<p><strong>It was nine at night, and we were in the living room watching the state news. Although I couldn’t understand what they were saying because it was in French, I could at least see the images. They showed the bandits who were caught the night before. I glanced at him; he was smiling, lost in thought. What was on his mind? I didn’t know. Suddenly, he looked at me and asked, "By the way, what’s in that big bag you’re holding onto like it’s your life?”</strong></p><p><strong>I glared at him, and Mama interjected, "Today, I’ve seen the wonders of Allah. This is your grandmother’s son! Why should she tell you what’s in her bag? Are you her creditor?” He burst into laughter and said, "Mama, if you’d seen how tightly she clutched the bag, even that bandit couldn’t take it from her hands. It wasn’t until their leader said, ‘Bring her here. If she won’t give us the bag, she’ll give us something better than the bag.’ She grabbed a couch pillow, aimed at where he was sitting, and hit him, not knowing it was me she struck!” He laughed heartily and walked out without realizing his wallet had fallen from his shirt pocket.</strong></p><p><strong>I quickly picked it up and opened it, curious and hoping to start a conversation. Inside were neatly arranged Saifa notes (the local currency). As I pulled out an ID card to check further, he appeared like magic and snatched it away, saying, “Hey, curious one! I asked what’s in your bag, and they told me my grandmother bore me. Now you want to strip me naked?” Shocked, I asked, "What kind of nakedness are you talking about? Don’t let Mama misunderstand and think you mean physical nakedness. That would be slander!" Mama grabbed the glass of water I had filled for her and poured it on him, saying, "Leave and give us some space! You sit here talking nonsense to a young girl like a parrot. I don’t even know when you opened your mouth.”</strong></p><p><strong>He tried to meet my gaze with his mischievous smile. “Mama, even I don’t know when my mouth opened. Maybe it’s because of Zaynab’s arrival.”</strong></p><p><strong>The old woman felt embarrassed, fell silent, and turned her attention back to the TV, pretending to listen. Then she suddenly said, “I think I heard them mention my daughter. Turn up the volume.”</strong></p><p><strong>The beautiful face filled the screen of the flat-screen TV, making her look as though she might step out to speak. It was Nuratu Mainasara, giving a speech in French with a Parisian accent at an inauguration ceremony for a literacy center in Niamey.</strong></p><p><strong>I found myself struggling to breathe, caught between admiration for her poise and intense resentment. Yet, even through jealousy, Nuratu was undeniably captivating. Years of comfort and luxury had masked her true age, making her appear like a radiant 25-year-old. Even I, in my early twenties, wouldn’t stand a chance beside her. If beauty were the criterion, Nuratu would undoubtedly win in a landslide.</strong></p><p><strong>As I stared at her in anger and envy, I didn’t realize he was observing me. He left the room and didn’t return.</strong></p><p><strong>Mama was engrossed in the television, so I moved closer and asked, "Mama, where is this TV station located in the city?” She gave me directions, which I quickly jotted down in my notebook. "Don’t you have a radio station here too?”</strong></p><p><strong>She raised her brow suspiciously. "What do you need with a TV or radio station?”</strong></p><p><strong>I smiled and said, “Oh, nothing much. I just want to announce a missing relative of mine. That’s why I left home—I heard he might be seen around here.”</strong></p><p><strong>She softened and said, “You should’ve told Mon Amour. That’s a small task for him. If your relative is here in the city, he’ll find them in just one day.”</strong></p><p><strong>I remained silent, pondering. Was he a secret police officer or perhaps a state security agent? Could he have been involved in the operation that captured the bandits? I’d have to be careful not to let him jeopardize my plans.</strong></p><p><strong>Sensing my quietness, Mama grew uneasy and regretted her loose words. She quickly added, “What I mean is, he could help you search since he’s a local man. But a woman like you, searching in a big city like Damagaram? That’s hard work.”</strong></p><p><strong>I smiled and assured her, “Oh, it’s just an announcement I want to make.” As she gave me directions, I discreetly noted them down in my notebook.</strong></p><p> </p><p><strong>—</strong></p><p><strong>The next morning, her maid, Liliya, returned, and we prepared breakfast together. In no time, I grew comfortable with her. She was a chatty village girl. Casually, while we talked, I brought up Mainasara. “I heard you went to collect zakat yesterday. Does that mean Mainasara is in town?”</strong></p><p><strong>She gasped dramatically. “Oh no, she’s not the one distributing the zakat. She sends people to do it. She mostly stays in Niamey because that’s where her husband and relatives are. It’s at her grandfather’s house that the zakat is distributed, in Kangiwa Estate. Her family is wealthy through and through. Her late grandfather, Kangiwa Mainasara, was the president of this country about twenty years ago. Her father, Alhaji Sani Kangiwa, was once the Minister of Finance here in Damagaram. Unfortunately, he passed away in a car accident while seeking medical treatment for her. She survived, though.”</strong></p><p><strong>I kept listening intently.</strong></p><p><strong>“She inherited most of her wealth from the Kangiwa dynasty. But what made her surpass others in her family is her leather trade. She’s a giant in the leather industry, exporting hides to Italy, Paris, and Thailand, where they’re turned into premium shoes and bags. Even these shoes and bags we carry—many of them are made from her leather!”</strong></p><p><strong>Shocked, I maintained a calm demeanor but asked internally, "Here in this house?” On the surface, I smiled and said, “In this house?”</strong></p>
