<p><strong>She sat still, not moving an inch, as he brought out the bags he had in the car trunk. He came around to open my door and said, "You are welcome to Gwauru's house." I swallowed hard and replied, “It would be better if you go inside first and explain my presence to your family. If they accept me as a guest, Alhamdulillah; if they don't, there's no problem. You can then help me secure a guest house—that alone would be a huge favor, and I deeply appreciate it.”</strong></p><p><strong>He intertwined his fingers, making a cracking sound, and with a smile, he said, "You seem to lack trust in everyone. You're right, though—only Allah can be trusted fully, and humans can be scary. May Allah keep you safe from spending the night in a guest house. From your voice alone, one can tell you're a person of integrity who values herself. Trust me; I have no intentions of harming you. Circumstances brought us together, and Allah forged this connection. I wouldn't betray you just as no brother would betray his blood sister. Feel free with me; I’m not that kind of person. So, please step out and follow me. I promise you won’t regret it.”</strong></p><p><strong>I reluctantly opened the door and stepped out. Together, we walked inside, with the security guard following us with the bags.</strong></p><p><strong>From the living room, he raised his voice, calling out, "Manma, I'm back!" From a distant room, a woman answered, "Mon fils, tu es de retour (welcome back, my son)," before she leaned on her walking stick and made her way out, feeling the walls as she moved. Her eyes were wide open and bright, but I quickly realized she was blind. He rushed to her side, and as she felt his head, she embraced him, speaking in their language. I stood still, rooted in place, watching the elderly woman, whose resemblance to my late mother pierced through my chest like a dagger.</strong></p><p><strong>He said, “I didn't come back alone, Manma. I brought a guest. We were attacked by robbers, and since she's a stranger in Niger, I couldn't leave her behind to fall into bad hands.”</strong></p><p><strong>She replied, "I hope you caught them all? Since you left, I've been praying for Allah to elevate you further in your work." He seemed uncomfortable that she mentioned this in my presence but dismissed it by guiding her toward the chair where I was sitting. She reached out, feeling for me, touching only my veil at first. I removed my niqab, and she thoroughly felt my face, smiling as she said, “She's a young lady, isn't she? She must be beautiful, judging by her sharp nose. And you said she's not from our town?”</strong></p><p><strong>I looked up to find him staring at me, mouth slightly open but unable to speak. She said, "Bring her some water, or must I hit you with my stick?" He snapped out of his trance, went to the kitchen, and returned with chilled Ragolis water and Don Simon juice, which he placed on a table near me. His gaze hadn't left me. He then asked, “Didn't Laliya cook something for you, Manma?”</strong></p><p><strong>She found her chair, sat down, and replied, "Leave Laliya and her greed. She claimed she went to collect zakat at Kangiwa's house, even though I gave her her allowance just a few days ago." His face darkened with anger. "I’ll dismiss her," he said. “How can I hire someone to care for my mother, and she leaves my mother hungry? Not on my watch!”</strong></p><p><strong>Both the old woman and I burst out laughing. He rolled up his sleeves and headed for the kitchen. She called out to him, saying, “Patience, my love. Remember, the person who serves you daily deserves some leniency when they falter occasionally.”</strong></p><p><strong>He replied, "Alright, Manma, what would you like me to prepare for you in fifteen minutes?" She chuckled. "Cabbage stew. And as for your guest, ask her what she’d like." He turned to me. "What about you, our guest? What would you like to eat?" The old woman interrupted, saying, "Oh, so you don't even know her name yet?" Embarrassed, I admitted, “My name is Zaynab, but he hasn’t told me his name either, Mama.”</strong></p><p><strong>He smiled but didn't stop pouring juice into tumblers. The old woman threatened to hit him with her stick but hit a wall instead. Before she could fall, he caught her and gently laid her on a couch. "Both of you, forgive me," he said. “My name is precious. I only reveal it to the woman I deeply love. So, Manma, ask our guest if she's ready to accept me as her husband so I can share my name with her.”</strong></p><p><strong>Before the old woman could respond, I quickly said, “I’m not ready, and I won’t accept it. Keep your precious name to yourself. I’m not interested.”</strong></p><p><strong>He knelt beside his grandmother, resting his head on her lap. "I hope you're not angry at my teasing?" he asked.</strong></p><p><strong>"How could I be angry with someone who offered me hospitality without even knowing who I am?" I replied. “You didn’t fear I might harm your blind grandmother, nor did you worry I might be a jinn or something worse. I don't get upset with those who show me kindness, no matter how small. Go cook for your mother, mon amour, or isn’t that what Mama called you?”</strong></p><p><strong>Laughing, he stood up and said, “If only you knew the meaning of 'mon amour,' you'd never call me that.”</strong></p><p><strong>Still lying down, the grandmother said, “Leave him, my dear. If you're looking for a lover, why would you want this big fellow?”</strong></p><p><strong>From the kitchen, he called back, "Dear Manma, I swear I’m one of the most eligible bachelors in this city!" She retorted, "In places where there are no better options, perhaps." They bantered like grandmother and grandson deeply fond of each other.</strong></p><p><strong>In fifteen minutes, the aroma of food filled the house. He returned with a wide silver tray of lightly cooked cabbage stew, the cabbage cut into large pieces. I had never seen such a dish before and was tempted to ask but refrained, fearing his sharp response if I expressed curiosity about his name.</strong></p><p><strong>He also prepared a plate of white couscous with green beans and carrots, served with liver stew and fried meat, pairing it with chilled Seven-Up. "Well, Zaynab, please eat with patience; this is a bachelor’s cooking," he said.</strong></p><p><strong>His grandmother teased, "Bachelor or hermit?" He fed her the cabbage stew, and she replied, “Whoever suits you, I guess.”</strong></p><p><strong>She pushed his hand away, saying, "Please get married, my son. I’m tired of this hardship. Who will care for you, with your dangerous job and no one to look after you?" He lowered his head in silence, clearly uncomfortable with her bringing this up in my presence.</strong></p><p><strong>I got down from the couch and sat by her side, taking the silver tray from him. "If I feed you, will you eat, Mama?" I asked. “Forgive him. Marriage is all about timing.”</strong></p><p><strong>I fed her until she was full, giving her water to drink afterward. Only then did I start eating. I noticed he remained in his spot, not moving. I looked up to see what was wrong, only to find his bright eyes fixed on me, with a look I had seen many times before in men’s eyes.</strong></p><p> </p>
