GIDADO’S

"Shigo," Asma'u called. Not a second later, the door creaked open as Fatima stepped inside, making an appearance. "Allah ya ja zamanin ki, Hajia Asma'u." She bowed her head slightly before turning to greet Rayyana. "Allah ya ja tsawon ran ki, Hajia Rayyana."

Both sisters looked at her curiously, quietly waiting for her to continue. "Sarki said to inform you to get ready and meet him in his private quarters, immediately" she said, relaying Alhaji Garba's command.

"Any reason in particular?" Asma'u asked, her brows drawing together slightly as she racked her brain for a reason her father would want to see her by such an hour of the day.

Fatima glanced to her left, then to her right before quietly turning towards the door, as though her intentions were to ensure it was properly shut.

Only then did she lower her voice, whispering. "I overheard Gimbiya saying that Amarya's nephew would be arriving today, Kowa na ta magana a kansa." Her head remained bowed as she spoke. She didn't dare meet either princess's eyes, fearful that she had already said too much.

Asma'u's eyes narrowed at the mention of her mother's co-wife—Amarya. The woman wasn't addressed as Amarya because she was young, and youthful. Rather, ever since Alhaji Garba had taken a second wife fifteen years earlier, the name Amarya had simply stuck with—Salma Salisu Gidado.

They rarely uttered of her. Neither sister made any effort to involve themselves in their mother's co-wife's affairs because, quite frankly, they had never seen a reason to. 

Amarya had her own section of the fada, situated far from where Gimbiya and her children lived. She was given equal protection, right and keys to luxury as Gimbiya was, yet when it came to loyalty amongst the servants, there was no doubt that respect was a crown Gimbiya took.

They had, however, heard quite a lot about Amarya's nephew. The Prince of Sokoto.     Yariman Sakkwato. One of the Galadima family's most prominent business partners in Nigeria.

Asma'u had worked with him on several projects overseas over the years, but nothing beyond that. She had never met the man in person. 

So, hearing that her father wanted her in his private quarters, at an intimate hour where he would no less require another's presence, while the prince was expected to arrive could only make her purse her lips. She could only hope that whatever this meeting was about wouldn't cost her a peaceful afternoon.

****

OUTSIDE 

A convoy of vehicles rolled through the palace gates.

From the latest model polished black Range Rovers and Cadillac Escalades to armored Toyota Land Cruisers, the convoy stretched down the road.  A paddawa raised his kakaki, and its rich note rolled across the palace grounds, announcing the arrival of distinguished guests.

One after another, the vehicles came to a stop in the parking courtyard, beside neatly trimmed hedges and flowering shrubs. The low hum of their engines stirred birds from the trees, sending them fluttering into the sky, while servants and guards alike straightened where they stood.

There were twelve vehicles in total. Yet only one truly commanded attention.

Positioned at the very centre of the convoy, was a car flanked on every side by the others, as though the surrounding vehicles existed for one purpose, and one goal alone—to protect whoever sat inside.

"Shall we go in now, Your Highness?" a driver in the black Range Rover asked, his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror.

A tailored black suit moulded itself effortlessly to his broad frame, while a pair of dark sunglasses concealed his eyes despite the shade offered by the tinted windows. His posture was relaxed, one arm resting lazily against the door, yet there was something quietly commanding about him.

The man seated in the back gave no immediate response.

After a moment, he hummed softly." Let them wait." A faint smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I am in no rush."

****

BACK IN HER ROOM

Asma'u settled on a dark purple adire gown, thick enough to conceal her figure and long enough to cover every inch of exposed skin. She had already experienced firsthand what her father was capable of whenever he believed she had failed to dress modestly in the presence of male visitors, and she had no intention of inviting that kind of displeasure today.

After selecting a veil that complemented the adire gown, she wrapped her hair into a ponytail before draping the fabric neatly over her head.

She then reached for her phone and scrolled through her apps until YouTube filled the screen.

Drawing in a slow, steady breath, she opened the comment section beneath her latest video.

The comments were a battlefield:

| Easy for you to say when you've never had to worry about your next meal.

| Spoken like a rich girl who's never struggled a day in her life.

| Another privileged princess telling the rest of us how to live.

| Nepo baby kawai.

| Can we please cancel all these nonsense influencers, tinubu dey do us everyday and you greedy people still want more out of us

Yet, buried beneath the bitterness were voices that reminded her why she kept speaking.

| Thank you. I genuinely needed to hear this today.

| Your videos have helped me become more disciplined over the past few months.

| Asma'u Galadima the woman you are!

| She literally gave free advice and you people are angry?

| Jama'ar banza!

| Some of you just hate successful women.

| That's why most of you are stuck in Nigeria!! Yan iska kawai.

She couldn't help but smile whenever she came across those who passionately defended her in the comments, arguing with strangers as though protecting her name were a personal mission.

Shaking her head with quiet amusement, she locked her phone and slipped it into the pocket of her gown before stepping out of her room and making her way down the hallway, the scent of turaren wuta hitting her nostrils.

She decided on taking the elevator. A soft ding sounded as the doors slid open, and within moments she found herself in the left wing of the palace. Her heels made their usual rhythmic tapping sound, signifying to anyone nearby that Asma'u Galadima was approaching.

By the time she reached her father's private chambers, two Paddawa stood at the end of the hallway. The moment they saw her, they bowed slightly. Asma'u acknowledged them with a small nod before twisting the handle to the chamber and walking in.

The first thing that welcomed her was the back of a man dressed in a tailored suit. His hair was cut low and neat, and even from where she stood, she could tell he sat lazily before her father, his posture screaming that he couldn't care less how he appeared in Sarki's presence.

Asma'u's brow knitted slightly. She dragged her gaze away from him and towards her father, who occupied his usual seat behind his twenty-four-inch mahogany desk, the files and inkwells upon it arranged with their usual precision.

"Assalamu alaikum," she breathed into the room, allowing her greeting to settle into the silence that had filled it. Her heels came to a stop "You requested to see me?" Asma'u asked as she elegantly sat on the plush couch opposite the one the stranger occupied.

Almost immediately, she felt the man's sharp eyes on her. She decided to pay them no mind.

"I summoned you, not requested you," Alhaji Garba said, his voice carrying a quiet rebuke. The lines around his eyes deepened when she made no effort to acknowledge their guest. "Do you not see that we have a visitor?" he asked, his fingers folded calmly before him.

Almost dismissively, Asma'u turned slowly. She stared at the man again, whose gaze was apparently still fixed on her face and made no effort to move. As always, she knew to observe strangers who seemed like a threat, so she gave him a quick once-over. 

Long legs, black shades resting atop his nose, caramel skin. Nothing else seemed interesting or even slightly intriguing to her.

"I didn't realise the sun had made it into this part of the palace," she muttered, loud enough for him to hear, referring to the sunglasses resting on his face.

It was ridiculous.

Wearing something that belonged outdoors... indoors.

A smirk was all she got in response.

"Is that how you welcome our guest, Bintu?" her father's sharp voice cut through the room. Asma'u rolled her eyes before clearing her throat almost immediately. She knew better than to push her father whenever he addressed her by that name.

He called her Mama Na whenever he was in a good mood or pleased with her, Asma'u on ordinary days, and Bintu whenever she had annoyed—or outright angered—him.

He rarely used the latter, which was why, with a fake smile plastered across her face, she turned once again

"Welcome to Kano." She addressed the stranger, though her ego wouldn't let it be more than three words. 

The man nodded to her in response, not seemingly taking offence in the way she addressed him.

As Asma'u had suspected, the reason for the meeting was business. A few guests walked in and served refreshments, and after a while the discussions began. They talked over the details of their farmlands in Maiduguri, Adamawa, and Katsina and how they could expand into new territories within Nigeria.

The guest suggested acquiring more land in Kebbi before the planting season began, while Alhaji insisted they strengthen their existing farms before taking on another investment. They talked about stocks, went over the monthly figures, and discussed ways to strengthen their partnership with the Gidados.

Through it all, she had the unsettling feeling that he was watching her. Whenever she looked up, his attention was on the sketches spread across the table. Yet the moment she looked away, she could feel his gaze settle on her again.

"That'll cover it. Your time has been valuable, Mahmud." Her father nodded, a pleased smile settling on his face as he outstretched his hand in offering.

"It was a pleasure, Alhaji Garba," the man, whom she now knew as Mahmud, replied, returning the handshake with a firm grip.

Her father shot her a sharp glare, as though warning her not to misbehave, before speaking. "I have a few things to take care of. I'll let my daughter see you off," he said to Mahmud, never once taking his eyes off Asma'u.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask her father what exactly he thought he was doing by leaving her alone with a man she had only just met, but she merely shook her head, almost in defeat, as she watched him walk out of the room.

The minute the door shut closed, she spoke. "The same way you walked in, is the same way you'll walk out. The exit hasn't changed, the doors haven't magically grown legs and moved. My job here is done." She stood, smoothing out the invisible creases on her dress before turning to leave. She had only taken five steps when...

"Mahmud," he called.

She looked back.

He was already watching her, one arm resting lazily against the chair, as though he'd known she would turn. There was nothing smug about the look on his face, only quiet amusement.

"Mahmud Dikko Gidado," he said. "That's my full name. And it was nice finally meeting you... in person, Asma'u." He slipped one hand into his pocket, entirely at ease. "I can see why we've never had any issues throughout our time as business partners overseas. You're an intelligent woman."

She stayed quiet. Her gaze lingered on the shades perched over his eyes before sweeping over him once more. "I can't say the same about you." She scrunched her face.

A quiet chuckle escaping him. "True. I'm not a woman." His smile lingered. "And yes, I'm well aware the doors haven't magically grown legs." He let out another quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "I'll see myself out, Asma'u."

He walked past her without another word, only to stop a few steps later. Looking back, the hint of a smile returned to his face. "We'll definitely talk more." Pausing briefly, he added, "Just not about business."