Ridayya was crouched down, clutching her stomach swollen with pregnancy, the bottle of poison she had measured into her body lying off to one side. Sweat drenched her entire body, her limbs trembling until her strength abandoned her, leaving her powerless to even help herself.

Her eyes remained shut as hot tears streamed from their corners. A burning pain spread from the pit of her heart, slowly seizing every muscle inside her chest. She had never thought about what poison could do to what was growing in her womb—especially since she had long stopped feeling any movement inside.

“Ya Allah!”

She whispered from deep in her throat just as foam began to seep from her mouth. Clamping her eyes shut tighter, she hovered between life and death. Yet the terrifying images she had witnessed continued to swirl before her; they sat heavy on her heart. Even the poison she had drunk did not ease them into silence. Surely, they could carry her to the grave—that was why she wrestled with her heart, trying to stop it from beating out its love for her husband.

Ridayya had no idea how long she had lain there on the mat in the middle of her room, tossing her head back and forth, before her breathing finally ceased altogether and she stopped hearing Meer’s voice, which always sounded to her like the haunting notes of an algaita.

“Baby, I think I just heard the door!” Khairiyya said, her voice trembling with fear. In all her time in Ridayya’s house, she had never seen Ridayya share even a chair with Meer, let alone a bed.

Zameer kept quiet, then slowly rose, adjusted his shorts, and headed for the door. Seeing no one in the courtyard but the glow of the electric light, he slipped on his slippers and walked to Ridayya’s room. She wasn’t in the parlor, so he went straight into the master bedroom. There he found her lying on the floor, her back to the door. Thinking she was asleep, he simply nudged her shoulders without a thought to why she had collapsed on her stomach or why she was lying on the ground at all.

Meer exhaled a hidden sigh of relief, convincing himself that the noise they had heard was only the wind rattling the door in the dead of night.

When he returned to the room, Khairiyya was standing, eyes wide. “It was her, wasn’t it?” she pressed.

He stayed silent, and she blurted, “Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un! Your wife saw us, baby!”

“You!!” Meer snapped, narrowing his eyes at her before rubbing his hair and walking away. Khairiyya slouched, her voice faltering:

“Baby, I’m talking to you and you’re ignoring me? Where’s Ridayya? Did she see us together?”

He suddenly barked at her, voice sharp with irritation:

“Shut up—just shut up already with your wailing over my head!”

Khairiyya fell silent. She knew Meer well enough—when anger flared in him, he turned almost insane if someone pressed him too much.

“Open the door for me. Let me go,” Khairiyya pleaded, her voice shaky. For the first time, real fear and shame washed over her. No woman could bear seeing her husband, the father of her unborn child, with another girl—especially in her own home, in her own bed. If she didn’t kill the intruder outright, at the very least she would wound her.

“Baby, open the door for me.”

“Shhhiiit…” Meer muttered lazily, turning his back to her again. He realized Khairiyya herself didn’t even know what effect her voice had on him. Every hair on his body stood on end, his heartbeat raced out of control. He didn’t know what was happening, nor could he stop it. Her image was imprinted in his heart; her figure danced endlessly in his eyes.

“By Allah, I can’t stay in this house tonight. Your wife will kill me—she loves you too much,” Khairiyya insisted.

Only then did he turn and look at her, giving her a sly squint. “She loves me—she loves what I love…” he paused, then added, “Find somewhere to sleep. Your face is choking me, pressing against my heart!”

Khairiyya stared at him, confused. She couldn’t even place the meaning of his words. Meer wrestled hard with his heart, trying to block Khairiyya from flooding his thoughts again.

“You’re lying, Khairy. You can’t claim to have taken over my mind,” he whispered to himself.

But her image kept pressing in. Desperate to distract himself, he grabbed his phone, scrolled the internet, glanced at different girls’ pictures—but none of them stirred him the way Khairiyya did.

As usual, before dawn he performed ablution and prayed two rak’ahs of fajr.

Meanwhile, Zainaba stood outside Ridayya’s door, calling her name, wondering why she hadn’t made breakfast. She muttered to herself, “By God, whatever stopped Ridayya from her usual chores must be serious—may Allah keep her well.”

She turned to leave, but her heart refused to rest. The thought of Ridayya’s name struck her chest so hard she went back and, without thinking, barged in with salam. Ridayya never allowed anyone into her master bedroom, but Zainaba ignored that rule this time.

The first thing her eyes caught was Ridayya, sprawled on the ground, motionless. Her skin had darkened, foam still spilling from her mouth.

Zainaba dropped the breakfast tray with a crash.

“Innalillahi! Patient Ridayya, what has happened to you, my dear?”

But Ridayya was gone—lifeless, deaf, unbreathing.

Panicked, Zainaba ran out shouting, “Servant of Allah! Husband of the house, where are you?!” But no answer came. She stormed to Zameer’s room and lifted the curtain. There sat a girl on the bed, wearing only a short skirt and a vest barely covering her chest.

“Khary?” Zainaba gasped. Everyone knew Khairiyya was not really Meer’s sister.

Khairiyya rose, trembling, lips fumbling for words she couldn’t form. Zainaba greeted her softly, but Khairiyya broke into tears:

“Ridayya sent you to cut me down, didn’t she? She discovered I’m not really Zameer’s sister. She found out I’m not even from Kano! She knows everything now!”

Zainaba’s mind went blank—this was madness.

“I’m leaving this house right now,” Khairiyya sobbed. “Please don’t hurt me!”

Zainaba snapped coldly: “Leave? From here? If you go, it will be only after I’ve broken your body. You’ll lose an arm or a leg. Think, girl—do you expect to live happily in adultery, pretending to be your husband’s sister? Allah will not spare you or him.”

With that, she slammed the door and locked Khairiyya inside.

Then she rushed back to Ridayya, grabbed her phone, and checked the last dialed numbers. The last call was labeled My Life. She tried five times—no answer. Then she dialed “Sister Diyya.” Finally, she called “Yaya Bilal.”

The moment the line picked up, Bilal’s calm voice said, “Auta calling me this early?”

Zainaba froze, her chest pounding at his voice. Gathering herself, she began, “Your… Your…”

Bilal cut in, “Hold yourself. Where is she?”

With difficulty she whispered, “I can’t confirm if she’s alive… from what I saw, Ridayya looks dead.”

The line clicked dead instantly.

Not long after, the door burst open. Bilal stormed in, lifted Ridayya with all his strength, and carried her straight to his car. He asked only one question: “Her… husband?”

Zainaba stammered that she hadn’t seen him, only another woman in his room. But Bilal just waved her off, sped away with Ridayya, and left her standing.

At the hospital, Bilal paced until the doctors wheeled her into the emergency ward. He finally sat, face buried in his hands, until Ammi and Mami appeared. “How is Auta? What happened?” Ammi demanded.

Bilal could not answer. Then the doctor emerged, wiping sweat. “Are you her husband?” he asked.

Bilal froze, unable to speak. Just hearing Ridayya’s name tore his chest apart—death was a word he could never accept if it meant her.