MALLAM
Dust rose into the air as a keke napep rolled to a stop a few blocks away from the Galadima Palace.
| tricycle
Hassan reached into his pocket for some folded naira notes.
"Naira dubu ɗaya da ɗari biyar," the driver said before Hassan even had the chance to ask.
Hassan gave him a small nod, counted out the money, and handed it over.
After paying the fare, He stepped out, adjusted the large gana-must-go bag slung over his shoulder, and watched as the tricycle rattled away. Standing before the towering gates of the Galadima Palace, he found himself appreciating their sheer size all over again.
The mud-coloured walls stretched endlessly on either side, while enormous carved gates stood firmly shut. Guards armed with rifles and traditional weapons stood watch, their eyes carefully following every movement.
He approached respectfully.
After a series of questions confirming his identity and purpose, the security men escorted him through the first gate and towards the inner courtyard. Throughout the walk, his grip never loosened around the large gana-must-go bag filled with carefully tailored garments.
At the second gate, the guards handed him over to the palace Paddawa, who stood in disciplined rows, dressed in their familiar red and green robes, each holding a long dorina staff. "You'll be taken to the left wing to meet Alhaji," one of the older Paddawa, a man in his late forties, informed him after confirming his identity with the guards.
Hassan acknowledged him with a small nod.
Together, they walked through the vast palace grounds. Even after months of working for the Galadima household, Hassan still found himself quietly admiring the grandeur around him. The neatly swept courtyards, towering buildings, polished walkways, and disciplined servants all reflected a level of order few places possessed.
Upon reaching the left wing, the Padda stopped outside the entrance. "Wait here," he instructed before disappearing inside.
Alhaji Garba was still entertaining several distinguished guests. The Padda immediately lowered himself onto one knee. "Allah ya ja tsawon rai. Ran ka shi daɗe!" He bowed his head respectfully.
| May God grant Your Highness a long life. May your reign be long and prosperous.
"Mai ɗinkinka ne ya zo."
| Your tailor has arrived.
Although Alhaji Garba was a difficult man to impress, years of leadership had taught him to wear a stern expression almost constantly. People rarely approached him carelessly, and his silence alone was enough to command obedience. Yet, at the news of Hassan's arrival, the faintest hint of satisfaction tugged at the corner of his lips before disappearing just as quickly.
It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
"Let him in." It was the longest sentence he had spoken to anyone since the Eid celebrations began that morning.
The Padda bowed once more before hurrying outside. "Mallam." He gestured for him to enter.
Knowing he was coming to the royal palace, Hassan had taken extra care with his appearance. He wore a freshly pressed cream-coloured babbar riga over a matching jalabiya, with a neatly embroidered hula resting upon his head. Though simple compared to the garments worn within the palace, every piece was spotless.
Stepping inside, Hassan lowered himself respectfully onto Alhaji Garba's plush carpet, bowing his head. "Allah ya ja zamanin mai martaba."
May God prolong Your Highness's reign.
He greeted the Sarki first before respectfully acknowledging the distinguished guests seated around him. Alhaji Garba answered with a small nod, his attention fixed on Hassan as he quietly explained the completed garments. Satisfied, the ruler gestured towards the leather bag.
"Take my clothes to the mini parlour," Alhaji Garba instructed. He paused, his gaze lingering on Hassan for a brief moment. "Then proceed to the women's wing. Deliver the ladies' garments to Gimbiya."
****
"Assalamu alaikum."
Hassan's voice was barely audible as he stepped into the spacious female living room. He had expected the room to be alive with the chatter of women and bursts of laughter. Instead, it was unusually quiet, completely empty.
The only sound came from the dining area. Utensils clinked against each other as drawers and cupboards were opened and shut.
Hassan paused for a brief moment, listening.
Adjusting the bag of clothes in his hand, he straightened his shoulders and let out a quiet breath before heading toward the sound, hoping to find Gimbiya, or at least one of the maids.
Instead, the moment he stepped inside, his breath caught, if only for a second.
For a fleeting moment, he forgot why he'd come.
Standing in the corner of the room was a young woman dressed in a pink atampa gown. Her head tie had been discarded, revealing the unmistakable Fulani beauty of her hair—long, black curls cascading down her back.
Startled by the sound behind her, Rayanna turned around, only to find herself face to face with Hassan. He cleared his throat and immediately lowered his gaze, his eyes settling somewhere near the floor.
Rayanna, however, didn't seem the least bit bothered. She simply looked at him, unfazed despite standing before a man who was neither a mahram nor someone she knew, her hair still uncovered. "Hassan!" Her voice was airy, carrying a hint of excitement.
A smile flickered across Rayyana's lips.
Even with her hair uncovered, Hassan hadn't looked twice.
"Welcome. Yaushe ka zo?" she asked, already taking a few steps towards him.
Hassan shifted the bag in his hand. He had never understood why Rayanna was always this warm with him. Ever since he began taking measurements and delivering clothes to the palace, she had always greeted him with the same quiet enthusiasm. At first, he'd assumed it was simply her nature. Until he noticed she wasn't like that with everyone else.
Most of the time, Rayanna kept to herself, speaking only when necessary and shrinking into the background whenever the women gathered. Yet somehow, whenever Hassan arrived, she always seemed to come alive.
Hassan met her eyes for a brief moment before lowering his gaze. "Wa alaikumus salam, Hajiya Rayanna." His voice remained steady, neither warm nor cold. "Ina wuni? Na kawo kayan da aka ba ni." He adjusted the bag on his shoulder.
Rayanna giggled. "I've told you repeatedly not to call me Hajiya." She tilted her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Do I really look that old?"
Hassan adjusted the bag in his hand, shifting its weight onto his other shoulder. "Is Gimbiya around?" he asked evenly. "She requested my presence. I need to show her the clothes."
The smile on Rayanna's face faltered. She straightened, clasping her hands together as the warmth in her expression quietly faded.
"Yeah." Her voice came out softer this time. "She's in her room. She was expecting you hours ago, but after seeing her guests off, she retired to rest. She's asleep now."
She glanced at the bag. "You can leave it in the mini living room. I'll let her know once she's awake."
"Thank you." Hassan inclined his head in appreciation before walking past her, his footsteps echoing through the quiet hall.
Rayyana watched him walk away until he disappeared around the corridor.
*****
FEW MINUTES AGO
The last thing Asma'u heard before shutting her bedroom door was her mother's voice downstairs, mingling with the distant echoes of Hilwa and Hikma's laughter.
Silence welcomed her instead.
Standing before the full-length mirror that dominated one side of her room, she slowly turned, her eyes travelling over the rich purple fabric hugging her figure. They stopped at the smears of chocolate staining the expensive material around her hips.
Her jaw tightened.
The dress had been custom-made abroad. It was one of a kind.
"Rufaida should be grateful I tolerate her children," she muttered under her breath, brushing futilely at the stain. "Otherwise she'd be paying twice the price for this dress." Her fingers lingered over the ruined fabric for another second before she let out a quiet scoff and stepped away from the mirror.
Just then, her phone vibrated. The sharp buzz cut through the silence of the room.
Asma'u turned towards the oversized bed, where her phone rested in its baby-blue case against a mountain of fluffy white duvets. She picked it up, unlocked the screen, and was immediately greeted by another flood of notifications.
Three hundred and fifty thousand likes. She'd posted the photograph barely hours before leaving for Eid prayers.
The comments continued pouring in faster than she could read them.
| Asma'u Galadima never misses.
| The Princess of Kano.
| Nigeria's finest.
| Beauty itself.
She barely spared them a second glance.
Scrolling lower, she skimmed through the endless dm's instead. Fashion houses. Jewellery brands. Event invitations. Collaboration requests. Chanel. Yves Saint Laurent. Zara. She dismissed it all. One after another, until a familiar name abruptly halted the movement of her thumb.
[SANI UMAR.]
Rufaida's dear husband.
The corners of her mouth flattened instantly. The man had become nothing short of persistent.
At first, the messages had arrived monthly. Harmless enough to ignore. Then they became weekly. Before long, his texts appeared whenever the opportunity presented itself, each one bolder than the last. She had never replied. Every message remained on Seen.
Opening the chat anyway, Asma'u felt a look of quiet disgust settle across her features.
She stared at it for a brief moment before rolling her eyes. "No wonder Rufaida kept glaring daggers at me." She was about to lock her phone when another notification appeared across the top of the screen.
Yusuf Ibrahim Dantani posted to his story.
She almost ignored it. There was no reason to open it. Whatever Yusuf Ibrahim Dantani had chosen to share with the world no longer concerned her. Yet, despite herself, curiosity won. Her thumb hovered over the notification for only a brief moment before pressing it, and almost instantly his story filled the screen.
It was a photograph, but not just any photograph.
Yusuf stood with a woman tucked against his chest so closely there wasn't the slightest space separating them. She wore a flowing white gown, her makeup flawless, a bright smile stretching across her face as she leaned comfortably into him.
Asma'u's eyes drifted over the woman only briefly. Fair. Petite. Pretty. Nothing more than that. Then, almost against her own will, her gaze settled where it had wanted to from the very beginning.
Yusuf Ibrahim Dantani.
One of the most respected businessmen in Nigeria. A man whose name opened doors long before he ever walked through them, and the only man she had ever willingly allowed herself to be alone with.
She remembered the confidence in his smile, the patience in his voice, and the promises he'd made so effortlessly. Promises she had been foolish enough to believe.
Never again.
Her thumb lingered over the photograph longer than she cared to admit as something heavy settled quietly inside her chest. She had never questioned herself before—never questioned her beauty, never questioned her worth.
She had always believed she was enough.
So why...
Why had he chosen someone else? Why not...her?
The thought lingered longer than she wanted it to. Annoyed with herself more than anyone else, Asma'u exited Instagram, tossed the phone onto the bed, and disappeared into her walk-in closet, her eyes already searching through rows of carefully arranged atampa gowns for something looser to change into.
***
Hassan unzipped the large Ghana Must Go bag and carefully brought out stacks of garments wrapped in thin transparent plastic. Each outfit had been neatly pressed, the expensive fabrics folded with painstaking care. One after another, he laid them across the long sofa, making sure not a single crease was disturbed.
A cool breeze drifted in through the open window.
His eyes lifted instinctively to them and outside, the leaves swayed gently against one another. The wind wasn't particularly strong, but Hassan knew the weather well enough. Before long, the clouds would gather, and rain would follow.
His thoughts wandered to his mother. How she was alone, weak and cold.
He hoped the medicine had eased her coughing.
Lost in thought, the stack of folded garments slipped from his hands, spilling onto the polished floor. "..." Hassan blinked, then shook his head lightly, pushing the thoughts aside before releasing a quiet sigh.
Not now. He wouldn't let the thoughts consume him, at least not here
Folding the sleeves of his babbar riga above his wrists, he lowered himself into a squat and began gathering the clothes one by one. He had just reached for the last piece of fabric when the crisp rhythm of heels echoed from the grand staircase.
Tak...
Tak...
Tak...
Thinking it was Gimbiya, Hassan immediately rose to his feet and straightened his shoulders.
A faint smile touched the corner of his lips.
It was no secret that he held Gimbiya Ramlatu in the highest regard. Not out of familiarity, but respect. She had always appreciated the work of his hands, never withholding praise where it was due so naturally, when the footsteps drew nearer, Hassan assumed it was her.
The smile was still resting on Hassan's lips as he turned, ready to greet Gimbiya. Instead, it disappeared entirely And He stopped where he stood.
For a brief moment, the breath left his lungs. Had he still been carrying the garments in his arms, he was certain they would have slipped from his grasp all over again.
Standing at the top of the staircase was perhaps the most beautiful woman Hassan had ever laid eyes on.
Beautiful not because she possessed the daintiest figure. Not because her features resembled the delicate Fulani beauty he had grown accustomed to amongst his people.
No. It was the way she descended the staircase.
Every step was slow and graceful, yet carried an authority that demanded attention. Her arms were neatly folded before her, while sharp, calculating eyes studied everything beneath them. The baby-blue atamfa flowing around her moved with every step, almost as though it knew it belonged to royalty.
She was beautiful. Dangerously so. And awfully enticing. Then... she looked at him.
Those dark eyes met his for the briefest second. They were cold and piercing
The sort of gaze that could silence a room without a single word being spoken. It was only when she spoke did he realise he had been staring far longer than he should have.
"Assala—"
"You must be Mama's tailor."
Before Hassan could even finish his greeting, she had already spoken. His mind immediately connected the pieces.
Mama's tailor—So that meant Gimbiya's eldest daughter.
Asma'u Galadima. The woman he had heard tales about but had never laid eyes on... not until now
"You can leave the clothes there." She gestured lazily towards one of the sofas. "After that, you're free to go." There wasn't so much as a greeting.
Not even the slightest acknowledgement of his salam. Her tone wasn't loud. It wasn't harsh either. Yet somehow it managed to sound dismissive, almost as though his presence had inconvenienced her.
The words lingered in the room long after she'd spoken them. For reasons Hassan couldn't quite explain, they unsettled him. If this truly was Gimbiya's first daughter, and Rayyana's sister then she was nothing like her.
Not in the slightest.
Where Rayyana welcomed him with warmth, almost excited and enthusiastic to see him, this woman seemed to keep the world at arm's length. There was something remarkably sharp about her. It wasn't merely the confidence with which she carried herself, nor the authority woven into every word she spoke.
It was her presence. It felt almost...threatening.
Like the edge of a freshly sharpened blade—beautiful to look at, but unwise to touch. Without meaning to, his eyes continued observing her, almost like they had a mind of their own.
His eyes followed the measured way she crossed the room, the confidence in her stance, the quiet certainty with which she occupied every inch of the space around her. She behaved like someone who had never once questioned whether she belonged.
Asma'u cleared her throat before snapping her fingers once, the sharp sound cutting through the silence between them. "Mallam, you can leave."
For a fleeting moment, the title reminded him of home. His mother had always called him Mallam. Yet, somehow, coming from the woman before him, it sounded nothing like it did on his mother's tongue.
Asma'u's brows drew together ever so slightly, annoyance flickering across her face. Ever since she'd woken up, men had done nothing but irritate her. From the endless messages flooding her DMs to her father's relentless insistence that she get married, her patience had already worn thin. The last thing she'd expected upon coming downstairs was yet another man standing in her living room.
Her eyes travelled slowly over him, scrutinising every inch of his appearance. From the faded hula resting on his head to the well-worn babbar riga draped over his broad frame, nothing escaped her notice. So Something about him irritated her instantly.
Perhaps it was the simplicity of his appearance. Perhaps it was the fact that a man so plainly dressed was standing in her living room.
Whatever the reason, the sight of him only worsened the irritation that had been simmering within her since morning. Her eyes met his properly for the first time.
And in the briefest moment, everything around her threatened to blur. Even the distant chatter from elsewhere in the palace dissolved into silence. He towered over her, but that didn't bother her.
What did bother her was the way he met her gaze. It was calm, quiet and steady. There wasn't the slightest hint of nervousness in his eyes. No frantic apology. No immediate lowering of his head. Her gaze drifted to the neatly trimmed beard framing his face before returning to his eyes. He simply...looked at her, his posture straight and composed, his broad shoulders unmoving beneath the worn babbar riga.
It unsettled her.
Most people avoided looking at her for too long. Those who did usually fidgeted beneath the weight of her stare, but he did neither, and to Asma'u, it almost felt like defiance. Disobedience.
His Adam's apple bobbed once beneath the collar of his babbar riga. It was a subtle movement, one most people would have overlooked, yet she didn't.
At last, he gave a respectful nod before turning to leave.
There it was again.
That quiet composure.
It unnerved her far more than it should have. He had almost reached the doorway when her voice cut through the silence. "Mallam." Hassan stopped but didn't turn immediately.
"Actually... come back." An idea had crossed Asma'u's mind. Every part of her warned her against it, but when had she ever been one who threaded carefully or listened to the logical voices inside her head? She was angry—angry at her father, angry at the endless men filling her DMs, angry at the mere thought of marriage.
And unfortunately for him...He was there.
The perfect scapegoat.
"I want to see whether you got the measurements and details of my atamfa precisely. I was very specific when I told Rayyana the design I wanted." She had still been abroad when Rayyana messaged her on a busy Tuesday morning, asking how she wanted her Eid outfit tailored.
She had submitted her details and style choices via Instagram and she highly doubted he would have gotten them right. Truth told, there was always a tad bit of disappointment when it came to receiving her Eid outfit, the tailors always did their best to capture her visuals, yet none ever satisfied her.
Hassan quietly retraced his steps, this time with far better control over his emotions. He stood to one side while Asma'u rummaged through the neatly folded garments before pulling one free from the pile.
It was a sky-blue atamfa, richly embroidered with fine silver thread that traced delicate floral vines across the bodice and sleeves. Tiny crystal stones had been hand-set and pressed around the neckline and cuffs, catching the light whenever the fabric moved. The stitching was immaculate, every seam lying perfectly flat, every detail executed with painstaking precision.
Hassan almost shook his head at the absurdity of her pulling out that one garment. He had received instructions, but he didn't know who the clothe belonged to.
None of the garments he tailored for the Galadima family were ever simple. Their designs demanded patience, precision, and countless hours of labour.
But that one... that one in particular. The atamfa she held had stolen more sleep from him than any garment he had ever sewn in his entire tailor career.
More than once, he had found himself wondering how anyone could even think of such an intricate design. He had stitched thousands of outfits throughout his career, yet none had tested his skill and patience the way hers had.
Like clock-work silence settled over the room. Asma'u unfolded the atamfa with practiced ease, allowing the fabric to cascade down the length of her body. Her expression remaining unreadable.
Yet, despite herself, a quiet, almost breathless sigh escaped her lips when her eyes fell onto the stones perfectly aligned over the edges.
It was... exquisite.
Every crystal rested exactly where it should. Every stitch was impossibly neat. Every embroidered detail mirrored the design she had described to Rayyana months earlier. The dress was flawless, it looked exactly what she had asked for, exactly what she wanted.
"This isn't what I asked for." She said out loud, forced disappointment laced every syllable. She held the atamfa at arms length as though it didn't deserve to touch her skin
Her eyes settled on his figure, and the fact that he was a man only annoyed her more. She clenched the atamfa in her fist, then threw it across the room to land in a heap beside his polished shoes.
Hassan, who had been quietly standing to the side, studying every expression that crossed her face, wasn't moved by her theatrics. Neither was he impressed. His brows drew together in quiet distaste at her bold display.
He didn't say a word. He only watched her.
Seeing days and sleepless nights of painstaking work discarded without a second glance stirred something deep within him. Irritation flared slowly in his chest, threatening to become anger—a rare thing for Hassan.
"That's not what I wanted," she repeated.
He met her eyes. Stayed quiet for a while, then...
"I don't make mistakes, Princess." His jaw instantly locked. He thought it was petty, the display she was putting on, and to him it was an unnecessary character of a grown woman, especially one whom society spoke highly of.
"I was very precise about my design. You men always find a way to ruin things!" Asma'u snapped, clenching her teeth, trying and failing to stop her voice from rising.
Hassan's jaw tightened. "Why don't you pick it up and show me exactly what's wrong?" he said evenly. "I'm sure we can make the necessary adjustments."
"Pick it up?" Her brow raised as though it was the most absurd statement of the century. She shook her head. "Take my measurements again." She lifted her chin, refusing to look away from him. "I want it fixed by tomorrow."
"That won't be necessary." Hassan's voice remained level. "I already have your measurements at my shop." He held her gaze for a slight spin in time, gave a slight shake of his head as though deciding there was nothing more to say to someone so...unreasonable, then turned to leave.
"Mallam." Her voice sliced through the room with enough authority to stop even the servants lingering by the hallway. She couldn't believe he was about to walk out on her when she hadn't dismissed him.
"If you intend to walk out of this palace with a job," she said, each word clipped and deliberate, "then you'll take my measurements again."
Hassan's footsteps came to a halt and silence crept in the room. So absolute and time stopping
His fingers slowly curled into fists at his sides until his knuckles whitened beneath his skin. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and the vein along his temple pulsed once... then again. For the first time since stepping into the palace, the beauty he had admired so effortlessly seemed to fade beneath the sharp edge of her arrogance.
Very slowly, Hassan reached into the pocket of his kaftan and withdrew the single measuring tape he carried everywhere with him. The metal tip caught the afternoon light as it slipped free.
Then, he walked towards her. One measured step. Then another. The distance between them soon disappeared until he stood close enough to catch the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her clothes.
He stopped at her side. Only two feet away.
Even without trying, he towered over her by several inches. It struck him, not for the first time, that she looked much younger than he did. Delicate. Almost fragile. Yet the fearlessness in her eyes carried the weight of someone who had spent her entire life being obeyed and the sharpness of her tongue only proved it.
Asma'u refused to retreat.
Instead, she tilted her chin a little higher, forcing herself to meet his gaze despite the way he loomed over her. They were close enough to hear each other's breathing. Close enough that if either of them moved even an inch forward, there would be nothing left between them but stolen air.
Yet neither of them looked away.
None wanted to be the first.
The room seemed to shrink around them, like the walls could feel the animosity brewing between them, and the silence grew heavier with every passing heartbeat.
"Raise your arms," Hassan said at last.
It wasn't a request, Infact, it sounded dangerously close to a command.
He placed the tape against her shoulder first, his eyes still on hers. He adjusted it carefully until it rested at the correct angle. Every movement was deliberate, every inch measured with practiced precision. He made certain not to brush against her skin or the curve of her chest.
His fingers trembled. Only slightly.
His brows knitted together.
He had taken the measurements of countless women over the years. Brides, mothers, daughters, noblewomen. Never once had his hands betrayed him. He wasn't intimidated by the princess.
It was anger. That had to be it.
He worked his way around her with quiet efficiency, calling out silent figures only he could hear, committing every measurement to memory the instant the tape settled into place. Years of tailoring had trained his mind to remember numbers as easily as names.
When he reached her waist, he paused again. "Hm." The tape slid lower. "Arms." He instructed once more. He didn't say it loudly, yet it carried enough firmness to leave little room for argument.
Asma'u slowly lifted her arms again, never once breaking eye contact with him.
Hassan didn't return it this time. His attention remained fixed on the tape, on the neat lines stitched into her dress, on the measurements he was collecting with unwavering concentration. It was almost infuriating how disciplined he was. Not once had his gaze wandered over her body where it shouldn't. Not once had his fingers lingered longer than necessary. Even his touch was absent, yet somehow she felt every part of him, the tape serving as the only thing that came close to her.
She hated attention from men. Or at least, that was what she told herself.
In truth, she had grown accustomed to it. Men admired her beauty without shame. They stumbled over their words, stole second glances they believed she didn't notice, and if they were bold enough, a third. Their admiration wasn't merely expected—it was confirmation of who she was. A princess. A woman envied and desired in equal measure.
Yet Hassan denied her even that. He refused to be distracted by her beauty. Refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing she'd unsettled him.
And something about that kept igniting a spark beneath her skin.
Fine.
If he insisted on pretending she was nothing more than another client...
She would make him react.
"Mallam... baka yi wanka ba ne?"
| Mallam... haven't you taken a bath?
Hassan didn't so much as spare her a glance. He continued winding the measuring tape into a neat roll, his movements unhurried.
"Yau idi" His voice remained calm, though the restraint behind it had begun to fray. "I suggest you spend the day occupied with things more worthwhile than provoking me."
| Today is Eid
A smirk tugged at the corner of Asma'u's lips."Not Idi." She spoke each letter with deliberate slowness. "It's pronounced as Eid. E-I-D."
"I stand corrected." He said
"You haven't, so far." She retorted
"I usually don't have to." He responded evenly.
Her smile thinned. "You have quite the tongue for a tailor."
"And you have quite the pride for a servant of Allah."
Her expression hardened.
"Careful, Mallam."
"I am."
"No." She took a slow step towards him until barely a breath separated them. Tilting her chin, she met his gaze with open defiance. "You're simply forgetting who you're speaking to."
Hassan looked down and Instead of looking away this time, he held her gaze without flinching. "I remember exactly who I'm speaking to."
His eyes drifted briefly to the loose strands of hair framing her face before returning to hers.
"You should cover your hair, Princess." His voice lowered, almost gentle despite the rebuke. "You wouldn't want the angels recording disobedience where obedience would have been easier. I hope you don't see this act as luxury, it's defiance"
A soft laugh escaped her. "They'll question your eyes before they question my hair, Mallam."
"They'll question my eyes if I lower them too late." His expression never changed. "They'll question you for what you choose to reveal."
She folded her arms. "And what would you even know about luxury?" Her gaze swept over his worn sandals, the faded cuff of his kaftan, the calluses on his hands. "Perhaps that mindset is why you're still only a tailor."
"I'm a tailor because it's an honest living." His reply came calmly.
"How admirable." She scoffed.
"It is."
She gave a slow, unimpressed nod.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"And whatever feeds your pride, Princess."
Silence stretched between them once more. And once more she was left stunned at his boldness.
As usual, neither of them looked away because of them was willing to surrender the final word.
"Asma'u Galadima, Kennan" He hadn't intended for the words to come out, they just did. Yet they had barely left his mouth before her eyes snapped.
"What did you just call me?" The words rolled slowly and sharply off her tongue
Hassan didn't answer.
She took another slow step towards him, the rustle of her dress the only sound between them."Let me make myself perfectly clear, Mallam." Her voice was low. Somehow, it was worse than if she'd shouted.
"I've overseen the successful sale of seventy estates. There are ten business enterprises across Kano operating under my foundation. I've sat at tables with men whose names carry weight in every room they enter. Men of influence. Men of power. They look at me and see one thing."
She paused. "Respect." Her eyes never left his as she did.
"So when you look at me, I expect the same." Another step. "So much as utter my name again..." Her lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. "...it is Hajiya Asma'u to you."
The space between them disappeared.
"You and your entire family could spend generations trying to reach where I stand today, and you still wouldn't." She looked him up and down without attempting to hide the disdain in her eyes. "I can bend your life with a single instruction."
Hassan held her gaze. Her words hitting a nerve. Threatening him and looking down upon him was one thing, but including his family... His mama was a whole new level of insult he wasn't willing to swallow. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and his fingers flexed once at his sides before becoming still again.
"You're right, Princess." His voice was calm, stripped of apology. "We don't stand on the same ground." He took a measured breath, his eyes never leaving hers. "One day, we'll both stand before God, and on that day, neither your title nor my poverty will matter."
Asma'u said nothing, she only stared at him.
Then she laughed. A single, humourless, loud laugh. "You know what?" She shook her head. "The lot of you..." Her hands flew up in exasperation before falling back to her sides. "Actually crazy. Every single one of you."
Hassan's brows drew together.
"All you men care about is a woman's body and how she should cover up." She took another step forward, jabbing a finger into the space between them. "Are you for real? There are bigger issues in this world than whether a few strands of my hair are showing."
"We never said there weren't," Hassan replied calmly. "But one problem shouldn't blind us to an—"
She lifted a finger. "No." The word came low and deliberate. "You have listened to me all afternoon with that infuriating expression on your face. Now you'll continue listening."
He stayed quiet and obeyed. The firmness in her voice leaving no room for argument.
"Tell me, Mallam. How many charity projects have you funded? Actually forget that. How many orphanages have you visited? When was the last time you raised awareness for gender-based violence?" Her words came faster with each question. "For sexual assault? For rape? For kidnappings? For children being abused?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "Which of those have you stood for?"
Her eyes flashed. "All I ever hear from men is, 'Cover your hair. Cover your body. Lower your gaze. Stay inside.' Day in, day out, that's the conversation." She said, ticking off her fingers with every word.
She spread her arms, shaking her head. "And you're wondering why women get tired?" A bitter smile crossed her lips. "I'm so over it."
He had intended to tell her that injustice and obligation were never meant to compete with one another. That Islam condemned the oppressor long before it instructed the believer. That every rapist, every abuser, every kidnapper would answer before God just as every individual would answer for their own deeds.
Instead...
He found himself looking at her again.
Somehow completely awestruck by her features.
Not at the jewels resting against her neck. Not at the expensive fabric draped around her shoulders.
Her eyes specifically.
They had narrowed so thin with anger until they resembled the shape of polished almonds, dark and impossibly expressive, the kwalli lined over them only defining them. There was fury in them, yes, but beneath it sat something quieter. Weariness. Conviction. And a loneliness she herself probably hadn't realised she was revealing.
She was still speaking. Arms still flailing
He hadn't heard the last few sentences. Infact, he hadn't heard most of what she had said "...did you hear a word I just said?"
Silence.
"Asma'u—"
"I did not give you permission to use my name."
He blinked, as though waking from somewhere far away.
"Almond." He swallowed "...you have almond eyes."
The words escaped before he could catch them and the colour from her face drained—fast
"What?"
"You..." He swallowed again, unable to look anywhere else, almost as though he was in a trance. "You have almond eyes."
For the first time since the argument had begun, she said nothing. She was left utterly speechless.
"They're..." His brows drew together as though he were trying to understand his own thoughts. "Captivating."
The silence that followed was heavier than every argument they'd exchanged that afternoon.
Asma'u stared at him bewildered.
Her lips parted. They Closed. And fell again
Against every instinct, her gaze fell—only for the briefest heartbeat—to his mouth before snapping back to his eyes. Heat rushed into her cheeks so suddenly it angered her more than anything he had said all day.
She took one hurried step backwards. The movement finally broke whatever spell had settled between them.
Hassan lowered his eyes at once, horror creeping across his features as the full weight of his words reached him.
"Astaghfirullah..."
The words barely escaped his lips before shame crashed over him.
What had he done?
Hassan lowered his gaze immediately, taking a slow step backwards as though putting distance between himself and the mistake he'd just made. He couldn't remember the last time his tongue had betrayed him so completely.