Malam Auwalu was originally from Badume village in Kano State. He was both a farmer and a trader, blessed by God with a modest but comfortable life. Before his death, he and his wife Balaraba lived together for only two years, because he passed away before her. God blessed them with six children.
Later, the family moved to the city of Kano, which gave all the children the opportunity to acquire both Islamic and Western education. Most of his sons went into the food trading business that their father left behind, except for Aminu, who was deeply interested in Western education. After completing his first degree in Business Studies, he served his national service and secured a job with a company in Kaduna. When he married, he continued to live there. Despite working, he pursued further studies, with the company’s permission and promise to retain him because of his brilliance.
When he completed his second degree, he kept studying, aspiring to become a professor. Alongside his growing family, he cleverly established two farms in Kaduna. There he raised chickens, rabbits, turkeys, and catfish. God granted him success, and within a few years, nearly all poultry sellers in Kaduna bought from his farm. After many years, he completed building his house in Barnawa, Kaduna, near Station Road, where he moved his family. God also blessed him with children.
Auwalu Musa – Balaraba Tukur
Children: Mannir, Rabi’u, Humaira, Aminu, Khalil, Salim
Aminu Auwal Musa (Baba)
Wives:
Rashida AbdulMannir (Mama)
Children: Muhsin, Huzaifa, Salamatu, Halima, Khadija, Junior, Amna
Karima Sani (Anty)
Children: Zaid, Jafar, Hindatu, Khalil, Asma’u
Friends of Hindatu Al’amin:
Zainab (Biebee), Aina’u (Dimples), Yasmin, Hajarah, Hawwa
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Malam Abbas, a Fulani man from Marake village in Katsina State, married his wife Amina in what was considered a blessed marriage—she was only 16, while he was 23. Their life was simple, neither rich nor poor, and they had five children. During the last childbirth, Amina died, leaving the children motherless. They grew up as orphans until later they also lost their father, shuffling between relatives.
Eventually, Abubakar, one of the sons, moved to Kaduna to seek work. He started as a bricklayer, and there he met his wife Mariya, a refugee from Sudan who had fled conflict to Nigeria. She was working as a maid in Kaduna, barely understanding Hausa at the time. Since Abubakar had no relatives opposing the marriage, they wed and lived in Tudun Wada, Kaduna, where he continued his masonry work and they lived modestly.
Mal. Abbas – Mama Amina
Children: Abdallah, Ahmad, Abubakar, Maryam, Rabi’atu
Abubakar Abbas (Appa) – Mariya (Anna)
Children: Hamza, Abid, Faruk, Jamila (Auta)
Friends of Hamza Abu Abbas:
Usman Ayoob (Fodio), Muhammad Kamal (Arafat), AbdulHafiz Ashir, Abdallah Nuhu
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A fearful silence filled the middle of the night. Although she didn’t check the clock, she was sure it was around 2 a.m. A sudden flash of lightning made her shrink back against the wall, fearing the heavy rain about to fall. Without her hijab, she would have been left in only her nightgown. A deafening thunderclap made her clutch her belly, where her unborn child stirred, frightened by her own terror.
Tears of pain and despair streamed down her face. She didn’t know where to go in the dark night. She stood at the gate of her matrimonial home for over thirty minutes, clutching a black plastic bag tightly. Hamza’s warning to the gatekeeper still rang in her ears:
> “By God, if you open the gate for her, not only will you lose your job, but I will make sure you’re punished. Tell me why you let her into my house!”
She was stunned. She knew Hamza’s character well, but never imagined his cruelty would go this far. Even if he didn’t pity her, surely he would pity the child she was carrying. Where could she go, in the dead of night, in such a deserted neighborhood where even during the day one barely saw people outside?
She dragged herself slowly to a corner by the gate, barefoot, shivering, sobbing so hard she could hardly breathe, as the rain poured down. When the wind grew harsher, she knocked desperately at the gate.
> “Baba Maigadi, please help me… look at my pregnancy. Just let me shelter until dawn, then I’ll leave.”
Her voice was weak and broken. The old gatekeeper peered out, torn between pity and fear of losing his job.
> “Forgive me, you know the master’s temper. This job is my only livelihood…”
Tears gushed again. A marriage that was supposed to bring dignity had instead stripped her of it. Fate gives no choices—it casts you where it wills. Tonight, Hindatu Al’amin, once bright and hopeful, was reduced to begging for shelter.
> “Please help me. I have nowhere to go tonight…”
The gatekeeper sighed. She had stood outside long enough to haunt his conscience. Finally, he said:
> “You may come in for a few minutes. I’ll lend you my phone so you can call someone.”
With a trembling voice, she replied:
> “Yes, please lend it to me.”
She had forgotten all about her own phone—Hamza hadn’t even let her wear shoes, let alone bring it. She rushed in, drenched, clutching her stomach as chills racked her body. The old man handed her his tiny battered phone. She tried dialing—her father’s number, not her mother’s (knowing her mother’s phone would be off at night). She prayed as it rang.
But no one picked up. She called again and again—five times, then lost count—her tears mingling with the rain dripping from her hijab.
Seeing her suffering, the old man finally said:
> “Go inside the room… you’ll freeze out here.”
She entered, sitting weakly on the floor by the door, terrified Hamza might show up and throw them both out. She kept dialing her father’s number, whispering prayers, until she fell into exhausted sobs.
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Meanwhile, far away, Alhaji Aminu and his family were asleep. Around midnight, he was startled awake by his phone ringing repeatedly. He found 21 missed calls from an unknown number. Alarmed, he woke his wife Rashida (Mama).
> “Subhanallah,” he muttered. “Someone called 21 times. Something must be wrong.”
Mama’s heart sank. She recited “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un” under her breath, fighting the dread that this meant calamity.
When Aminu finally managed to reconnect, a weak female voice answered. The line was poor, the network breaking, but it was enough to fill him with dread for his children.
He prayed silently:
> “O Allah, protect my children. Do not test me through them. Look upon me with mercy.”
