Chapter Two

Ziyada had learned to care for her father the way one would care for a restless child. When his hair grew too long and wild, curling untidily over his forehead and ears, she would fetch the small, rusty scissors she kept hidden in a tin box.

“Baba, sit still,” she would whisper, standing behind him as he sat under the avocado tree.

Sometimes, he would obey quietly, staring far into the distance as though he wasn’t even present. At other times, he would grumble and wave his hands, muttering about Aliyu or about some invisible conversation only he could hear. Hauwa would simply wait, her scissors resting patiently in her palm, until his movements calmed. Then she would carefully trim away the uneven hair, sweeping it off his shoulders when she was done.

When his nails grew too long, she clipped them as well, even though he often pulled his hands away like a stubborn child. She had learned not to argue with him. She only waited, spoke softly, and coaxed him until he allowed her.

Feeding him was another struggle. There were days when he refused to eat, shaking his head and turning away from the food like it was poison. Ziyada would sigh, then sit before him with the bowl in her lap.

“Baba, just small. Please.”

Sometimes she dipped the spoon and gently brought it to his mouth, smiling even when he spat it out. Other times, she had to soften the food with extra water, or crumble the tuwo into tiny pieces, so he would take it without resistance. She had patience for all of it. She had grown up with patience.

And whenever he finally swallowed, she would whisper, almost like a prayer, “Good, Baba. You’ve eaten. May Allah grant you Shifa.”

To anyone else, it might have looked like a thankless, endless duty. But to Ziyada, it was life. She did not remember a time when it had been any different.

Twice every month, Mai Anguwa would come to the compound, carrying with him a small bag. He was tall and grey-bearded, his voice always calm, Ziyada respected him deeply.

On those days, he would help with what Ziyada could not do. Since she was a girl, there were limits, and she knew them. She could trim her father’s hair, cut his nails,wash his face, hands, mouth and feets and feed him with patience, but she could not bathe him properly. That was when Mai Anguwa stepped in.

He would take Aliyu Babakarami gently by the arm, guide him toward the bathroom, and though her father often muttered and resisted, somehow Mai Anguwa’s firm hands and calm voice always won. Ziyada would wait outside, listening to the sound of water splashing and sometimes even her father’s laughter. By the time they came out, her father would be fresh, his clothes clean, his face washed and beard combed. For a while, he almost looked like the man he might have been before madness claimed him.

One of those afternoons, as Hauwa handed him a dry towel, Mai Anguwa wiped his wet hands and face, loosening his folded jumper, made of soft and cheap fabric. His eyes softened with pity and admiration.

“Ziyada,” he called her softly, using her full name, “it is not your fault your father is in this condition. Don’t ever carry that weight in your heart.”

She lowered her eyes, her fingers twisting into her wrapper. He continued, his voice steady, calm and fatherly.

“This… this is Allah’s way of testing your faith, and your father’s iman. There are many children like you, my daughter, who patiently stay back to feed and care for a parent who has lost their mind. It is not easy, but it is a kind of dedication. I guess this is your own self-sanctuary, your secret place of earning reward.”

Ziyada felt her chest tighten at his words. Nobody had spoken to her like that before. People usually looked at her with pity or whispered about her behind her back. But Mai Anguwa’s words sounded different like truth, like comfort she didn’t know she needed.

That evening, after Mai Anguwa left, Ziyada sat by her sewing machine, her hands busy with needle and fabric, but her mind wandered. His words, 

“This is your self-sanctuary” stirred something inside her.

And suddenly, she remembered a lesson from long ago, back in the days she attended makarantar asuba, the early morning Qur’an class. Their teacher, Mu’allim Shakir, had once told them a story. His voice echoed in her head as if she was still that little girl, sitting cross-legged on a mat, reciting verses with the other children.

He had told them about a girl who grew up in a house filled with sisters five in all. She was the youngest. But as fate would have it, her mother suffered a shock and became paralyzed when the girl was only fourteen. One by one, the older sisters married and left, until the duty of caring for their mother fell squarely on the shoulders of the youngest child.

“For ten years,” Mu’allim Shakir had said, his voice heavy, “this girl fed her mother, wiped her, cleaned her waste and urine, washed her clothes and bedding. For ten years she carried that burden alone.”

The class had gone silent, every child holding their breath.

Then the teacher’s voice grew somber. “One day, the girl stood outside the room, overwhelmed, and cried out, ‘Wallahi, I am tired!’ And at that moment, all the rewards of those ten years every hard-earned deed crumbled, just like how an earthquake flattens a house.”

Ziyada never forgot the way Mu’allim Shakir’s eyes had searched their small faces as he warned them. “Patience is like a garment you wear until the end. If you throw it away too soon, everything beneath it is lost.”

Now, sitting in her small house, she thought of that story again. The weight of it pressed on her chest. Was she like that girl? Would there come a day when she too would cry, “I am tired”?

She shook her head quickly, pressing her lips together as if to lock the thought away. No. She would endure. She must endure. If her father could live seventeen years in silence without once calling her mother’s name, then she too could live with patience beyond spoken words.

Takum, the small town in Taraba where Ziyada lived was cradled by green hills and red earth. During the rainy season, the air was thick with the smell of wet soil, and the sound of birds echoed from the trees that lined the narrow footpaths. Their little house sat at the edge of the town along other small houses.

At seventeen, Ziyada had grown into a young woman whose appearance often reminded people of her late mother. Mai Anguwa’s wife once told her with a smile, “Your height, your eyes… wallahi, you resemble her.” She stood at about 5 feet 5 inches, neither too tall nor short, neither too slim nor too chubby—just the right size for her frame. Her skin carried a warm chocolate tone, and on her left cheek sat a small dimple that deepened whenever she managed a rare smile. Sometimes she caught her reflection in water or in the tiny broken mirror in their room, and she wondered if this was what her mother had looked like at her age.

Her hands had grown used to the rhythm of cloth and thread. What started as casual learning and helping under Maman Idi stitching and repairing simple gowns, pillowcases, and curtains had become her little livelihood. She sat for hours at her wooden sewing machine, the hum of its wheel filling the quiet of their home.

Mai Anguwa’s wife had also shown her the delicate art of zane-zane, embroidery on fabric. At first, Ziyada didn’t take it too seriously; it felt too slow compared to sewing straight lines. But then, one afternoon as she watched the patterns bloom under the older woman’s hands, she had a thought: What if I combine both? What if she embroidered flowers and spirals into her garments, sewed them neatly, and then sold them through Maman Idi?

The idea sparked something in her—a kind of aspiration she had never felt before. She began to practice, at first unevenly, but soon her fingers learned the patience embroidery demanded. It was slow work and it took time, but it gave her heart a strange comfort. Stitch by stitch, she could turn plain fabric into something beautiful, something people might pay for, something that carried her mark.

Under the avocado tree, while her father rambled about his friend Aliyu, Ziyada often sat nearby, bent over her fabric, threading colors into patterns as if she was stitching her own quiet soul.