---

She built her life on lies, and she never took the world lightly. Her parents were poor, but she stubbornly insisted on living like the wealthy. Her parents could not afford it, yet she had to attend an expensive school. The kind of life she forced on herself pushed her mother to constantly advise her—but once someone has gone too far, they don’t listen to calls for reason.

That was not all. Attending a rich school exposed her to how the children of the wealthy lived, which only fueled her obsession further. She began to despise the food from her home. Anywhere she heard of someone rich or famous, she would instantly claim that person as a relative.

She brought shame upon herself. At any high-class wedding or naming ceremony, you would surely see her there. It didn’t stop there—this life pushed her into taking loans she never repaid, and eventually she mastered 419 scams.

Even when school fees blocked her way, or her friends noticed her absence for a few days, she would say she had traveled abroad. If she saw something in her mother’s hands, she would seize it by force, not because she stole—but because she had to have it.

Whenever she heard of a party, she would find money by any means necessary just to buy the uniform cloth (anko). What kind of life was this? Hmm, let’s see what happened next.

---

It was a lavish restaurant, clearly not for children but for the rich to spend their wealth—after all, as the singer says, “Money and the snake, their cure is to waste them.”

Jawwahir sat at one side with an old-style lantern beside her. In front of her was fine food and a bottle of soda. Her phone was in her hand, earphones in her ears. She removed her glasses and set them aside before eating.

She ate while scrolling her phone. After finishing the meal and drink, she reached for her bag and found only a single 100 naira note inside. She smiled, packed her things, and got up to leave.

As she rose, she put her glasses back on and walked toward the cashier. She asked, “How much is my bill?”

“Two thousand,” he replied.

“Okay,” she said.

“Honestly, I don’t have cash with me. I just arrived in town.” She sighed dramatically, then raised the lantern she was carrying. “See this? Have you ever seen one like it?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Do you have one?” she asked, widening her eyes to make it seem important.

“No, not like that,” he said.

Jawwahir exclaimed, “Ah! Do you know this lamp is in high demand? If you can bring one, you’ll be paid one million cash. Foreigners are looking for something inside it. Here in Nigeria, we’re paid one million per piece. Abroad, it sells for millions more!”

She clicked her tongue, then said, “Hold this lamp while I go withdraw money from the bank.”

He agreed, took the lantern, and she left.

As soon as she was gone, he thought about what she had said—that the lamp was worth millions. He quickly hid it, deciding to keep it for himself.

Jawwahir, meanwhile, left without going to any bank. She boarded a tricycle and asked the driver to take her to a supermarket. Inside, she handed her phone to a man and asked him to keep it. He gave her ₦3,000 in exchange, promising she could return shortly.

She used the money, returned to the tricycle, and asked the driver to drop her back at the restaurant. When she arrived, she rushed to the cashier: “Here’s your money—give me back my lantern quickly, people are calling me for it.”

The man pretended to search, then said he hadn’t seen it.

Jawwahir’s eyes widened. “So there’s no peace here! Just now someone told me the price has increased by ₦200,000. Either return my lantern or I’ll have you locked up!”

“Haba, madam,” he protested, “it’s not that serious. Since it’s gone, let’s share the loss.”

She shouted, “Share what? I don’t know what loss means, nor destiny! Just give me back my lantern.”

Finally, he said, “Okay, I’ll give you ₦800,000. Please accept it.”

She hissed but agreed, warning, “I don’t take cheques. I want cash.”

He went, brought the money, and gave it to her. She counted it and left. As soon as she was gone, he pulled out the lantern he had hidden, laughing. “Stupid girl—now I’ll sell this and make my millions!”

But the truth was, she had outsmarted him.

---

When Jawwahir reached home, she threw her bag on the bed and counted her money again, laughing.

“If it’s true this lantern was worth one million, then that fool cheated himself. He gave me ₦800,000!” She burst into laughter.

She called one of her friends:

“Tomorrow, God willing, I’ll come to school. I wasn’t around because I traveled to Slovenia—I just got back yesterday.”

Her friend replied, “Safe travels, may Allah protect you.”

“Amen,” Jawwahir said.

---

May Allah grant you health, Halima Yahya. May it be a cleansing trial, and may you receive the reward of patience.

---

Later that night, after her endless phone calls bragging that she had returned from Slovenia, she showered.

Because of her arrogance, she never liked that her siblings called their mother Inna (traditional Hausa word for “mother”). It pained her that they didn’t call her Momsy, Mama, Ammi, or Mummy. So, to act posh, she would call her mother Innasco or Innas. And among her friends, she would claim she had a “Mom” and “Dad.”

When she came out, she saw her mother sitting quietly.

“Innas, why are you sitting like someone just told you about a death?” she mocked.

Her mother sighed, “If it were news of death, that would be easier to bear than the path you have chosen for your life.”

Jawwahir hissed. “That’s your problem—you never wish me well. Always making useless prayers like ‘may her lies end.’”

She sat down, crossed her legs, and continued:

“Innasco, don’t you see? Life only comes once. Should I waste it sitting at home with no education? That old man you call my father—always on the roadside chopping firewood. Shame! To even say he’s my father embarrasses me.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Your insolence has gone this far?”

Jawwahir replied, “I passed that long ago. You don’t even understand my level.”

Her mother pleaded, “Stop this life. Whatever God has destined for you, you’ll get it—just be patient. If you wait, Allah will provide.”

Jawwahir scoffed, “Wait? What have I gotten by waiting? Nothing! But if I move, I gain. That’s how life works.”

She picked up her bucket. “Innas, those goats of yours—if they keep disturbing me when I’m on calls, I swear I’ll sell them. Once I finish school, I’ll get a job and buy a car.”

Her mother snapped, “What job? Who will employ you with only secondary school? You’re dreaming.”

Jawwahir smirked, “You don’t know your daughter. My friend’s father owns a big company. I’ll work there.”

Her mother shook her head sadly.

Later, she called Jawwahir’s elder brother Sadiq: “When you return, you must discipline this girl. We cannot go on like this.”

---

The next morning, Jawwahir dressed for school. Her mother brought her a bowl of tuwo (mashed maize meal).

“Eat, since I couldn’t make koko today.”

Jawwahir laughed mockingly while tying her trousers. “Innasco, who eats this? Do you expect me to eat tuwo before school? I’d vomit like a baby.”

She grabbed her bag and left. On her way out, she saw her father. Without looking at him, she muttered, “Good morning, Babasco.”

He frowned. “Come here. Look at how tall you’ve grown, yet you still disrespect me.”

“I’m late for school,” she replied, walking away.

Her mother came out afterward, sighing. “Don’t worry, when Sadiq returns, he’ll beat her properly. That’s the only way we’ll have peace for two days.”

Her father muttered, “May Allah guide our children. Ameen.”