Compassion and love for his children overwhelmed Gwadabe. Just seeing them was enough to ease the burning pain and bitterness of losing Iyabo. Truly, he had lost a virtuous woman, one who loved him more than anyone else and understood his deepest needs. He recalled the struggles and sacrifices she endured because of his illness. Yet, the actions of Babala and others had shattered her world, alienating her from her children and husband. Gwadabe held his children close, his body weak and frail, comforting Taiwo until she quieted down.
“Toye, come watch them while I buy you some waina to eat,” he said as he stepped out. He didn’t even have five naira on him. The waina seller gave him fifty naira’s worth on credit, and he brought it back for the children to eat and drink water. Afterward, he went to Iyabo’s kitchen, lit the stove, and heated bathwater for them. Sitting in the kitchen, he was consumed by memories of the life he shared with Iyabo—the calm and joy she brought him, day and night. As he sat there, Babala peered in, holding a bowl of food. Seeing him lost in thought with his head resting on his hands, the stove burning in front of him, she stood still, clutching the bowl. She could hear the children’s chatter in the background.
“Gwadabe, what are you thinking about that’s destroying you? While she’s out there living carefree? What are you doing in the kitchen?” she asked.
“I’m heating bathwater for the children’s bath, Babala,” he replied. She shot him a glare and said, “Didn’t I tell you I’m taking them to the village? Here, I brought food for you to keep. I’ll take the children now; I’m heading back today because there’s a celebration at the village head’s house.”
Gwadabe let out a heavy sigh, his body rising weakly, his chest pounding as his heart raced with irregular beats. The stress caused him to feel dizzy and a sharp, burning pain, with heat radiating to his face. His mouth felt as bitter as if poison had been poured into it. He approached where Babala stood.
“Babala, I’ll keep these children with me. I want them to get a good education, not live in Takai. The children in this family stay within the family—some live with us, others are married. So, I’ll hold onto my children too,” he said firmly.
Babala responded, “Fine, Gwadabe. I only offered to take them out of pity for you, as a man. But since you think raising children is easy, here they are. Let’s see if they’ll even finish primary school. Their education won’t take them far. And get ready—next week, you’ll go to Laila’s place and join the queue of her suitors. Everyone wants her now, with her current status. I’m leaving.” She shoved the bowl of food at him and stormed off, muttering insults about Iyabo and her children.
Gwadabe closed his eyes, overwhelmed. He bathed the children quietly, then took their hands and led them to the Islamic school, as it was Saturday and there was no secular school. On the way, he stumbled into Yaya Hambali, who was heading to the market in his car but stopped briefly.
“Gwadabe, where are you coming from like this? Look at your shoes—one’s yours, and the other is your wife’s!” Yaya Hambali teased. “What’s this, Gwadabe? The troubles Iyabo’s family brought you have truly broken you. It’s like Babala got to the truth before us.”
Gwadabe took a deep breath and looked down at his feet. Indeed, he had mistakenly worn one of Iyabo’s shoes, which was too small and slightly heeled, while his own worn-out sandal was on the other foot. He hadn’t even noticed, lost in his thoughts. He was barely in his right mind, let alone aware of the tight shoe pinching his foot or its mismatched height. He managed a faint smile.
“I’m taking the kids to school. I didn’t even notice what I put on. The mind sees, but the eyes are just empty shells,” he said.
Yaya Hambali chuckled, letting out a small laugh before saying, “So when will you start coming to the market with us? Things have eased up, and Iyabo, who separated you from us, is now history in your life. Come on, join us at the market. Soon enough, you’ll buy the car you want and start driving.”
Gwadabe gave a pained smile, one that hurt more than tears, and said, “Thank you for your offer, Yaya Hambali, but I can’t accept it. If I sort things out properly, I’ll find a trade that suits me and start anew. If God blesses me, you’ll see me build a house and buy a car, and my children will get a proper education.”
His words enraged Yaya Hambali, who began hitting his car’s steering wheel. “You’re talking to me like this, Gwadabe? Have you forgotten when I supported you to go to the farm, paid your school fees from my own pocket, held your hand to take you to school? I clothed you despite my wealth, acting as both mother and father to you. Even Harisu wouldn’t dare speak nonsense to me, let alone you, whom I practically raised!”
He glared, his mouth foaming with anger. Gwadabe said nothing, letting him vent. When Yaya Hambali finished, Gwadabe only said, “That’s how it is, Yaya Hambali. I don’t want or need your help. I’m not asking you for anything—I’m asking God, who gave you what you have. You didn’t earn it by your own cunning.”
“Fine, then!” Yaya Hambali snapped. “I wash my hands of you since you don’t want my help. Go do what you think is right. But mark my words, Gwadabe, as long as I’m alive, you’ll never prosper while talking to Hambali like this, you shameless fool. May God strip you of blessings!” With that, he sped off, kicking up dust that filled Gwadabe’s eyes with dirt. Tears of sorrow for his family streamed down his face as he squinted. Why did his relatives seem to relish seeing him in distress and hardship? Was Babala truly his mother, or was he an adopted child, unaware of his origins? But if he were adopted, the village would know—gossip spreads faster than wildfire in a place like this.
At that moment, Gwadabe vowed never to ask anyone for anything or accept even a penny from others. He would go out and seek his own way, just as Yaya Hambali had done years ago when God blessed him. God was his guide, not Yaya Hambali. He would prove to them that he was a man with a heart, not someone reliant on others’ vision. Opening his eyes, he wiped his face and continued walking.
Gwadabe spent the night surrounded by his children, the day and night blending into one endless struggle. He tossed and turned, thinking of the love and care he and Iyabo had shared, and the injustices she endured to stay with him. Yet, in the end, her endurance led to her departure.
“Iyabo, I pray God gives you a husband who loves you more than I could, someone who surpasses me in every way. May God lead you, His servant, to a place of rest and joy. Angels of God, bear witness that I never harmed Iyabo in our time together, and you testify that I lifted her up so she could enter paradise. May God unite her with a partner who will lift her up as well,” Gwadabe muttered repeatedly, like a broken man.
He stayed lost in thought until dawn. Like the day before, he took the children to eat waina on credit and dropped them off at school. Returning home, he found Iyabo’s family rummaging through the compound, collecting her remaining belongings—clothes, tools, and more. That day, he endured insults and scorn from Iya Beji. Iya Kokodeen even threw a pot at his back. Overwhelmed by their taunts, he retreated to the doorstep and sat there. Yaya Hambali joined in, blaming Gwadabe for everything, claiming he had mixed their blood with the Yoruba. As Gwadabe sat at the doorstep, he saw his friend Bara’u approaching. He watched him closely until Bara’u reached him and sat beside him. Before they could speak, Iya Beji and her group stormed out, hurling insults, with Yaya Hambali trailing behind, adding his own accusations. It was as if the whole neighborhood had been stirred up. The women shouted and gossiped, eager for drama, undeterred by the inheritance dispute. Yaya Hambali tried to restrain Iya Beji, thinking he could calm her, but the family turned on him. The men of the neighborhood barely managed to pull him away, redirecting their anger at Gwadabe onto Yaya Hambali. Bara’u and Gwadabe sat watching the chaos unfold, marveling at God’s power.
Yaya Hambali approached them, furious, and said to Gwadabe, “Your cursed family is ruined. Aren’t you ashamed, Gwadabe? These lowlifes—your in-laws—are the ones you chose. You’ve hurt us by insisting on mixing with the Yoruba. Of all the Hausa-Fulani women, you couldn’t find one to love except Iyabo. Look how these women beat me and split my lip because of your foolishness while you sit here.”
Gwadabe swallowed hard, suppressing his anger. Bara’u intervened, saying, “Yaya Hambali, please calm down. What’s done is done. May God protect us all.”
“Forgiveness, my foot!” Yaya Hambali spat. “Bara’u, even if Gwadabe committed murder, you’d never see his fault. Nonsense!” He stomped his foot and stormed into the house.
Bara’u sighed heavily and said, “Be patient, Gwadabe, I beg you in God’s name. Accept this as part of life’s trials. You treated Iyabo with kindness, and God will give her a true husband. As for me, I came with the intention of taking the children to my place. Sakina would care for them along with hers. But on my way, Tamu called me, and by God’s grace, we discussed it. He said he’d take the two children and put them in school. If you want, you can leave them with him. If you remarry, you can retrieve them for your new wife to care for. But I know you’d prefer to keep them, Gwadabe. Still, we’re looking out for your ease. Be patient. I’ll take Toye, and Tamu will take Taiwo and Kehinde, as we pity them under Babala’s care. I’m glad you’re in good health. We can only thank God. Stay strong.”
Gwadabe let out a heavy sigh and said, “Bara’u, even if you and Tamu took me along with the children, I wouldn’t object. These children are yours—do as you see fit. Thank you for your love; may God preserve our bond. Honestly, Bara’u, I’ve accepted my fate, and I hope Iyabo has accepted hers. But God will reunite my heart with Iyabo’s. Even if I remarry, my new wife will never take Iyabo’s place. I know Iyabo feels the same. She’s a rare, remarkable woman.”
“Indeed, Iyabo is one of a kind,” Bara’u agreed. “May God grant her good fortune, and you as well. Now, let’s prepare the children. Since you’re feeling better, we’ll go to Abuja together to drop off the two children, then head to Takai. Malam Magaji came yesterday, and I don’t think Yaya Hambali knows yet.”
And so it was done. Bara’u packed the twins’ belongings in a sack, along with Toye’s. Gwadabe locked the empty room, which didn’t even have a mat left. He bid farewell to Yaya Hambali, informing him he was going to Abuja and then to Takai to greet Baba Magaji, who had arrived. Yaya Hambali pressed for the reason for the trip, but Gwadabe kept it vague, avoiding eye contact, especially as Yaya Haula was roasting him verbally nearby. Bara’u paid their transport fare. Six hours later, they arrived in Gwagwalada, where Tamu picked them up in his car and took them to his modest home. After prayers and rest, Ayashe, Tamu’s sister, brought them food, with Falo, another sister, following with a plate. Ayashe took the children inside, and after consoling Gwadabe about what had happened, she said, “That was Shafa who just went inside. I was thinking, Bara’u, that I wouldn’t just give Shafa to Gwadabe outright. You know her status, and she’s studying for her diploma here in Gwagwalada. Once she finishes, we could arrange a marriage—what do you think, Bara’u?”
Bara’u laughed, clapping with Tamu before saying, “Shafa is a lovely, virtuous girl, a true gem. We were there when she was born. I remember her naming ceremony—house to house, we invited friends, sharing sweets and coins. Everyone came with their gifts. If this works out, it’ll be wonderful.”
Tamu added, “You’ve got a sharp memory, Bara’u. My intention is to repay Gwadabe’s kindness, even if I can’t match what he’s done for me. I’ll arrange for Shafa’s marriage. I’m her guardian, after all. I’ll explain everything to her. Gwadabe, when you’re ready, approach her slowly—there’s no rush. You two can find your balance. The children will stay in school, even if you marry, and I’ll personally ensure their marriages, God willing, alongside my own children.”
Gwadabe didn’t argue or protest. They spent one night in Gwagwalada and left the next day after he said goodbye to his children. The children blended in with their cousins, even calling them “father” playfully. Seeing his children happy gave Gwadabe a bit of strength.
