In the city of Kaduna, within the G.R.A., there’s a neighborhood called Yan Majalisu, home to prominent and influential people—politicians and those of high character. The area is always quiet, free from the noise typical of other neighborhoods. Alhaji Mu’azzam Saraki’s house stands out as the most eye-catching on the street. It’s a beautifully designed and well-organized home, surpassing the other notable houses in the area in both structure and aesthetics.

Upon entering the compound, its vastness is striking. On one side, there’s a parking area filled with countless cars, too many to easily count, dazzling the eyes. On another side, there’s a gym area with exercise equipment and a garden filled with every kind of decorative item imaginable. There’s also a swimming pool teeming with small fish swimming in clear water. Next to it is a larger swimming pool for bathing, filled with blue water, surrounded by chairs and white steps for entering and exiting. Nearby, a small bed and table are placed for resting after a swim, with a canopy providing shade—an inviting setup. The place feels alive even without sunlight.

The house’s grand living room is equally impressive, with more than seven rooms, each fully equipped for a life of comfort. As she descends the stairs gracefully, you can tell she’s a woman of status. Her fair complexion suggests she’s at least 37 years old, though she doesn’t look overly aged. This is Hajiya Umaima. Holding a long file, she approaches and sits near her husband, Alhaji Mu’azzam Saraki, who is engrossed in reviewing office files.

She sits close to him, her eyes brimming with tears. Suddenly, she bursts into heart-wrenching sobs. Mu’azzam quickly shifts his full attention to her, pushing aside his work. He takes her hands, holding them to his face, and falls silent after glancing at the file she’s holding. His heart races upon seeing its contents. Through her tears, she says, “Nuree, it seems I’ll never be able to have a child in this life, will I? The doctors say my womb can’t carry a pregnancy, Nuree. What’s happening to us? Allah has blessed us with wealth, but no children. It’s been 17 years since our marriage, Nuree, and I’ve failed to give you a child. Oh, my God!” She breaks into another wave of intense, body-shaking sobs.

He holds her, rubbing her back to comfort her, his own heart aching more than words can express. What can they do when it’s Allah’s will? If Allah hasn’t granted them children, they must be patient. Perhaps it’s not in their best interest right now, which is why Allah has instead blessed them with wealth, which they use to help others. He lets out a heavy sigh, closes his eyes, and reopens them when her crying quiets, replaced by heavy sighs of exhaustion. After about 11 minutes, he notices she’s fallen asleep, overwhelmed by a new wave of sobs from the ordeal. Shaking his head in deep pity, he adjusts her position to make her comfortable, kisses her forehead, and stands up to head to his mother’s quarters, Annah—a pious, fair-skinned elderly woman known for her wisdom.

Seeing her sitting on a carpet in a white hijab, reciting supplications after completing her late-night prayers, he checks his watch—it’s almost 11 PM. He finds a spot on the soft grass-like carpet in Annah’s living room, unable to sit on a chair as his heart remains unsettled. His mind is consumed with pity for Umaima and her inability to conceive. He rests his head in his hands, closing his eyes, his heart heavy with emotion. The touch of someone gently lifting his hand from his face makes him look up. It’s Annah, sitting beside him, still in her hijab and prayer beads in hand, a sight that has become part of her daily life.