<p><strong>I hesitated before stepping out, glancing back at Yaya Halima, who was peacefully asleep, though dry tears stained her cheeks. I felt a wave of pity for her, realizing I had said goodbye to someone who truly cared for me. I had a sinking feeling that this might be my last glance at her. With a heavy heart, I turned away and left the room, suppressing the nagging voice questioning my decision: Am I doing the right thing to Faruq and Halima?</strong></p><p><strong>I quickly made my way to the veranda, removing the latch on the door. Just then, I heard the sound of Malam Harisu, Yaya Halima's husband, stepping out of the bathroom. Luckily, he was in his other wife Hadiza’s room and not with Yaya Halima.</strong></p><p><strong>I started walking cautiously along the side of the road. The town was shrouded in darkness, the dawn yet to fully break, around 5:30 a.m. on a Monday morning. My appearance was striking: dressed in black from head to toe, including a niqab and black shoes. If anyone had seen me, they would have been alarmed.</strong></p><p><strong>I wondered how long it would take to reach the station at my slow pace and decided to quicken my steps. As I neared the Gwarzo station, a sleek black car—a Peugeot 406, which I recognized as Ya Faruq's—drove past me. I quickly hid behind a truck loaded with cows headed for Lagos. A flood of thoughts filled my mind. What is Faruq doing out this early, and where is he going? I was almost certain he had taken the road leading out of town, perhaps to Kano or Sokoto.</strong></p><p><strong>I sighed deeply, overwhelmed by pity for him. When will our paths cross again? How will he feel when he finds my letter? These were questions I couldn’t answer. Dwelling on them could make me abandon my plans and return to them, a decision that would only ensure my continued suffering. No, I resolved, I will not let my life spiral into misery.</strong></p><p><strong>At the station, a man called out, "Madam, Kano, Kaduna, Lagos, or Abuja?" Tears welled up in my eyes, and I softly replied, “Niger.”</strong></p><p><strong>He informed me there was no direct vehicle to Niger at the station. Instead, I would have to take a vehicle to Katsina, stop at Jibia, and then find one heading to Niger. I had no choice but to agree. He guided me to a Peugeot station wagon heading to Jibia. After paying my fare, I took a seat in the back near the window, observing the surroundings since no one would recognize me here.</strong></p><p><strong>It took nearly half an hour for the vehicle to fill up, during which I started worrying. What if Yaya Halima wakes up and sends her husband after me? But just then, four passengers arrived, and the car was ready to leave.</strong></p><p><strong>We reached Jibia by 12:30 p.m. Without wasting time, the driver directed me to another vehicle heading to Niger. At Jibia’s border, I bought a chilled bottle of date-flavored yogurt and some sachet water. It reminded me of how long it had been since I last ate—a meager meal of porridge shared with my late grandmother two days ago. I consumed them quickly, feeling somewhat revived.</strong></p><p><strong>After the border checks, we continued our journey. About two hours later, the sight of camels and the sands of the Sahara began to appear. A strange sense of peace and tranquility washed over me as we entered Maradi. I lifted my niqab slightly to observe the people who reminded me of my late grandmother: fair-skinned, with bright eyes, tall, lanky bodies, and thick black hair.</strong></p><p><strong>We eventually stopped at a station in Maradi. Exhausted, I stretched and approached the driver, asking, "Please, how can I get to Damagaram?" He replied, "You still have a long journey ahead. You’ll need</strong></p>
