GOBE IDI

بِسْمِ ٱللَّٰهِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The antique clock mounted on the wall filled the room with a steady rhythm, each passing second echoing through the silence.

Seated before the vanity was a young woman, poised with effortless grace. She was so perfectly still that the room appeared to breathe around her. Her spine was straight, her henna-stained hands folded neatly on her lap. Shoulders squared, chin lifted high, every inch of her composed as though she had been sculpted into place.

Facing her was her reflection in a 120-inch gold-framed mirror. Kohl-darkened almond eyes stared into the mirror, unblinking, almost challenging their own reflection. Her plump lips were set in a firm line that rarely softened. Outlined and stained a rich, dark red, they carried the unsettling illusion of freshly spilled blood.

Thick coils of Afro hair framed her face, but there was nothing gentle about her features. High cheekbones and a sharp jaw lent her an air of quiet severity, while the faint beauty mark beneath her left eye did nothing to soften the cold arrogance etched into her expression.

Her skin was perhaps her most striking feature. A rich cocoa complexion that glimmered beneath the chandelier light. Her skin shade made every head turn, and when she looked back, those heads bowed just as quickly. It made the girls she had schooled with abroad whisper about her behind her back.

It had made her the target of countless envious eyes at many events, yet not once had she cowered before their threats. After all, how could she? Her pride, greater than her father's gidan sarauta itself, would never allow it. The world had taught her that she belonged above others, and she had never questioned it.

Her name carried weight far beyond the palace walls. Counted among Nigeria's most successful real estate agents, she had sold over seventy-five buildings across the country and expanded her business interests into Dubai, England, and Egypt.

Beyond real estate, she served as the Chief Operating Officer of Galadima Refinery, overseeing an empire that stretched from vast farmlands across Katsina, Zamfara, Plateau, and Adamawa, where rice, corn, beans, and vegetables flourished, to sprawling livestock operations supplying fresh milk, fine cotton, silk, and healthy livestock across northern Nigeria.

Asma'u Galadima Abubakar was the epitome of Nigerian beauty, perfect to the very marrow of her bones. She was well-tailored and groomed by her father her whole life. She grew up watching his style, tactics, and reflexes. She mastered his steps when he wasn't watching, analysed his strategies while in rooms with him, and calculated the words that could bring any man to his knees.

She, Asma'u Galadima, had her father wrapped around her fingers, and he, Galadima Garba Abubakar, could bend Nigeria with the snap of his fingers.

"Allah ya ja tsawon rai, Hajia Asma'u," one of her handmaidens spoke from behind.

| May God lengthen your life

Beside Asma'u were two young women, carefully adjusting her gyale. They were completely focused as they secured each pin into place. Both Fulani ladies had soft features and petite figures. 

Asma'u had personally handpicked them to handle her body care routine and help her get ready every morning. Trust did not come easily to her, and those she trusted could be counted on one hand. 

Their hands were meticulous, they had mastered the art of gargajiya, and had worked in the palace for over ten years. Not once had they pricked her with a pin. Not once had they kept her waiting. Excellence was the only standard she tolerated.

As far as Asma'u was concerned, the girls were sisters who had chosen to work in the palace after the death of their mother, who had served the royal household for thirty years.

Asma'u never thanked them—princesses did not—but neither did she allow anyone else to replace them. As much as she hated to admit it, Fatima and Fadila were the closest people to her after her sister, Rayyana.

Asma'u sat poised, her thoughts occupied by a conversation she had with her father. She was so lost in them that a soft hiss was what finally broke her concentration.

Slowly, she turned her eyes while barely moving her head, she noticed a stain of blood on Fatima's finger, the one holding the gyale pin.

Fatima's hand began to shake involuntarily. "Haƙuri nake nema, Hajia."

| Forgive me

Asma'u said nothing. She only stared at the tiny drop of blood. "You're shaking." She said.

Fatima lowered her head before speaking, careful not to utter the wrong words."My mother used to shake like that when she was worried."

Asma'u remained silent.

Fadila gulped.

"Speak," Asma'u commanded.

"Tomorrow is Eid. I'm thinking of all the preparations that must begin. I fear something may go wrong. Gimbiya would not tolerate it."

Fatima spoke in one breath, making sure to lower her voice when referring to Gimbiya, Asma'u's mother.

Whereas Asma'u was feared because she was sharp, calculating, and commanding, her mother was feared because she was calm, graceful, and impossible to disappoint.

Gimbiya Ramlatu walked as though she had all the time in the world, her steps were always slow and measured. Her atamfa, hidden beneath an elegantly embroidered alkyabba she always draped over her shoulders, carried the scent of khumrah and turaren wuta. The crown upon her head was not merely an ornament—it was her heritage.

Yet despite her gentle, motherly nature, she did not tolerate mistakes. The palace would never have remained as spotless and dust-free as it was if she had.

"That's why you're here, isn't it? To serve and ensure things go as planned, ko ba haka ba?" Asma'u's voice was smooth as honey, yet every word carried the sting of a warning. It was calm and sharp at the same time. She never needed to raise her voice to be heard.

"Of course, Hajia," Fatima replied, lowering her head in respect.

"Za ku iya tafiya," Asma'u spoke after a while.

| You may leave

The girls bowed their heads in respect before turning and exiting the expanse of her room. 

Asma'u turned back to face her reflection in the mirror and slowly re-applied gloss to her lips.

Only minutes after they left, she heard the crisp tapping of heels.

"What is it, Rayyana?"

She smacked her lips before swivelling on the stool to face the young woman standing in the doorway.

Sunlight spilled over Rayyana's fair skin, illuminating the delicate curves of her face. If Asma'u had not been so secure in her own beauty, she might have envied her younger sister. Whereas Asma'u had inherited their father's striking features and rich dark complexion, Rayyana carried their mother's delicate Fulani beauty. Fair-skinned, with light brown eyes, a pointed nose, and a graceful pear-shaped figure, she was softness where Asma'u was steel.

Even at twenty-three, there was an unmistakable innocence about Rayyana. She kept herself modestly covered, her faith evident not in grand declarations but in the quiet way she lived her life.

Asma'u was the opposite. She had long embraced Western ideals. She rejected the notion that a woman's clothing determined her fate in the Hereafter. In her eyes, every woman had the right to dress as she pleased without having her faith judged by the length of her sleeves or the fabric on her head.

"The food is ready. They made masa da Miyan Taushe, your favourite. The cooks have already set everything out in the dining hall," Rayyana said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"You could have called or texted," Asma'u pointed out.

"I could have, but you only came back from abroad a week ago, and we haven't spoken much. Besides, I can tell something's been on your mind. Me ke damun ki?" Rayyana asked.

| What bothers you?

Asma'u held her gaze.

Hearing her sister's words, her thoughts immediately drifted back to the conversation she had with their father...

THREE DAYS AGO

"Mama Na," her father called.

"Na'am, Baba," Asma'u replied.

She sat on the plush, luxurious carpet of her father's private throne room, a place he often retreated to whenever he wished to rest or relax. More often than not, one would find Alhaji Garba with a newspaper folded between his fingers, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, or quietly eating dabino and drinking mint tea.

Today, he was dressed in a simple, plain jallabiya that draped over his tall frame, the white specks in his beard a sign of age and wisdom.

"Na yi duk abin da ki ka tambaye ni. Ko ba haka ba, Mama Na?" he asked.

| I've always fulfilled every one of your wishes. Have I not?

Asma'u released a defeated sigh, already knowing where the conversation was headed.

"Haka ne, Baba," she responded, not meeting his eyes.

| Yes, you have.

"How old are you, Asma'u?" Alhaji Garba asked.

"Twenty-eight, Baba."

"Exactly."

Alhaji Garba paused, setting his teacup down with deliberate care. The room fell into a brief silence, one Asma'u knew all too well. It was the silence he always allowed before asking a question he already knew the answer to.

"Now my next question for you is... are you educated?"

"Yes, Baba."

"Are you financially stable?"

Asma'u let out a quiet scoff, the corner of her lips twitching ever so slightly.

"That's not an argument."

"Do you handle most of my businesses?"

"Only because you allow me to."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Alhaji Garba's lips. He leaned back against his throne, his fingers lightly tapping the carved armrest as he studied his daughter.

"Then why haven't you brought me a man? Or do you want me to choose a husband for you instead?"

Silence settled between them.

Asma'u lowered her gaze to the intricate patterns woven into the carpet beneath her.

"I don't see myself spending my whole life with a man—"

"Ke, Asma'u! Karki faɗa abin da zai ɓata min rai."

| Don't say something that'll upset me

Alhaji Garba cut her off before she could finish. The warmth that had rested on his face moments ago disappeared. He sat upright, his fingers tightening around the armrest of his throne, his jaw hardening as he fixed his daughter with a disappointed stare.

"Don't make me regret sending you abroad to study. You know our culture. You know our way. Ki daraja ni. Ki daraja mutuncina. I've given you more than enough years to be single, I've encouraged your lifestyle, all because I wanted your happiness, but now, you're reaching an age no woman should without getting married."

| Respect me. Respect my dignity.

He shook his head slowly before continuing.

"Wallahi, Asma'u, either you bring me a husband, or I'll be forced to choose one for you. You're nearing thirty, for God's sake."

PRESENT 

"Is it the conversation you had with Baba?" Rayyana asked, concern evident in her voice.

"How do you know about that?" Asma'u raised a brow.

"Mama can't quite keep things to herself," was all Rayyana replied, a smile on her face.

A quiet scoff escaped Asma'u.

"I have never entertained a man in my life. They're unnecessary. They complicate everything they touch, then expect applause for fixing the mess they created. And the religious ones?" She scoffed. "They're the worst. Besides, no man has ever, and no man will ever, stand at my level."

"You speak of status, and level, yet have you forgotten the Prince of Gombe personally came to ask for your hand in marriage? And don't think I've forgotten about the proposals you've been receiving from your business partners abroad."

"Rayyana," Asma'u said, her voice filled with unwavering certainty. "No man has ever, and no man ever will, stand eye to eye with me." She let the words linger before continuing, "Their intelligence doesn't compare. Their charisma leaves much to be desired. Becoming a wife is nothing more than becoming a maid, even if it's to the richest man alive."

"And what are you planning on doing then? Living your life alone?"

"If I must."

Her response drew a loud sarcastic chuckle from Rayyana.

"You know that's not possible. As the first daughter of Alhaji Garba, and the princess of Kano State, you have a duty to fulfil."

Asma'u rose from the vanity stool, smoothing an invisible crease from her atamfa before turning towards the door.

"My duty is to live my life and be happy."

She didn't spare her sister another glance.

"This conversation is over."

****

Night-time was airy and cool, caressing the tiny hairs on the skin of everyone it touched. Weather like this in Kano, especially during the month of April, was rare. The previous day's rain had come without warning, leaving behind a cool breeze that many believed would disappear with the morning sun. 

Rain was never generous to Kano. Unlike the southern cities where the skies seemed eager to pour, the North treasured every unexpected shower. That was why the previous day's rainfall still lingered in the air, leaving behind a coolness that felt almost foreign.

Draped in garments more acquainted with hardship than luxury stood a man who towered at six-foot-five. He possessed round, watchful eyes that commanded respect rather than attention, a broad nose, and a long, dark beard that framed the lower half of his face. His caramel-toned skin complemented his striking Fulani features, while broad shoulders bore the quiet strength of years of honest labour. A miswak rested between his teeth, a habit that never seemed to leave him.

Hassan Lamido Hassan was a man in his mid-thirties, known as one of the finest craftsmen and tailors in the whole of Kano State. His work reached every anguwa, from the local GRAs to the Emir's palace. Politicians, businessmen, and Arewa's most influential figures sought his craftsmanship, trusting no one else with their garments.