In the sleepy town of Ilorin, where dusty roads wind past ancient compounds and the call to prayer floats gently over rooftops at dawn, lived Rahmat and Jide—two souls the universe seemed determined to keep apart but continually pushed together.
Rahmat was the daughter of an influential Alhaji, born into wealth but protected like fine china. Her days were structured—Islamic school in the morning, university lectures in the afternoon, and silence in the evenings, filled only by Qur’an recitations and the echo of her mother’s warnings: “Stay away from distractions. Especially boys.”
Jide, on the other hand, was chaos wrapped in charisma. A Christian boy from Lagos, he had moved to Ilorin to complete his NYSC service year. Smart, confident, and charming, he had a presence that made people pause mid-sentence. And Rahmat—protected, isolated, and curious—paused.
They met on a rainy afternoon at a university symposium. Jide had been invited to speak, while Rahmat was forced to attend. One witty comment from him and one soft smile from her blurred everything else around them.
For months, they kept their connection a secret—midnight texts, stolen glances, and private meetups under mango trees on the outskirts of town. They debated faith, discussed life in Lagos versus Ilorin, laughed over puff-puff and zobo, and dreamt in whispers. They were different, but in each other, they found safety. Love bloomed.
But in their world, love wasn’t enough.
When Rahmat’s father heard rumours—from a nosy aunt who saw her “laughing with a Christian boy near Shoprite”—he lost his mind. She was grounded, her phone was seized, and Jide received warnings, even threats: “Don’t come near my daughter again, or I swear, you’ll vanish from this town.”
Rahmat cried for nights. Jide wrote letters that she never received. They were torn apart by fear, family, and a society that refused to let them rewrite its rules.
And that’s when it happened—the sin. A desperate plan, a reckless decision. Rahmat ran away, just for one night, to Jide’s place in Lagos. They held each other tightly, as if the world was ending—which, for them, it was. She returned home the next day, broken but content with the memory. She thought it was over.
But three weeks later, it wasn’t. She was pregnant.
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Her world collapsed like dry yam powder. Her father’s fury burned hotter than the sun. Her mother wept for days. The shame, the dishonour. A Muslim girl, unmarried, and with a Christian child?
Jide begged them, pleaded, offered to convert, and proposed marriage. But he was chased away like a stray dog.
Rahmat was sent to a relative’s house in Kano to “get rid of the problem.” But she refused. For the first time, she said no. She wanted to keep the child. Her child. Their child.
So they buried it—not the baby, but the truth. Her family spread the word that she had a “spiritual illness” and was seeking healing. When she returned a year later, slimmer, quieter, and without a child in hand, no one asked questions. No one dared.
But the child lived—a girl. She was left in a safe home in Lagos, adopted secretly by a kind woman who owed her father a favour. Rahmat was told never to speak of it again, and she obeyed. On the outside, she moved on, finished school, married a man her family approved of, gave birth to two boys, and lived her life.
Yet every year, on the same day, she travelled “for business”—alone—to Lagos, to a quiet house where a little girl grew.
Jide left Nigeria and was never the same. He wrote Rahmat dozens of letters—some she read, but most she didn’t.
Years passed. Wounds scabbed over but never healed. Then one day, 17 years later, Rahmat's second son brought home a girl from school—his first crush. Her name? Halimah.
She had Rahmat’s eyes and Jide’s smile.
Rahmat’s world spun. The past she thought she had buried stood in her living room. The sin she believed she had concealed had grown legs, arms, and a laugh that pierced her soul. Her husband watched her face pale as her son introduced the girl proudly: “This is Halimah. She’s the smartest girl in class. She even has a birthmark like mine!”
And Rahmarealiseded: The sin wasn’t in what they had done; it was in the lies that followed, the silence, the secrets.
Now, the truth had come home—not to destroy, but to haunt.
