<p>My name is Ni'imatullah Muhammad. My parents were originally from Kano, and we lived in the Tarauni neighborhood. I was their only child, which made them love me dearly. They provided me with everything I wanted, as long as it didn’t go against Islamic teachings.</p><p>However, our happiness was short-lived. My parents tragically passed away in a car accident, leaving me orphaned. After their death, my paternal grandparents took me in and cared for me. They cherished me deeply because I was their only grandchild, and they saw me as a representation of my late father, who had been their only child. My maternal relatives all lived in the village of Bichi, and I would visit them during school holidays.</p><p>I am a beautiful girl, admired by all who meet me. Allah created me in a way that makes people say I must have some Fulani or Arab ancestry. I am not very fair-skinned, nor am I dark; rather, I have a rich, chocolate complexion. My eyes are large and bright white, my nose is long and well-defined, and my small lips, along with the dimples on my cheeks, add to my hidden beauty. I am neither tall nor short, but rather of average height. My hair is soft and silky, almost like cotton, which makes braiding difficult because it often unravels. Many people call me “the beautiful one.”</p><p>I have lived a happy life with my grandparents, who never allowed me to feel the pain of being an orphan. There was nothing I ever wanted that they didn’t provide for me.</p><p>One day, I ran out of the bathroom in a panic, calling for my grandmother, "Innah!" She rushed out of her room, alarmed.</p><p>“What happened, Ni'imatullah?” she asked as I cried, pointing toward the bathroom.</p><p>“Innah, go and see! I am in trouble!”</p><p>Worried, she hurried into the bathroom, looking around. “I don’t see anything, Ni'imatullah.”</p><p>I broke into fresh sobs. “Check my underwear, Innah.”</p><p>She opened it and immediately understood—I had gotten my first menstrual period. A look of concern crossed her face. She hadn’t wanted me to start so early, as I was only thirteen and still quite immature.</p><p>She helped me clean up and pulled me into a comforting hug as I cried uncontrollably.</p><p>“Don’t worry, my dear. This is how Allah created every woman. It’s nothing to be afraid of. Calm down, my granddaughter,” she reassured me.</p><p>With teary eyes, I asked, “When will it go away?”</p><p>She stroked my hair. “It can last up to a week or just three days. Some women even have it for fifteen days before it stops.”</p><p>I gasped. “Fifteen days?! Innah, are you serious?”</p><p>“Yes, my dear. But it depends on how Allah has designed your body. Sometimes it can even stop today.”</p><p>After explaining how to take care of myself, she gave me an important talk. “Now that you have started your period, you are officially a woman. Anything that applies to an old woman of a hundred years now applies to you. You must be serious about your religious duties and stop running around like a little child. And most importantly, never let any man touch you—not even your hand—because if he does, you can get pregnant.”</p><p>I jerked my head up in shock. “Pregnant? Innah, really? I thought a woman only gets pregnant when she gets married and drinks from her husband’s water pot?”</p><p>She shook her head. “No, my dear. If a man touches your hand, you can get pregnant. So be very careful.”</p><p>My eyes filled with tears again. “Then give me medicine to stop this, Innah. I don’t want it.” I leaned into her, seeking comfort.</p><p>She rubbed my back gently. “Be patient, Ni'imatullah. I will pray for you. By tomorrow, it will be gone.”</p><p>I looked up at her with excitement. “Really, Innah? It will go away?”</p><p>“Yes, my dear. Just be calm.”</p><p>That night, I went to bed feeling relieved. From that day forward, I vowed to avoid talking to any man. If any man spoke to me, I would never respond again.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
