They were sitting in a luxurious living room, a grand space adorned with expensive furniture. Anyone who entered this room wouldn't want to leave. The air was filled with a delightful fragrance and a cool breeze. A family of six sat there, except for the youngest, a little girl playing on the floor. Bob Marley's music played on a massive plasma TV, almost as if the singer himself was present. The entire room was silent; no one seemed to be in a cheerful mood.

Ahmad, slouched in a plush armchair, nodded his head absentmindedly, clearly under the influence of drugs. It was obvious that he wasn’t in his right mind, mouthing the lyrics to the song. No one dared to tell him to stop or turn off the music—he never listened to anyone.

His mother, an elderly woman, sighed deeply, her face filled with concern. “Ahmad, you are our eldest son. Look at how you have turned yourself into a completely useless person. We are tired of coming all the way from Lagos to Kaduna just to talk to you about the same issue, and yet, you refuse to listen. That’s why we are leaving this evening.”

A bright smile lit up Ahmad’s handsome face as he sprang to his feet. “Wow, Mama the Mama! Are you really leaving today? Thank goodness! I’ll finally have my freedom. You’ve been bothering me for the past two days.”

"Shut up!" his father barked. “You disrespectful child!”

Ahmad scoffed. "Daddy, I know you never liked me anyway." He slumped back into his seat, humming along with Bob Marley’s song. Suddenly, the channel changed, replacing the music with an advertisement for a body lotion.

Ahmad, still under the influence, pointed angrily at the TV. "Hey! Change that nonsense! We don’t want to see men acting like women! We came here for serious business, and you’re showing us nonsense!" He glared at the beautiful model in the advert and sneered. “Get out of here! In Nigeria, we have our own lotions—Habiba! That’s what we use. We apply Habiba and shine naturally. Ours is better!”

His comments made everyone in the room laugh, even his father, who shook his head. “Ahmad, you, with your Arab-like fair skin, in whose house are you even applying this so-called Habiba lotion?”

His mother sighed. “May God guide you, my son.”

Ahmad pouted, adjusting his low-slung crazy jeans.

---

A sleek Honda car pulled up in front of a restaurant. A beautiful young woman stepped out, dabbing the sweat off her face with a handkerchief. Clapping her hands, she began singing playfully:

“Welcome back, my scruffy one… My untidy one… My dirty one… My unkempt darling, I missed you!”

A young man, extremely thin with a long neck like a lamp post, emerged from the car. His waist was so small it seemed like it would snap. His lips jutted out as he smirked, acting like an important man. When he opened his mouth to speak, his four oversized front teeth stood out.

He frowned at the lady. “It seems you have no manners! I am your boyfriend; I love you, and you claim to love me, yet you insult me to my face?”

He removed his sunglasses, looking her up and down. “You daughter of a pauper! A mere commoner like you has the audacity to call me ‘scruffy’? You have no respect!”

The beautiful young woman smiled sweetly. “I was just joking, I swear! I didn’t mean to offend you.”

He barked at her. “Get lost! Clearly, your parents didn’t raise you well!”

Annoyed, she shot back, “Look here, mister! I’ve been tolerating you! If I say something and you don’t like it, just ignore it! Do you think you’re some big catch? If we ever get married, I’d rather lie on a bed of broken glass than cuddle you! And if you ever try to kiss me with those giant rabbit teeth, I’d rather lick a rusty nail!”

He hissed. “Your father’s teeth must be worse!”

She scoffed. "Whatever!" She turned on her heel and walked back into the restaurant to continue her work.

---

Later in the restaurant, Aamna sneaked into the kitchen when no one was looking. She grabbed three pieces of meat and stuffed them into her bag, then ran outside to eat them before returning. When she saw that a customer had only eaten half of his fried rice, she quickly approached.

“Alhaji, are you done? I need to clean the table.”

Before he could reply, she swiftly scooped up the leftovers and snatched his unopened drink.

"Hey! I wasn’t finished!" Alhaji protested.

Too late. Aamna had already gulped down the drink and disappeared into the kitchen, where she finished the rice.

Alhaji shook his head. “Unbelievable! This girl is something else!”

---

Meanwhile, an old man with a thick white beard stormed into a small, dilapidated rental house. It was obvious that poverty had taken a serious toll on him.

He burst inside, shouting. “Aishatu! What is this nonsense? I just got home and found detergent foam all over the drainage! Do you know how expensive that soap is? You’re wasting money left and right! And your addiction to using matches—always striking them unnecessarily! Enough is enough! From today, no one will get extra servings of food. Even cooking oil will be rationed!”

He kicked a water container aside. “Where’s Aamna and that spoiled brat, Sweety Zuhra?”

Aishatu, unfazed, continued with her chores.

“Aamna, is there any news of a husband yet?”

Silence.

“I regret ever sending her to school! If I had known, she wouldn’t have gone past secondary school.