A girl granted by Allah himself, Inaya, she was beautiful. She was a woman who used her lips for the truth, her voice for compassion, her hands for charity, and her heart for love. Inaya was sunshine mixed with bits of hurricane, and Inaya was my mother.
Fourteen. She was fourteen when her drunkard father came home one night and suddenly announced that Inaya would get married, he had made arrangements with a man twice his own age, and she would get married to him, there was nothing Inaya or her mother could do about it, it was the Hausa culture, it didn't matter that she had always dreamt of the kind of love written in books, the kind of love people sang about, love that would make her heart flutter, love that would be calming, love that would bring her serendipity- all of that didn't matter, and Inaya knew that trying to fight her father would mean trouble for her mother, so she didn't fight. All she could do was cry silently in the comforting arms of her mother when her father wasn't looking.
She didn't fight when the old man came to take her away, she didn't fight when he smiled, exposing his discoloured teeth, she didn't fight when he told her father “na gina ina” (I like what I see), she didn't fight when her sa rana (wedding date) was set. Her fatihah (wedding day) came, and her sadaki (dowry) was paid. Her mother wept and held her hands, but her father was all smiles as he accepted the money. Inaya hated him.
She was sixteen when the old man took her virginity, and she was eighteen when she had her first daughter, she named her Fatima. The old man died two moths after Fatima was born, he left everything to Inaya, and she held on to it, she would not grant her father the pleasure of seeing her fall apart. Inaya raised Fatima alone, it was hard,but she kept pushing.
When Fatima was five years old, Inaya decided she didn't want to remain in Kaduna forever, she sold off her expensive jewelries and clothes- gifts from the old man that she never opened, then she packed her bags, and left Kaduna, she only told her mother. Inaya arrived in Lagos, a twenty three year old woman with a baby and nowhere to stay, she bought food for Fatima and starved so she could save money, she looked for jobs,but no one wanted her with her baby, and the ones who were willing to take the both of them wanted her to take her hijab off, but then she met my father and her whole life changed. He took her in, gave her a job, food to eat, and a place to stay with Fatima. He was also Hausa, and he already had six wives, but he genuinely cared for Inaya, she didn't refuse when he asked her to marry him, and he didn't refuse when she told him she wanted to be educated. My father waited for her, and when she was ready, she bore him children. My father described her as “delightfully chaotic; a beautiful mess.” And he described loving her as “a splendid adventure.”
I remember Inaya cooking, I remember Inaya sitting by the window and knitting sweaters for my sisters and I, I remember Inaya sitting up all night and reading books, I remember Inaya sitting by the fireplace to write, I remember that Inaya's definition of a “star” was someone that is truly happy, I remember Inaya telling her story to me over and over again, and I remember Inaya telling me “za ki zama babba, 'yata.” This is the day Inaya was born, and it is the day that she passed away. If I have a daughter, her name will be Inaya, a girl granted by Allah himself, and she will be beautiful.
I wish I met her.
Beautiful. ❤️