“Fatima’s heart shattered. They didn’t care about her happiness, her well-being, or her love for their son. To them, she was merely a vessel for the next generation, a pawn in their twisted game”.
BY HAUWA NOROH ALI
As I stood in line at Immigration, waiting for my turn, a flurry of motion behind me caught my attention. A young woman, no older than 25, was fumbling through her things, clearly overwhelmed by the chaos of her scattered belongings.
I told myself to stay out of it, but the good Samaritan in me couldn’t resist stepping in.
“Need a hand with your bag?” I asked, flashing a friendly smile. She glanced up, relief flooding her expression. “Oh, thank you so much!” she exclaimed, handing me her bag while continuing her frantic search.
After a few more moments of digging, she let out a sheepish laugh. “I can’t believe it—I left my passport! Hold my spot, please. I’ll be right back.”
She darted off, leaving her bag with me. A few paces away, I saw her speaking to an older woman who was clearly agitated, scolding her while thrusting a handbag into her arms. The girl returned to me, breathless but composed, just in time for her turn at the desk.
Once we were both checked in, we found a spot to sit and wait for the flight. True to my chatty nature, I asked, “What’s your seat number?” She was in business class, while I was in premium economy.
“Aww, I wish we were sitting together,” she pouted, her voice carrying a hint of spoiled entitlement.
I just smiled. “Same flight, different cabins—we’ll make it work.” She beamed. “I’m Fatima Baba, by the way. What’s your name? I chuckled at her late introduction. “Amina Ahmed, nice to meet you.”
Fatima excused herself to send a quick message, and I took the opportunity to check mine. A few minutes later, I heard my name over the intercom, asking me to proceed to the counter. Confused, I went over, only to find out that Fatima had arranged for me to be upgraded to business class.
Surprised and grateful, I thanked her as we settled into our plush seats. It wasn’t long before she began to share her story, and what started as casual small talk turned into a confession far darker than I could’ve imagined.
Fatima’s life seemed perfect from the outside—married into a wealthy family, living in luxury. But behind the gilded doors of their mansion was a truth she could barely stomach. Her husband, the golden son of this prestigious family, was a drug addict.
It started just a week after their wedding. He disappeared without a word, leaving her frantic with worry. When he finally resurfaced, four days later, it was as if nothing had happened. Fatima, naive and hopeful, assumed it was an isolated incident.
But it wasn’t. The pattern repeated every week—Wednesday came, and he vanished, only to return days later, reeking of drugs and bad decisions.
Frustrated and scared, Fatima turned to her mother-in-law for support, hoping for some semblance of concern. But the response she got was chilling.
“He’s our only child,” her mother-in-law had said, her tone cold and pragmatic. “We don’t care about his…habits. What matters is that he gives us an heir. Once you’re pregnant, you can do whatever you want. We’ll take care of everything—houses, cars, anything. Just give us a grandchild.”
Fatima’s heart shattered. They didn’t care about her happiness, her well-being, or her love for their son. To them, she was merely a vessel for the next generation, a pawn in their twisted game.
Her husband’s drug addiction? They enabled it. They even provided him with a secret apartment, fully staffed, where he could indulge his every vice away from prying eyes, ensuring that their family’s public image remained untarnished.
“I love him, Amina,” Fatima whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “I worship the ground he walks on, despite everything. But I know this isn’t love, not anymore.”
She had made a choice. For two years, she would live the life they promised—the luxury, the wealth, the pretence of a perfect marriage.
And then, when the time was right, she would bear their child and disappear. Far away, where no one could find her. It was a gilded prison, but she had chosen it for herself. “Don’t pity me,” Fatima said, her eyes hardening. “I’ve picked my poison. I’ll let it kill me on my terms.”
I stared at her, stunned. Her husband’s family had not only tolerated his addiction—they had nurtured it, providing him with all the tools he needed to spiral further. And Fatima, caught in their web of lies and deceit, was left to navigate her own survival in a world where love and loyalty were transactional.
As we settled in for the flight, I couldn’t shake the feeling that behind Fatima’s poised exterior was a woman slowly unravelling, trapped by the very people who should have cared for her the most.
…Hauwa Noroh Ali is based in Abuja
