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The name I grew up with from birth is Ma’u. My full official name is Nana Asma’u Adam Bebeji. Ma’u was a name given to me by my mother, Nene, since I was a little girl.

My father, Malam Adamu, is a Fulani man from Bebeji, a prominent town in the local government area of Kano State. My mother, Nene Zainabu, hails from Babura, a village in Jigawa State.

Nene is mute but tall and beautiful. In her youth, she was well-known among suitors. Eventually, by God’s will, she became the destined wife of my father. He had met her during a business trip to Babura, like he usually did on market days. He saw her at the market selling fura (millet gruel), and instantly, she captured his heart. He pursued her passionately for marriage, and by God’s grace, he succeeded and brought her to his hometown, Bebeji.

My father’s occupation was kola nut trade. He relied on this business from his youth until his older years. It took him far—even as far as Shagamu—to purchase kola nuts and distribute them to markets in various towns. With this trade, he raised both me and my only sister, Arifah. God blessed our parents with just the two of us, just as my father and his sister Adda Kilishi were the only children of their own parents.

There’s a notable age gap between my father and Adda Kilishi. She was already seven years old when he was born.

I’ll never forget how Baba (Father) used to tell us how Adda cared for him as a child—carrying him wherever she went and never allowing anyone else to touch him. She was married off young, which led to her separation from the family. She was just fourteen when she married a suitor from Sokoto named Atiku, a friend of my father who had come to Bebeji. They quickly bonded, and after the families confirmed his good character, they gave Adda Kilishi to him in marriage. He took her to Sokoto, his hometown. At the time, he was employed with the Federal Ministry of Communication and Digital Economy.

Alhaji Atiku Dogondaji worked there for many years. Even when he was later transferred to Rivers State (Port Harcourt), he didn’t take his family with him. He left them in Sokoto. Adda told me he would return home at the end of every year to spend time with them and visited every three months.

From infancy, Adda Kilishi cared for me—clothing me and giving me toys—making me feel like I wasn’t even living in a village. She regularly visited from Sokoto, generously supporting my parents and bringing me new clothes and toys as usual. Adda never relied solely on her husband, especially as she didn’t continue far in formal education. She was in JSS 3 (junior secondary school) when she was pulled out for marriage. Her husband didn’t want her to continue studying—he said his education was sufficient for both of them. Instead, he gave her capital to start a business.

Adda’s trade was in colorful ankara fabrics, laces, and women’s headscarves. Her business flourished to the point where she owned two large shops in Dan Jabalu market. She imported goods from outside and stocked them in her shops. God blessed her abundantly in this venture.

All the upbringing and religious training that my sister Arifah and I received came from our parents and our aunt Adda Kilishi.

But Adda’s attention toward me didn’t wane even after Arifah’s birth. However, Arifah didn’t receive the same treatment I did. God didn’t grant Arifah a long life—at age five, she contracted measles, which took her life.

Despite the strong bond between me and Adda, I hated visiting her in Sokoto—mainly because of her children.

The eldest, Nabeelah, always mistreated me. Her younger brother, Yaya Maccido (Attahir), obsessed over academic excellence. Both of them, along with Muhsin, the youngest who is just two years younger than me, made life difficult for me whenever I visited.

Eventually, as I matured, I began hiding whenever Adda came and prepared to return to Sokoto. Initially, she didn’t notice my avoidance, but later she did. One day, she gently sat me down and asked why I avoided her place. I lowered my head and told her the truth: I hated Yaya Maccido’s academic pressure. He beat me with a cane whenever I failed to learn, and I’ve never enjoyed Western education.

That day, Adda spent a long time explaining that Maccido simply wanted us to become academically brilliant like him—always winning incredible prizes at school and being the pride of his peers. His intention wasn’t to harm us.

Yaya Maccido was named after Sultan Muhammad Attahiru, the 13th Sultan of Sokoto. His parents hoped he would embody the Sultan’s character, religious dedication, and legacy—hence the name.

As I mentioned earlier, both Adda and my father were not blessed with many children. My parents had only me and Arifah (who passed away), and Adda had Nabeelah and Maccido. After Maccido’s birth, Adda didn’t conceive again for twelve years, and people assumed her childbearing had ended—until God gave her Muhsin.

Among Adda’s children, Muhsin was the kindest—unlike the others, he wasn’t cruel, overbearing, or oppressive. Maybe that’s why I connected with him the most—maybe because we’re close in age, or maybe because of his good nature.

I was raised with strong Islamic values and proper care, which never made me stray.

But God created me with a natural aversion to Western education. It was difficult for me. I never understood anything. I was always at the bottom of my class—from primary school to the end.

Since my parents were not Western-educated either, they weren’t bothered. I worked hard in Islamic school instead. Although I couldn’t recite perfectly, I memorized well. By age twelve, I had memorized half of the Qur’an. Other Islamic books I could recite fluently with translation. You’d think I was the daughter of a great Islamic scholar.

When it comes to beauty, I know I wouldn’t be listed. My beauty is modest, inherited from my mother. I’m neither ugly nor stunning. I’m tall, slightly thick, with skin color that reflects my heritage as a full-blooded Hausa girl from Kano, a descendant of Barbushe and Tsimbirbira.

My hair is thick and strong but not long. When braided, it looks very attractive—but only when freshly styled. I let no one touch my hair except Nene (my mother, Zainabu), and that name stuck—everyone around calls her Nene.

We occasionally visited Babura to see my mother’s relatives. Though her parents had long passed, she still had extended family alive.

I always got excited on days when Adda Kilishi visited. She was a loving mother figure to me and a kind sister to my father. She filled the parental roles he lacked. Her sense of kinship was extraordinary. She never treated me differently from her biological children. Even as a child, I noticed her genuine care.

People say some bonds of kinship can lead to Paradise. I believe Adda and my father, Malam Adamu, are among such people. I've never seen siblings love each other purely for God’s sake as they do.

Though my father was not wealthy, that didn’t stop him from sewing matching Eid clothes for both himself and Maccido. He even raised an entire flock of sheep for Maccido in the backyard, starting with a pregnant ewe that multiplied over time.

My father started this for Maccido when he was just ten. God blessed their efforts, and now the flock includes rams, ewes, and their offspring. To this day, Baba never tires of tending to them. Only he calls Maccido by his real name, Attahir. Everyone else—family and friends—calls him Maccido.

I was in Senior Secondary School 1 and had already repeated the class twice before moving on. That’s how I kept going to school—just to avoid being labeled a dropout.

I never once opened a schoolbook at home, never did any homework or assignments. My books were returned exactly as I received them—blank.

I was whipped so many times by teachers that I no longer felt it. Seven lashes on my palms didn’t make me cry. The school board often summoned my father over my performance, but he always said:

“Maybe Ma’u has no destiny in Western education. From the time she started primary school until now, she’s the same. Just allow her to keep attending so she learns life and how to socialize.”

I marvel at my father’s calm nature. And Adda Kilishi is the same—excessively patient with their children. They both openly show us their love.

It was during this period that one day, I returned from Islamic school and, from a distance, saw Adda Kilishi’s familiar car—I got so excited and ran home, shouting joyfully:

“Oyoyo Adda!”

But something felt strange. Her driver, Malam Hussaini, was sitting in our compound with an unusually quiet demeanor. I greeted him quickly and rushed into the house, still calling for Adda.

But I was shocked to see Nene unpacking a large travel bag, while Baba stood nearby adjusting another one. Their faces looked exactly like Malam Hussaini’s—filled with sorrow.

Quietly, I asked, “Nene, where are you going? And where’s Adda?”

She looked up at me, face expressionless, and said, “She didn’t come. We are the ones going to her. Go drop your school bag and change clothes—we’re leaving now for Sokoto.”

From the moment we left Bebeji heading to Sokoto, no one spoke in the car. Nene and Baba silently prayed on their prayer beads while Malam Hussaini drove carefully.

I sat there wondering what had happened. I wanted to ask—but no one looked like they wanted to talk. Not even to each other.

A terrible thought entered my mind—had something happened to Adda?

For my parents to rush to Sokoto this late in the day—this must be something very serious