cynicism evident in our religious institutions and others have also been cited as reasons people engage themselves in the unimaginable.

However, we would help our society a lot by refusing not to be driven into egregious acts such as killing innocent people, as Tanko did. He didn’t even think about Hanifa’s innocence, her parents and the fact that she had a future. Mr Tanko’s action, in other words, is a manifestation of the death of ethics in our evil society. George Bernard Shaw was right when he said, “The nation’s morals are like its teeth; the more decayed they are, the more it hurts to touch them.”

Mr Tanko should be punished according to the gravity of his offence. He doesn’t deserve mercy, and the law must not be altered to excuse his egregious act as not deserving of death. For subjecting the deceased’s parents to endless grief, for showing that the human soul doesn’t matter to him, for doing the unimaginable, Mr Tanko must not go scot-free. May ALLAH bless the deceased and comfort her parents.

Ambali Abdulkabeer writes in from Ilorin. He can be reached via abdulkabeerambali@gmail.com.

By Bilyaminu Idris Ndasadulau

I believe in collective action, responsibility and collaboration. That’s why I joined as a man to fight against period stigmatisation and period poverty. It’s everyone responsibility, not only the females.

Menstruation matters to me. Thus, I consider any form of stigma associated with menstruation a social abuse and crime against women. Unfortunately, millions of women and girls continue to live in period poverty around the world without any support from the government to end the problem. We need to address the issue collectively. That’s why in 2019, I started online research studies on health matters, and I found out many women and girls need pads, but they cannot afford them, which can often lead to girls not attending school and also unhygienic practices. 

So in 2020, we initiated the “Rescue A Girl” project, which aims to end the stigma and discrimination and focus on enhancing, from the grassroots, adequate education, health and gender equality, which is a key to achieving the Sustainable Development Goals agenda. 

In the same year, during the COVID-19 pandemic, we launched the project on International Girl Day. We outreached to different schools and communities where we educated and impacted over 350 women and girls with free sanitary pads.

After our 2020 project report, we understand that sanitary pads are not the best solution to end period poverty and financial inequality worldwide. So we design a sustainable solution strategy to support these women and girls through reusable pads products. Which is very affordable and also help in economic empowerment to produce these materials and sell them. At the same time, our approach will be a sustainable solution to end period poverty and increase available good health hygiene aids for women and girls. 

In late 2021, we decided to push the sustainable solution to reality, where we visited and trained almost 1000 women and girls in different marginalised places. While we also raise awareness to improve knowledge and practices of menstrual hygiene management, especially for the local residents and school girls.

This effort was supported by Connected Development in collaboration with ShareYourself Organization from the USA. Through this project, we build transparency data of impact to ensure our partners and the public can see the sustainability of our work. So we can gain more support around the world. 

This project targets 2000 women and girls just for the 2021 goal. Still, it is a life continuation work to ensure we reduce the high rate of women and girls facing period poverty and lack of MHM knowledge. While we also empower them to become self economic independent and minimise environmental waste caused by sanitary pads. 

We will keep pushing the Rescue A Girl project as a movement to ensure policymakers, government, NGOs and individuals all play their role through taking it as a responsibility and commitment to change the policies and mindsets to support these vulnerable living survivors. 

The experience we gained throughout this health project was unique. We travelled to slums; we met a lot of young housewives and girls, and we built confidence brought hope and a smile on their faces.         

You can reach Idris Bilyaminu Ndasadu’Lau via bilyaminuidrisndasadulau@gmail.com.

By Maryam Muhammad Lawan

“Baby sis! I’m craving for something spicy,” I said in a cosseted voice. 

“Don’t worry, please. Your lazy sis will take care of you today. Guess what! No, I’m not even telling you anymore. Just wait for it,” sis said. 

I jabbed at her amusingly while saying, “Go and prepare whatsoever it’s please”.

“So, you’re poking fun at me. I’ll surprise you today”, My sister said while cackling.

“Yeah, don’t surprise me with rubbish, please, “I teased while she guffawed and moved on. “What a sis? Bless her ya Allah, “I said silently.  

I was left alone in the room when I logged into my Facebook account and started scrolling. Why do I see Haneefah’s pictures on almost every post? Did those other sets of humans release her? So I decided to read, to discover what it is. 

SubhanAllah! AstagfiruLah! I read as many updates as possible, for I couldn’t believe what I read from the first update. But eventually, I realized even the first update was as right as a trivet. 

“Don’t tell me you couldn’t wait for me to finish. I want to cook delicious food, so be more patient, please,” My sister said as she heard my footsteps towards the kitchen. I stood there, and she quickly looked at me. “Okay. Cry, cry, baby, what’s wrong again? Let me turn off this cooker before this mood of yours spoil my hot spicy meal,” sis said aggressively.

I couldn’t spell out even a word, maybe because I was emotional. So all I could do was to extend the phone to her. 

She used her hands and closed her mouth. Tears had no option rather than to roll out of her eyes.

“Innaa lillaahi wa innaa ilaihi raaji’uun! AstagfirulLah wa atubu ilaik! Ya Allah, have mercy on us. The girl I so much like? Though I don’t know her, the girl I always pray for Allah to protect her wherever she’s, and from the evil of those men?” she said with a sorrowful voice. She continued reciting, “HasbunalLahu wa ni’imal wakeel”.

“Her school teacher did this, then, if learning places are not safe, where on earth then? What a wicked world, Ya Rahman, have mercy on us. Ya Razzaq, grant her parents the fortitude to bear this loss,” My sister prayed

I replied, “Ameen ya Rabb,” while giving her a shoulder to cry on.

Maryam Muhammad Lawal wrote from Kaduna via mmafamam@gmail.com.

By Salma Yakubu

I sat on a bench under a neem tree behind the Faculty of Education lecture hall. I stared emptily at nothing in particular.

‘Hey! Karima!’ My classmate, Siyama, snapped me out of my thoughts.

‘What are you thinking?’ She scowled as she sat down.

‘The test, I hadn’t studied well.’ I complained.

‘You should have studied enough. You know that lecturer is very tough, he wouldn’t hesitate to fail you. Plus, you are not so good in his course.’ She blamed me.

‘Shut up!’ I roared in anger while already in remorse.

‘I should have studied.’  I murmured to myself.

I was still nursing the pain when Aliyu, the class rep, walked up to us. Aliyu is a young and vibrant student of average height and in his early twenties.

‘Oh, you guys are here; I have been looking for you.’ He said.

‘What’s up?’ I held my breath to hear if it was about another test, assignment, or attendance.

‘Mr. Bashir, statistics, asked me to call you.’ He said. My heart skipped a beat.

‘Why?’ I asked before I sprang to my feet. ‘Did I do anything wrong?’ I enquired.

‘I don’t know. He only said I should call you.’ He replied. I turned to Siyama, who was also in awe.

‘Okay, Aliyu, I’m right behind you.’ I threw my stuff inside the bag and started walking. Siyama followed me.

Two lecturers were leaving as we got to Mr Bashir’s office door. Immediately the door closed back, I knocked.

‘Come in’, Mr Bashir responded. So Siyama and I entered the office.

‘Karima only,’ he said without looking at either of us. Siyama and I exchanged a glance as she slammed the door behind her.

‘Sit down,’ he pointed at a sofa across the room. I sat anxiously and clutched tightly to my bag.

‘You…called…for me…sir.’ I stammered.

‘Yes, Karima.’ He removed his spec, dusted it off and placed it in the spec case. ‘You failed my statistics test, do you know that?’ He furrowed.

‘Yes,’ I nodded. He sighed.

‘You score seven out of twenty points. This is going to affect your grade. How do you plan to stop that from happening?’ He focused his eyes on me. I lowered my gaze in silence. ‘Study harder for exams?’ He asked.

‘Yes,’ I mumbled.

He chuckled. ‘You lost thirteen marks. That’s too much. You are most likely to fail the exam.’ He leaned forward. ‘But you have nothing to worry about. I will help you.’ He then retracted. I breathe in relief. ‘You know Karima; we have an unfinished business.’ He gave me a flirty stare. I felt chunks in my throat.

The very day Mr Bashir introduced himself as the statistics lecturer was the day he invited me for lunch, and that was in the first semester. I turned him down. And we never talked about it again. I have forgotten or almost forgotten we had such an encounter. Even the following morning, when we met in school, he didn’t say a word to me.

‘Are you with me?’ He lurched me out.

‘Yes, sir’

‘I still like you,’ he walked over to where I sat. I swallowed hard as he leaned in. ‘Karima, you are  beautiful and smart, but statistics break your egos.’ He laughed devilishly. ‘ In your last result, you got “E”. Do you know what comes after an “E” grade?

I was dumbfounded.

“Fail.” He said as if that means a well-deserved medal of honour. ‘You might repeat the same course.’ He squirmed. ‘Aren’t you worried about not graduating with your classmates?’ I lowered my gaze again. ‘I’m not only going to help you pass the exam but also provide you with a private tutor.’ He dropped his contact card beside me and returned to his chair. ‘Think about it.’ He said and sat down. ‘Oh! My bad! What will I offer you?’ He snapped out.

‘Nothing, I’m okay. Thank you.’ I faked a smile, and thankfully, just then, my phone buzzed.

‘What is vibrating?’ He asked.

‘My phone.’

Before I could answer it, the phone hung.

‘My friend is calling. We’re going home.’ I told him.

‘Oh, I am sorry to have kept you here.’ He slid out three thousand Naira notes from his pocket and forwarded them to me. ‘Please, fare with this,” he said.

‘I have transport fare, thank you.’ Then, in astonishment, he said okay, and I left.

By the time I got home, it was past six o’clock. My Abba was sitting in the parlour, his attention on the television when I entered. I greeted him and headed to my room.

‘Karima,’ Abba called out. I stopped halfway. ‘I’ll like  to talk to you later.’

‘Okayyyyyyyyyyyy,’ I said.

After a cold shower, I sat on the bedside drawer, towelling myself. My phone buzzed inside the handbag. While I was trying to locate the phone, Mr Bashir’s contact card fell off. I picked the contact card up and plugged my phone into charging while I threw on a long multicoloured chiffon gown and went to Abba. His focus was no longer on the television but a book on his hands. Edge of politics, I read the book title as I sat on the fur carpet by his side.

‘How are studies?’ Abba asked while his eyes were still searching on the book. How can I tell him the truth? Aren’t that studies fine?

‘Study’s fine,’ I lied. He shoved the book aside and turned to me.

‘Karima, you are doing well in a lot of things, especially your education. I’m proud of you.’ I smiled. He continued. ‘I want you to do whatever it takes to graduate with good grades. Don’t worry about a job; I am making arrangements for that. I don’t want you to fail, never.’ He said in a mixture of advice and threat.

This is the problem with Abba; he hates any excuse for failure. Did he know my academic challenges? No, he doesn’t. He consistently gives fare, feeds and if there is any need to buy, he gives the money. Abba thought he must have covered the basic problems in my studies. When I told him once about my difficulty in statistics, he laughed it off, saying that I was mumbling because I wasn’t paying attention and also hated the course. It was not true.

I also told Abba about my coursemate, who was willing to tutor me freely, but he rejected the idea. I know he hated to hear me call a male my friend.

‘You see this male tutor? They are fake. They will drive you into falling in love with them and end up messing with you. In the end, you will lose both love and tutoring. The same with girls, too. Don’t be too close; else, you will end up homosexual. You are just 19. Have you ever imagined what your life would look like when you let a boy or girl a mess with you?’ He would say, and I would squirm.

Since my Abba doesn’t like close relations with the same or opposite gender other than Siyama, who was his friend’s daughter, everyone is either a university mate, department mate, neighbour and nothing special.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ His voice drew me back to our discussion.

‘Yes.’ I replied.

‘God bless you.’

‘Thank you, Abba. Can I join Umma in the kitchen?’

‘Yes, she’ll need you.’

‘Take this to your father.’ She served hot jollof rice and beans on a soleplate and arranged them on a tray.

I carried Abba’s food to the dining room, where he asked me to share the food with him. That was the most thing I derived joy from, eating with my father. I left the food halfway and told him I would observe Isha’i prayers.

I went to my room, performed ablution and observed my prayers. Still, on the prayer mat, I picked up a book from the bedside drawer to read; the thought of Abba’s words pinched me at heart. I nurse them deeply. My father might not be a rich Dad, but he was always on top of his responsibilities—a prestigious father. I would not want to either disappoint or do what he disapproved of me. But, the fear of statistics lingered at my heart and let blood flow on my face. I know or perhaps believe there is no way to pass the exam; worse, I scored so low on the test. Yet, my father saw the light and prospect in me, and I must keep that glittering.

Since I couldn’t disobey Abba to have a good tutor and Mr Bashir is offering to help me, I have no option but to take the first step. So I picked the card from my bedside drawer and typed the number on my phone. I managed to keep my breath steady and dial-up. It rang for few times before he answered.

‘Hello!’ I propped up. ‘Karima speaking.’ I listened to him ask which Karima, but he didn’t. Instead, he was awed.

‘How are you?’ He asked calmly.

‘Sir, I don’t want anything to delay my graduation, not even statistics.’ I mumbled. He chuckled and paused a bit.

‘Calm down. You shouldn’t fear. By the way, my birthday is tomorrow, and I’m inviting you. Will you come?’ He asked.

I mulled for a while before I answered him. ‘Yes’

‘I will send my address tomorrow.’ He said. I hung the phone and breathed in. By then, the sweat on my palms turned cold.

The following day, I woke up and, as usual, did chores. Then, I went to collect clothes from Umma’s tailor before  Kaduna’s hot sunset.

At 4 p.m., I sat in front of my mirror and applied cake powder, eye pencil and lip-gloss. Then wore a long black-stoned abaya and a yellow veil. Finally, I sprayed body perfume and picked my handbag.

I went to meet Umma, reading in her room.

‘Umma, I’m off to Siyama’s house.’ I said to her.

‘All this dressing for Siyama’s house?’ She asked. I knew she suspected nothing, but she always thought I sophisticated dressing for simple outings.

‘Siyama’s friend is having a birthday, so she invited me.’ She nodded and said, ‘Be careful. Return safely.’

‘Thank you, Umma.’ I smiled and left.

That is one thing my parents have for me: trust. They never question nor stop my outings. They believe I would never hurt them.

The cab drove me from Unguwan Rimi to Kigo road. We stopped at Balin hotel while I re-checked the address to ensure I was in the correct location. I brought out my phone and dialled Mr Bashir’s up.

‘I’m at Balin hotel.’ I said as he answered the phone.

‘I’m coming,’ he responded from the other end.

So, I paid and freed the tricycle rider.

After a few minutes of standing and clutching my handbag, a car hunk and stopped beside me, when I looked, it was Mr Bashir.

‘Salam Alaikum’, he greeted, winding the glass down. Without a word, I hurriedly sat in the car. I wouldn’t want anyone to recognize me, and thankfully, the car glass had a tint. He drove off to the end of the lane and cornered into the last street. It was two minutes drive into a three-bedroom flat. He parked the car at his garage, and we came out.

‘Welcome’, he said and led the way into the house. I was expecting to meet people, a lot of them. Thus, I arranged to shield myself to avoid running into somebody I knew.

‘Where are your guests? There isn’t seem to be anybody here.’ I rolled my eyeballs around.

‘On my birthday this year, I decide to invite only you.’ He smiled sheepishly. My heart skipped a beat.

‘Only me? No, I can’t stay with you in this building.’ I protested. He ended up reminding me of why I was there in the first place. My body chilled down instantly, and I followed him into the house. He walked me straight to the dining room. We sat down. Varieties of food and drinks were already served.

‘Is today truly your birthday?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Yes,’ he replied without looking in my direction. ‘I only need both of us here. That’s why I invited only you.’

‘Happy birthday.’ I said.

‘Thank you. Shall we eat?’ He asked. I told him I was full, but he insisted I eat the food.

After the meal, I thanked him and stood to take my leave. I had expected him to see me out, but instead, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me to the sitting room.

‘I have something for you.’ He whispered. With his hands wrapped around my waist, lumps began to grow in my throat. One of his hands still held me while he used the other one to take a shopping bag from the centre table. We sat down while he unwrapped the stuff. It was a brand new phone, a wristwatch and shoes. I liked them, but I didn’t want to take them from him.

‘It is from my heart. You must go with them.’ He said. I had explained that my parent would kill me if I went home with the gifts. I started to leave, but he came behind and held me tightly. I went numb. Before I could bring myself to know what was happening, he threw me to the cushion and pinned me there. I tried to wriggle but couldn’t.

‘Stop!’ I barked, but he didn’t stop pulling my clothes.

When he finally loosened me, I ran home panting as if a dog chased me. Umma asked what was wrong, but I went to my room without a word. I could feel her eyes taking a step with me, but I cared less. I went straight to the bathroom, showered and lay on the bed.

‘Today, I broke my parent’s trust. I won’t be that same saint they had as a daughter.’ I wept the whole night.

I didn’t come out the following day, so Umma came to my room and asked why I hadn’t prepared for school. I quickly wiped my tears and sat up.

‘I can’t go for lectures today. My body aches; I have a fever, Umma.’ I explained even before she asked. She sat beside me on the bed and felt my temperature with the back of her hand.

‘Your temperature isn’t so bad. Anyway, get up and get some drugs and see if it subside, or else we go to the hospital. I’m going out right now.’ She dropped some money in my bedside drawer and left.

I breathed down in relief. It would be easy for Umma to decipher what was going on if I made any move. But, if she saw my gait, I’d be doomed because I haven’t been able to walk since I woke up that morning. My laps were sour and numb.

I could not talk to, text, or call Mr Bashir ever since the incident happened. And when he does, I never replied. 

A few weeks or about a month later, I  began to have itches around my lower abdomen. Then, it developed into a burning sensation, reddish rashes and lumps, and waist pain. Finally, it got worse that I couldn’t walk or urinate effortlessly without crying from the burning sensation. I told Umma about it.

‘How could you be so careless?’ She struck at me. ‘Let me see.’ She opened my legs, and I saw the situation by herself. She screamed out. ‘Is this what you have been living with?’

‘I’m sorry, Umma.’ I cried.

‘Let’s go to the hospital right now.’ She helped me walk down to her car and drive off.

We met a gynaecologist at the hospital. He immediately took a swap from me to the laboratory. After some time, he returned and asked Umma to follow him. Umma returned with tears. She sniffed and shook her head.

‘Umma, why are you crying?’ I asked.

‘Karima, you have gonorrhoea.’ She replied. My heart skipped a bit.

‘Mr. Bashir has finished me.’ I wailed.

Umma paused and faced me. ‘Who is Mr Bashir?’ She asked with curiosity. ‘What did you have with him?’

I narrated everything to her. I saw Umma weakened to her bones. But, even without a word from her, I knew she was pressing herself not to injure me.

‘Forgive me, Umma.’ I cried.

‘Where is he? Where is the dan iska [rascal]?’ She yelled.

‘He should be in the school.’ I said.

She stomped out of the ward.

By the time she came back, it was with my Abba. I almost peed on the bed. I threw my face away in shame.

‘Karima, I heard what you did.’ He turned his back to me. ‘I hope you know; I will never trust you?’ He said with all bitterness. ‘The so-called Mr Bashir whom you trust as your statistics god, the one who put you in this condition, has escaped my retribution.’

I was surprised but dared not ask him. Umma left the room as Abba set to say the final words. ‘He’s dead. The bastard is dead.’ He raged.

Cold ran down my spine.

‘What happen to him?’ I asked.

‘A tanker fell on his car yesterday as he was leaving the school.’ Abba said.

‘Noooooooo’ I screamed out. Abba’s heartbreak was boldly written in his eyes.

‘He can’t ruin me and die like that.’ I cried.

For the first time in my life, my parents were angry with me. Unfortunately, that would be the price for disobedience and too much fear. But, If Abba wasn’t too strict, I would have been tutored by my classmates, and things wouldn’t have been this way.

‘Abba, I was ready to do anything for you, to make you proud.’ I said while holding tightly unto his hand. That was when I saw tears roll down his cheeks.

‘I’m sorry, Karima. I cause this upon you.’ He held me, too.

‘Your exam is next week. I hope you will be able to read, okay?’ Abba said.

Salma Yakubu is the author of Behind The Moon. She can be reached via princessbeautynigeria111@gmail.com.

By Safiyanu Ladan

The rape and subsequent murder of two female university students in 2020, one in Benin inside the church, and the other in Ogun at her father’s house, has generated tension and condemnation from Nigerians. Even President Muhammadu Buhari followed the story, condemned the brutal acts, and commiserated with the victims’ families.

In addition, the Inspector General of Police directed an investigation into the matter through the AIG in charge of the zone. He gave him a clear mandate of apprehending and prosecuting the culprits. It was later reported that the police made some arrests related to the incidents.

Given the current happenings and the rate at which such cases are being reported almost daily in our society and the lack of provision of a coherent and vibrant system that will deal ruthlessly with perpetrators to serve as a deterrent to others has aided its escalation. In a nutshell, it seems blatant criminal acts such as this have come to stay with us due to fragile security conditions.

The unprecedented rate of sexual molestation among males and females of low and high profiles, always targeting vulnerable children, is alarming. Unfortunately, the situation in Nigeria has been more problematic because numerous cases of incest have been reported recently. The majority of the victims are minors, mainly between a few months and 12 years old.

Recently, Kaduna State High Court sitting at Dogorawa Sabon Gari, Zaria, has convicted one Usman Shehu Bashir of Dogarawa area to death by hanging for raping two years, nine-months-old girl to death. Moreover, In Jigawa, 15 people have been arrested by the police for allegedly raping a 12-year-old girl for months.

Several cases of a father raping his daughter, uncle raping his niece, aunt raping her nephew, cousin raping his cousin and so on have been underreported out of the fear of stigma. However, the present reality is that children, most especially girls, are no longer safe around male folks no matter the relationship. The earlier we know this, the better.

It is time for parents/guardians to be more vigilant and watchful over their wards. However, if the father cannot be trusted, I don’t think anybody is left.

Safiyanu Ladan wrote from Zaria via uncledoctor24@gmail.com.

By Ahmad Deedat Zakari

The Chairman of the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency, Brigadier General Mohammad Buba Marwa’s (retd) wife has passed on.

A statement at the instance of the family confirmed Hajia Zainab Marwa died at the early hours of Saturday after a brief brief illness at the age of 66.

The deceased, a native of Imo State, was known for championing the cause of women and the girl-child during her life time.

She left behind adult children : Abubakar, Mohammad Jr , Mariam, Zainab and 10 grandchildren, as well as her siblings and aged mother.