I could see a crowd of students in the distance, standing in lines, though their numbers made it hard to tell if they were actually in queues. The space was as large as the field behind the ICT building of this university, and the students were struggling to fill it. The students were from different courses—some chatting, some tired, while others stood waiting for their turn in line, holding their credentials. It was clear they were all admission seekers.
Most of the women were sitting, while some were standing.
By the roadside, a parked car turned, and a man with a smile on his face said, "Well, Nahnah Khadeejah, this is your school. And all these crowds you see are admission seekers like you. So now, you’ll have to join them and ask for your department’s line."
Her mouth went dry with fear. "But with this huge crowd, if they don’t even have admission letters, how will I get accepted today?"
The man smiled again and said, "Well, it’s not just one course—everyone has their own department. So when you go, you’ll see your own group at their designated windows."
"Then how do I proceed?" She opened the car door and stepped out.
The man took out 2,000 naira and handed it to her. "Take this, keep it with you in case you need extra money or get hungry so you can make it till evening."
She collected it, saying, "Thank you so much."
Slowly, she adjusted her hijab, all three layers of it, because the sheer number of people was unsettling. On the side where the women were sitting, she greeted them with "Assalamu alaikum." Some responded, while others kept their heads down, some staring at her—the kind of look women give when they see a fellow woman, especially one who appears well-groomed.
Lowering her voice, she asked, "Excuse me, I have a question."
"Okay, may Allah grant us knowledge."
"Please, I’m looking for the *Arabic* department."
"Well, honestly, you should move a bit further ahead and ask there. They’re not here."
She walked a little further and asked again. A woman sitting nearby said, "Come here."
She moved closer and sat next to her, exchanging greetings. "I’m also an *Arabic* student. I’m here to collect my admission letter."
The woman looked at her carefully and said, "Okay, you’re my sister. All these girls here are from our same department." She pointed to the other women nearby, and they exchanged greetings again.
They continued sitting together, waiting for the letters to be distributed.
Khadeejah Al-Qadi Yusuf is a native of Sakkoto and the seventeenth child in her family. Her father, Al-Qadi Yusuf, is a retired Sharia court judge in Sakkoto—a highly respected and deeply religious elder. He has two wives and seventeen children: twelve sons and five daughters.
His eldest is a son, followed by another son, Yaya Sani. The third is a daughter, Aunty, then the fourth, Aunty Amina, and the fifth, another daughter, Aunty Jamila. After Aunty Jamila, four sons were born, followed by another daughter, Juwairiyya. Then six more sons were born before the last child, Nahnah Khadeejah.
She is very beloved in their home because all her older sisters are married, while only four of the brothers are married—Yaya Nura, Yaya Usman, Yaya Kabir, and Yaya Sadiq. The rest are still studying and haven’t completed their education.
Khadeejah’s home is one of scholars, deeply rooted in both Western and Islamic education. Her father retired shortly after her birth, as he was already very old. Now, he lives at home under the care of his children and grandchildren.
Their extended family is vast because her father himself comes from a large household of twenty siblings. So whenever they gather, even just their immediate family is a crowd.
