A RANCOROUS PAST:A story of love,loss and redemption

THE HOUSE OF DADA

After my parents died, Dada took me into his home as he had promised. I was too young to understand what death truly meant, but I understood that my world had suddenly become empty. The only thing that comforted me was Dada’s gentle voice whenever he called me “Princess.”

Dada tried his best to make me feel safe. He bought me toys, took me to school himself, and often reminded everyone that I was now his responsibility. Whenever he said that, I believed that maybe my life would still be normal.

But life inside Dada’s house was far from normal.

Amma never liked me.

At first, I thought maybe she was just strict, the way some mothers are. But as I grew older, I began to understand that it was something deeper than strictness. There was resentment in her eyes whenever she looked at me, as if my presence alone was a burden she had never agreed to carry.

Sometimes she would mutter under her breath that I brought nothing but trouble to her home.

Maryama, her daughter, slowly began to treat me the same way.

When we were younger, we used to play together like sisters. But as time passed, something changed. Amma’s words slowly poisoned her heart. The more Amma complained about me, the colder Maryama became.

Soon, she stopped calling me her friend.

She started saying things to me,things like you're not our family and Amma would simply nod or smirk, letting it happen.

But not everyone in that house treated me like I didn’t belong.

Yaya Nura was different.

Being the eldest son, he understood more than the others. Sometimes I would catch him watching his mother quietly whenever she scolded me for things I never did. I think he knew the truth, but he rarely spoke against her.

Still, in his own quiet way, he protected me.

Whenever Amma blamed me for something, he would step in calmly and say it was not my fault. Sometimes he helped me with my schoolwork or brought me sweets from the market. Those small acts of kindness meant everything to me.

They reminded me that not everyone in that house hated me.

Dada tried to be a good father to me, just as he promised he would. But the peace he wanted in his home was something he could never truly control.

Amma had a way of whispering things to him when no one else was around.

Lies.

Little lies at first.

Then bigger ones.

She would tell him that I was disrespectful, that I disobeyed her, that I was turning Maryama against the family. Each time Dada confronted me, I tried to explain that it wasn’t true, but my words were always weaker than Amma’s voice.

And slowly, even Dada began to doubt me.

That was the moment I realized something painful.

One afternoon, Amma sent Maryama and me to clean the kitchen while she rested in her room. I quietly washed the plates while Maryama dried them beside me. For a moment, everything was peaceful.

Then suddenly, a loud crash shattered the silence.

One of Amma’s favorite glass bowls fell to the floor and broke into pieces.

I froze.

Maryama stared at the broken pieces, then quickly stepped back.

Before I could say anything, Amma rushed into the kitchen.

“What happened here?” she demanded sharply.

Maryama lowered her head but said nothing.

Amma looked at the broken bowl and then at me. I saw it in her eyes immediately. She already knew what had happened.

“Saima!” she snapped. “Look at what you’ve done!”

My heart skipped.

“But Amma, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie!” she interrupted angrily.

Maryama remained silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.

I looked at her, hoping she would tell the truth, but she didn’t even look at me.

Amma sighed dramatically and shook her head.

“Since the day you entered this house, you have brought nothing but trouble.”

Her words felt like sharp thorns piercing my chest.

When Dada returned home that evening, Amma wasted no time telling him the story.

She said I had been careless.

She said I had broken the bowl and then tried to lie about it.

Dada looked disappointed.

I tried to explain, but the words refused to come out properly. My voice trembled, and the more I tried to speak, the more guilty I sounded.

“Enough,” Dada said quietly.

That single word crushed whatever hope I had left.

Later that night, I sat alone behind the house, wiping my tears with the edge of my scarf. The sky was dark, and the wind carried the cold silence of the night.

I tried to be strong, but the tears would not stop.

Sometimes I wondered if my parents had truly left this world… or if they had simply left me behind.

“Princess?”

The voice startled me.

I quickly wiped my face and looked up.

It was Yaya Nura.

He walked toward me slowly and sat beside me without saying anything at first. For a moment, he simply looked at me, as if trying to understand how much pain I was hiding.

“You’ve been crying,” he said gently.

I shook my head.

“No, I haven’t.”

He gave a small, knowing smile.

“You were never good at lying.”

That made my chest tighten again, and fresh tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.

Yaya Nura sighed softly and handed me his handkerchief.

“You shouldn’t cry because of something that isn’t your fault,” he said.

I looked at him in surprise.

“You… you know?”

“Of course I know,” he replied calmly. “Maryama broke the bowl.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

“Then… why didn’t you tell Dada?” I asked quietly.

Yaya Nura looked away, his expression thoughtful.

“You know how Amma is,” he said after a moment. “Sometimes telling the truth only makes things worse.”

He then looked back at me and gently patted my head.

“But don’t worry, Princess,” he added softly. “Not everyone in this house believes those lies.”

For the first time that day, I felt a small sense of comfort.

Because in a house where I often felt unwanted…

There was still someone who saw the truth.

And that someone was Yaya Nura.