As sixteen-year-old Khairat sat quietly in class, reflecting on the recent incidents she wished she could erase from her mind, she looked at her closest friend, Shamsiyya. Shamsiyya was focused on the board, her biro moving across her notebook as she wrote what their Geography teacher was writing.
Khairat couldn’t hold her biro properly. Her fingers felt weak, her body stiff. She stared ahead, but nothing made sense. The teacher’s voice faded in and out. All she could hear were those three sentences over and over again. Outside, the sun was shining. Her uniform stuck to her back with sweat as she shivered, for the harsh memory crept up on her like a shadow. Three weeks had passed, but it still felt like yesterday.
Her stepfather had walked into her room one afternoon while her mother was out for a wedding event. He didn’t knock. He had closed the door slowly and smiled. When he spoke, his voice was heavier. She had frozen on the spot. Her heart pounded so loudly that she heard it. She had backed away, moving towards the wall like she wanted it to swallow her, shaking her head, begging with her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t step any further. But he had stepped closer, slowly.
She had picked up her pillow and thrown it at him. He paused and gave her a stern look. He stretched out his hand and touched her. She felt something snap out of her — not the kind that made one cry, but the kind that gave her the strength she didn’t know she had. She had pushed him hard. She had kicked and fought back. He gave her a hot slap. The pain was sharp, and the sound of it echoed in the room. And then, just like that, he turned his back on her and walked out without a word.
She had lain there for minutes, not moving. Tears refused to come. It was like living a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. Thirty minutes later, she was still in her room, shivering, curled up in the corner. She could hear him moving about in his own room. The sound of drawers opening, shoes shifting, and water running.
The door to his room creaked open, and he walked towards her room, pushed it open, paused, and looked straight to where she was still lying, the exact spot where it had all happened.
When he spoke, his voice was low and firm. “Don’t tell anyone. This never happened.”
She shivered at his words.
“Your mother mustn’t know about this,” he continued in a low, firm voice. “If she finds out, I swear, I’ll divorce her. And people will say it’s her fault again, that she can’t stay in a man’s house.”
…
Shamsiyya was staring at her with concern. “Are you alright?”
The question startled Khairat like a sudden clap in a silent room. She blinked, her brows slightly furrowed, her biro hanging loosely in her fingers. The classroom noise faded into the background as she tried to process the moment. She turned her eyes to the board and realised the teacher was gone.
“I’m having a slight headache,” Khairat replied, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Shamsiyya nudged Khairat’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re just missing your father’s house.”
Khairat chuckled. “Or maybe I’m having a headache from the noise I endured there.”
They both laughed. But, inside Khairat, the laughter echoed against the walls of a quiet pain she hadn’t yet learned how to share.
She remembered how, after her mother, Asiya, returned home that day, she had asked for permission to visit her father. She remembered how her voice trembled. It had been a long time since she had seen him, but that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to go. She needed space to breathe somewhere far from the heaviness of what had happened, somewhere that still felt safe, even if only for a few days.
She would have gone to her grandparents’ house, but she knew how perceptive they were. They would sense something was wrong and ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer. Her father’s house, though far from perfect, felt like the safer option. He and her stepmother were nonchalant, too absorbed in their own lives to notice much.
So, on the evening the incident happened, after her stepfather, Adamu, returned and they had dinner in silence, her mother called her aside. Her voice was low, uncertain, yet she gave her permission to visit her father.
Khairat knew Adamu understood why she needed to leave. He had persuaded her mother to let her go without suspicion, without questions. Her mother had been married to him for five months. That was the terrifying part — how easily he wore the mask of an understanding husband.
Khairat left after school the following day for her father’s house, not just with a bag of clothes, but also with the silence of what happened.
Her father, in his usual manner, brought home little to no food, often leaving his wife to fend for herself and the children. Thankfully, Asiya had given Khairat some money for upkeep. Her father’s nonchalant attitude towards his home was the reason her mother had demanded a divorce. That, and the beatings.
“Let me help you with one of the bags,” Shamsiyya said as they made their way out of the classroom after school.
“Thank you,” Khairat smiled.
“Do you really miss your father’s house?” Shamsiyya asked, perhaps still noticing the quietness that clung to Khairat.
Khairat hesitated. “Honestly, I don’t know which house I like most.”
As they walked, Khairat couldn’t help but wonder how she would face Adamu now that she was back from her father’s house. But deep down, she reassured herself that she had returned stronger. And, this time, whatever would happen, would happen, but she was never going to give in to him.
She knew her mother would have returned from work. They had spoken the day before through her father’s phone, and Khairat had told her she would be returning that day.
Her mother was a teacher and also ran a side business, selling wrappers and shoes. People came to buy ready-to-wear pieces or place custom orders for ceremonies and special events. After divorcing Khairat’s father, she had taken it upon herself to rebuild her life. She knew too well the pain of financial dependence and was determined never to go down that road again.
As Asiya’s only daughter, Khairat had watched her mother navigate life with a quiet, persistent strength. She had chosen not to remarry immediately after the divorce. She claimed she needed time to heal. But as the years passed, pressure began to mount. Her parents grew impatient, their expectations turning into constant criticism. Eventually, she gave in and accepted Adamu’s proposal.
Khairat and Shamsiyya walked in silence, both worn out from the long day of classes. At the junction where they usually parted ways, Shamsiyya handed Khairat the bag she had helped her carry.
“Take care.”
“You too.” Khairat’s voice was just as tired.
As she stepped into their compound, Khairat’s foot slipped slightly on the uneven ground. She caught herself quickly, but the stumble jolted her. It reminded her exactly where she had returned to.
Asiya welcomed her with a warm smile. Khairat returned it, though something heavy still stuck behind her eyes. She dropped the bags and let out a long, quiet sigh. She looked at her mother closely. Asiya’s eyes didn’t carry the normal sparkle, and her movements were slower than usual. It crossed Khairat’s mind that her mother might have been ill while she was away. Perhaps she had missed her more than she let on.
“How have you been?” Asiya asked, gently brushing Khairat’s arm.
“I’ve been fine, Mummy,” Khairat replied, then added with a slight frown, “Have you been sick?”
Asiya hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Just a little fever. I’m better now.”
Khairat felt a pang of guilt for not being there.
Asiya looked toward the kitchen. “Please, help with dinner tonight. There is food in the flask from this morning, for the afternoon. But, we’ll need something warm for later.”
“Sure,” Khairat said, looking towards the kitchen. “I’ll take care of it.”
That night, Khairat worked in the kitchen, setting everything in order. She had prepared dinner without being told, just the way her mother liked it. She made tuwo and fresh okro soup with stockfish, using what was available in the house. Her mother usually bought enough ingredients to last for weeks, so there was no trouble with preparation, even though she had learned to make magic with little from an early age. Having lived with her mother and grandmother, she was no stranger to responsibility.
After cooking, she tidied the small space. She packed her stepfather’s portion into his flask, even though a part of her still burned with hatred for him. But offending her mother was the last thing she wanted to do. She placed her mother’s meal on a tray beside her bed, then dished her own.
As she worked, her mind wandered. When she finally sat to eat, the warmth of the food comforted her, but her thoughts wouldn’t settle. Something about her mother felt unusual. Before she could dwell too long on the thought, the main gate creaked open. Her heart skipped a beat. Her stepfather had returned home. He approached slowly. She adjusted her posture. And, just as she feared, he pushed open her door without knocking. She wondered how he knew she was back. Perhaps her slippers had given her away. Perhaps her mother had informed him. His eyes swept across the room before they landed on her, sitting beside her mattress with her plate of food.
Adamu stared at her for a few seconds. And, though she had no reason to speak, something about his gaze forced the words out of her.
“Welcome,” she greeted.
Adamu nodded. “Welcome,” he said, as if she were a visitor.
He turned and walked away toward her mother’s room. Just like that, the food in her mouth turned cold. It couldn’t go down her throat. She dropped the soft ball of tuwo back into the bowl of okro, her fingers sticky with the warm soup.
She hated that her body responded that way. That a simple stare from him could steal her voice, appetite, and peace. She glanced towards the door where his footsteps had disappeared into her mother’s room. She should be used to this by now, the footsteps. But she wasn’t. She didn’t think she would ever be.
She washed her hands in a bowl and pushed the food away. She climbed onto her mattress, picked up a pillow, placed it against the wall, and leaned her back on it. Slowly, warm tears began to stream down her face. Adamu didn’t deserve her mother, she knew. He never had.
Days passed, and everything in the house seemed to move as usual. But her mother’s health told another story. She threw up unexpectedly and often looked dizzy and withdrawn.
When Khairat spoke to Shamsiyya about it, she had taken a deep breath and said, “She might be pregnant.”
Khairat’s heart stopped.
That night, sleep abandoned Khairat. The rain slammed against her door like tiny fists. She turned on her sides, pulled the covers up to her chin, and prayed the night would pass quickly.
Then she heard a soft tap on her door. She gripped the blanket. Her breath caught in her throat. She shut her eyes and lay still, forcing her breath into a slow rhythm, pretending to be asleep. A few moments later, she felt the mattress shift under his weight as he crawled onto the bed.
Asiya appeared in the doorway.
“Subhanallah!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?!”
Khairat’s eyes flew open in time to see the horror on her mother’s face — eyes wide, hand trembling against the frame of the door.
Asiya’s gaze shifted from her husband to Khairat, whose body had gone stiff.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un!” Asiya said, her voice shaking with rage.
Adamu stammered, trying to explain, but the words fell flat.
Khairat had never seen her mother like that before. Her voice was cracking with pain, her body trembling like a reed in the wind, and tears were welling in her eyes. For a moment, the room stood still, save for the sound of the rain.
Khairat buried her face in her hands, tears soaking her palms.
Adamu reached out to hold his wife with desperation in his eyes.
“It’s not what you think,” he pleaded. “Let me explain.”
“Get your hands off me!” Asiya screamed.
She shoved Adamu, causing him to stagger back. Khairat watched from her mattress. Tears streamed down Asiya’s face, while the rain drummed against the roof. Adamu found his balance and fled the room, the door slamming behind him, leaving behind a silence so heavy. Khairat covered her face, as if trying to erase the memory of Adamu’s presence.
Asiya moved to her daughter, drew her closer, and gathered her into her arms. They stayed that way for a long moment, until the trembling eased, and her breathing steadied.
“Sleep, my dear,” she whispered. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Asiya found Adamu sitting in the living room.
“When did you start entering her room?”
Adamu’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan it.”
“Sorry?” Asiya flashed red eyes at him. “Do you understand what your sorry has done to my child?”
He sat motionlessly on the couch, hands intertwined, looking at nothing in particular. Asiya stared at him for a long time and walked away.
By dawn, Adamu left the house without a word.
Asiya went to Khairat’s room, where she found her sitting with her back against the wall. She sat beside her and gently brush her hair.
“Tell me,” Asiya exhaled. “When did it start?”
Khairat sobbed. “He said he would divorce you if I told anyone.”
Asiya pulled her much closer, her voice breaking. “You’re safe now. Tell me everything.”
Khairat began to explain everything — the warnings, fear, resistance, how she fought back, and the hot slap. With each word, the burden she had carried alone began to lift. Asiya listened in silence, shattered, holding her daughter as if letting go would break her.
“He did all this while I slept beside him, while I carried his…” Asiya stopped herself.
Her voice trembled with rage as her hand moved to her stomach.
“Get ready, Khairat,” she said. “We’re going to Grandma’s house this morning.”
Khairat didn’t know how to respond. Her head felt blurry and heavy, overwhelmed by the weight of the night before.
…
The journey took forty-five minutes, boarding one taxi, then another. When they arrived at her grandparents’ house, the family was surprised to see them. Asiya tried her best to mask her emotions, to force a smile, and pretend everything was fine. Mama looked at her daughter and then at her granddaughter. She didn’t ask questions: at least, not yet. But she knew something was wrong.
Khairat greeted the household and made her way to her grandfather’s room, where he was resting. The old man looked at her, his eyes lingering on her face, and reciprocated her greetings. Mama soon called out to her daughter and granddaughter for breakfast, but Khairat had no appetite. She longed for sleep. She rose, lay on a couch, and watched her grandmother and her mother speak.
“Eat for the sake of the baby in your stomach,” Mama said to Asiya.
After a few reluctant bites of the bean cake, Asiya sipped the warm tea. With a trembling voice, she began recounting what had happened. As Asiya explained, Khairat looked away. She hadn’t meant to listen, yet each word her mother spoke felt like a stone landing in her chest.
“Khairat, come closer,” Mama said, gesturing to her. When she did, Mama continued. “You fought him hard?”
Khairat nodded.
“That was very brave of you,” Mama smiled, holding Khairat’s hand. “In my time, a neighbour tried something similar with me. I remained silent out of fear and shame. I was afraid that my friends would laugh at me, that fingers would point at me, or that they would say I brought it upon myself. I believed I had no right to speak.”
Mama caressed Khairat’s hand and continued. “So I buried my voice and pretended it never happened. By the time my parents found out, it was already too late.”
For a moment, the room was silent.
“Let us leave that story for another day,” Mama said, lost in old memories. She looked at Khairat, her voice soft but resolute. “Many girls go through the same thing, often at the hands of those they trust most. Too often, they are told to keep quiet, to avoid shame, to protect family name, and to escape stigma. Silence is demanded of them.”
Mama sighed and shook her head.
“Sometimes, society buries our voices, insisting that what happens behind closed doors must remain hidden. No one asks if justice is served. No one listens to the fear and pain that grow in silence. Girls are taught to endure quietly, to swallow grief as though it were a normal part of growing up.”
“I don’t want to go back to that house,” Asiya wept. “I don’t want to see his face again. I can’t.”
Mama exhaled, staring at the floor.
“I didn’t even want to remarry so soon. But everyone kept pushing me, telling me I needed a man, that I needed to move on,” Asiya continued.
Asiya looked at Khairat, and more tears fell.
“And now look at what has happened. Look at what Khairat had to endure in that house,” she added.
Minutes passed in silence, broken by the sound of Asiya’s heavy breathing. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks damp.
A moment later, Asiya’s phone started ringing. She reached for her bag with trembling fingers and fumbled through it until she found the phone.
The screen lit up. Her heart skipped.
“It’s him,” she fumed.
Mama took the phone and adjusted her glasses properly on her face. Her brows furrowed. She read aloud the message on the screen: Asiya, I’m so sorry. I really regret everything. Please, forgive me. Come back home.
Khairat watched her mother’s reaction. Her mother looked at her and then at Mama. The room seemed cold.
It had been a week since Khairat moved to her grandparents’ house, and she hadn’t gone to school since. Before her mother remarried, Khairat had been removed from the school she once attended and enrolled in a new one closer to her mother’s marital home. The school was far from her grandparents’ house to walk to, though not very far from her father’s. Still, she would need to board a taxi to get there.
A week after the incident, after they arrived at her grandparent’s house, Khairat observed that Adamu never stopped calling and texting. He said he missed them. That it was a mistake. That it wouldn’t happen again. Asiya would glance at the phone, sigh, and put it away without a reply. And, when the messages popped up while she wasn’t around, Khairat would ignore them too. Her mother didn’t speak of him anymore. But Khairat could feel there was a storm beneath her silence.
Then the neighbours began arriving, one after the other. Their questions were dressed as concern. Their eyes were sharp and probing. Some asked why her mother was back. Some offered advice masked as worry. Others simply stared, waiting. It was clear to Khairat and her mother that the world had already drawn its conclusions. Asiya saw it in the lines around their mouths, the weight behind their stares, the subtle lift of eyebrows.
At first, Asiya and Mama smiled it off, offering kind replies to their questions. But each exchange drained them. Soon, the whispers sharpened. Then there were talks of Asiya’s supposed pregnancy and of a woman who had failed to keep her first and second homes in order. Khairat realised that the storm they had fled wasn’t only in the streets or within Adamu’s house, but also lived in the whispers, stares, and the shadows of a society too quick to condemn.
One evening, while Khairat and her mother were in their room, her grandfather came in. He looked worried.
“He’s here, again,” he said. “You should see him.”
Asiya flinched. She looked at Khairat, then at her father, and nodded. Without another word, Baba left, closing the door behind him. Asiya hesitated, then picked up her veil and headed to the sitting room. Khairat trailed behind her.
From where she stood, half hidden between her bedroom and the sitting room, she could see Adamu. His face was worn out, eyes sunken. His clothes were rumpled. After a few moments, she walked back into her room. But the image of him lingered. His reflection played in her mind.
After Adamu left, Asiya sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting limply in her lap, staring at nothing. Then, the tears came.
Khairat stood by the door, tears in her eyes, too.
After a moment, Mama joined them.
“Do you wish to go back?” she asked.
Asiya hesitated, then sobbed, “I’m confused.”
Mama walked up to Asiya and held her hands.
“People are talking, Asiya. Family, friends, and even your former husband’s family. They are asking questions,” Mama said.
Asiya stared at Mama with rheumy eyes.
Mama continued. “They keep saying I’ve given birth to a daughter who doesn’t want to stay in her marriage, and that you might even discourage your own daughter from accepting a suitor.”
Khairat looked at Asiya. Asiya stared at the floor.
Mama went on. “I can’t explain myself to them. Words might make things worse, and the world would have yet another story to gossip about. Your father seems distant, too, Asiya.”
Asiya raised her face. “Baba…”
Mama nodded and continued. “He says his friends and brothers won’t stop asking questions. I can see the worry in him, though he tries to hide it.”
Asiya’s lips parted, but no words came out. Just more tears. She leaned on Mama’s shoulders, and they stayed like that for a long time.
A few days later, the air felt calmer, as though the house had learned to breathe again. Khairat noticed her mother gradually finding her footing. Her shoulders no longer slumped, and her belly was beginning to show.
One morning, after breakfast, Asiya called Khairat to sit beside her on the carpet in the sitting room.
“I wish to return to Adamu.”
Khairat gaped at her. “W-what?!”
Asiya took a deep breath and stretched her legs on the carpet. Outside, the sun was gradually warming up for a warm day.
“You can’t go back!” Khairat protested.
“Listen, Khairat,” Asiya exhaled. “I…”
“I won’t let you go back,” Khairat persisted. “He’ll harm you.”
“You won’t understand. This is not only about me.”
“What do you mean?” Khairat probed.
“It’s about us. You. Me. Your grandparents,” Asiya wiped her tears with her hand. “It’s about the name and honour of this family. It’s also about the baby I’m carrying.”
Asiya instinctively touched her protruding stomach, her fingers tracing its curve.
“Every choice I make, I make for all of us.” Her eyes locked with Khairat’s, pleading. “Going back is the sacrifice I make for peace.”
“What peace?” Khairat asked with clenched fists. “Going back won’t make people stop talking.”
Asiya’s chest heaved. “I’m protecting you from the hurt out there.”
Khairat’s chest tightened. “You’re giving up. You’re letting everyone else decide what happens to us. Why does it matter what people say?”
Asiya drew a shaky breath and touched Khairat’s cheek. “You’re right. But I’ll return. Not because I trust him. Not because everything has healed. But because I must. I’ll not let fear decide our lives.”
Khairat sobbed, “I’m not going with you.”
“Yes. You’re staying here. You’ll continue your school here, too,” Asiya said. “Your grandfather said he would speak to your father about the situation.”
Mama and Baba were listening from a distance.
“You still love him after what he did?” Khairat fumed.
Asiya avoided the question.
The morning Asiya left, Khairat didn’t cry. She didn’t know what to do or say. She stood with her grandmother and watched her mother walk away, just like that.
“Remember this,” Mama intoned, her hand on Khairat’s shoulder. “Remember what it costs to be a woman in this world. And, when your time comes, maybe you’ll find a different way to handle it.”
Zuwaira Halilu is a Nigerian writer and educator whose work foregrounds the resilience, silence, and inner lives of women and girls. She is the author of The Tale of a Village Girl, a critically resonant novella examining societal issues, personal loss, resilience, and family dynamics. Her work has appeared in Apex News Exclusive and Naira Stories Magazine. Her short story Buried Voices confronts the enforced silence of women and girls in the aftermath of violence, revealing trauma, endurance, and survival. With over fifteen years of teaching experience, she is the Head of the English Department in a public school in Maiduguri and the Chairperson of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA), Borno State chapter.