She was dressed in a long, brown hijab with sleeves. One hand, which was outside the hijab, held a large bag, while the other held her Samsung S7 Edge phone. Calmly and steadily, she walked until she reached the gate of their Islamic school. Students of various ages and genders were entering the school. She raised her head to look at the writing above the gate, painted in white with blue letters that read *MADRASATUL-AMRAH BNT ABDALLAH.* The writing was in Arabic, with a Hausa translation beneath it. She lowered her head after reading it, nodding as tears streamed from her eyes. She headed straight to her class, called *FASLUL-KHAMIS (ALIYU BN ABI TALIB).* With a heavy heart, she sat in the front seat, which was theirs. She quickly wiped her tears when she heard Jidda say, "Oh, the queen of tears. What's wrong now?" She forced a smile and said, "It's nothing, Jidda. What did you see?" "I saw your face, and it looks like you've been crying. And I know it's not difficult for you to cry." Jidda said as she sat down beside her. "Not at all, I haven't cried. It's just the dust and wind on my way here that got into my eyes, causing them to change color and hurt." "Oh, poor you! Well, the wind is indeed strong today. May Allah ease your pain. You’re late today, everything okay?" She sighed and said, "I had a lecture from 2-4, and I was in a hurry when I got back. I didn't even eat before coming, and now I see the teacher hasn't arrived yet." Before Jidda could respond, a teacher came in, holding a copy of *Umdatul-Ahkam.* After he greeted them and they responded, they took out their books and opened them to the appropriate pages. Each student took turns reading where they had left off, and then Malam Yusuf explained further, as most of them understood the previous lesson. After he left, the Fiqh teacher came in and taught them before dismissing the class. As she left, the young lady once again looked up at the name of the Islamic school with a sense of sadness, then lowered her head and went home, eagerly awaiting Friday. *** She entered her house with a greeting, which was not very large but showed they were modestly well-off. A young woman, who could not be more than thirty-five years old, responded with a smile and said, "Maryama, you're back?" "Yes, Mama. Are you working?" She asked as she entered the kitchen. "Indeed, your father called and said he wanted evening tuwo, so I got up quickly to make it for him. I've finished the tuwo, only the soup is left." Her mother replied, pouring palm oil into a pot. "Let me finish it for you, Mama." Maryama took off her hijab, hung it on the kitchen door, and leaned her bag against the kitchen wall. "No, Maryama. You just got back from school. I know you're tired because you didn't even eat lunch before rushing to the Islamic school. Go change, and I'll serve you food." "Honestly, Mama, I'm not hungry. Let me finish this for you since I'm not doing anything else. You do everything every day while I'm at school. Please, let me earn this reward today." Mama smiled and said, "Since you're insisting, here you go. May Allah bless you and grant you someone who will treat you as well as you treat me." "Ameen, Mama." Maryama replied, taking the spoon from her and scooping the blended pepper, onions, and dried okra from the mortar. Carefully, Maryama finished cooking the dried okra soup, leaving it uncovered so it wouldn't spill over. She took her hijab and bag, then went to her room to perform the Maghrib prayer. After finishing her prayer, she recited her adhkar until it was time for Isha. Then she came out, wearing a long hijab that reached the floor, and went to her father's room. He was sitting with her mother and younger brother, who was sitting on the floor. Respectfully, she greeted her father and said, "Good evening, Mama." She sat down on the floor next to Muhammad. "Well done, Maryama. It's you who deserves the greeting." Her mother smiled at her. "Well done, Maryama." Muhammad, who was about twelve years old, said. "Thank you, my dear. How is your Tahfiz?" She asked him. "It's hard, Yaya. Today I got hit again, look at my back." He said, trying to lift his shirt. "Don't lift it for me because I won't feel sorry for you. I don't know why you don't like studying." She said, frowning. Sympathetically, he said, "I do study, Yaya. It's our teacher..." She quickly interrupted him, "Don't blame your teacher. If you didn't misbehave, he wouldn't hit you. Study well and avoid mischief, then see if any teacher will harm you." He was silent for a moment before laughing like a child and said, "You're right, Yaya. Our class captain, Haneef, never gets beaten because he always recites perfectly and never misbehaves." "See? You should emulate him if you don't want to get hit." She said, smiling at him. "Okay, Yaya. I'm feeling sleepy." He yawned. "I'll bring us some tuwo, then you can eat and sleep, okay?" She stood up. Mama said, "I was just being patient because I saw you talking with Muhammad. I'm really hungry." Abba said, "She'll bring it now," with a smile. She headed to the kitchen, smiling.