Be good while daddy is away. Okay. This trip, you’ll be gone for a long time, won’t you? I’ll come back soon. I promise. Stop that crying. A daughter-in-law as weak as you. This house does not need. Silence that baby immediately. You are disturbing the peace of this house. Mom, please. It’s late.
The baby I have spoken. A wife who does not submit to her husband’s family is not worthy of staying in Musa’s house. At Hammed International Airport in Doha, the golden lights glowed across the polished floors, reflecting off Musa’s dark tailored suit, the suit of a house of billionaire accustomed to billion dollar deals.
He had just signed the most important oil contract of the year, a deal powerful enough to shift the balance of the entire industry. He should have felt relieved. But his heart had never felt this empty. He missed his wife. And he missed his seven-month-old baby girl, the child with eyes as clear as an Abuja sunrise.
“Daddy will be back soon, my little princess,” he’d whispered before leaving. That night, he kissed her forehead, a kiss he could still feel on his lips, still carrying the faint scent of her baby skin. Musa checked his watch. 25 minutes until boarding. He was about to video call his wife when his phone rang. Unknown number Abuja area code.
He frowned and picked up. A woman’s voice came through, trembling like someone speaking through a tightening throat. Sir Musa, your wife and your baby girl. They’re sitting outside on the streets of Abuja in the rain. Begging, the entire airport seemed to vanish.
What did you just say? Musa shot to his feet so fast the chair bounced backward. Passengers turned to look, but he didn’t see them. The woman choked up. They were thrown out. By your mother, I found them near the girky market gate. The baby, she’s freezing. I thought you should know. Moose’s hand shook so violently the phone nearly slipped.
His mother throwing out his wife and his little princess, just 7 months old, sitting under the rain, begging. He couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone had ripped open his chest. Is she hurt? My baby, is she hurt? The little one has been crying nonstop. And your wife looks exhausted. I didn’t want to leave them alone too long. Musa clenched his jaw so hard his knuckles turned pale.
For the first time in years, his heart hurt the way it did the day his father died. He abandoned his suitcase and sprinted toward the airline counter. I need the earliest flight to Abuja right now. The clerk stuttered, confused. Sir, the earliest flight is the one you already booked, but it doesn’t board for another 20. I don’t need business class. I don’t need priority. I just need to go home.
Give me any seat that’s left,” the clerk typed frantically. “There’s exactly one seat left. Last row next to the restroom. Book it.” Musa ran to the boarding gate, barely feeling his feet hit the ground. His mind held only one image. His wife, the woman he vowed to protect for life, and the baby girl he loved more than his own soul.
In the last row of the plane, the smell of fuel and a crying child nearby did nothing to calm him. He leaned back, fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his skin. “Just be safe. Just hold on a little longer,” he whispered like a prayer. As the plane began to taxi, a single tear fell onto Moose’s hand.
The first time in his life, and in that moment, he swore if anyone had harmed his wife and his daughter. Then Abuja, Nigeria, and the entire world would witness the wrath of a man who had lost everything except the love for his family. Musa pressed himself into the last seat of the plane where dim cabin lights mixed with the lingering scent of jet fuel.
The air felt cramped. Yet inside him, the emptiness was endless. He closed his eyes, but every time his lids began to fall. The image returned. His wife holding their seven-month-old baby under the Abuja rain. Sharp and cold like a blade slicing through his chest. Tiny trembling feet. Lips turning purple from the cold.
His wife crouched against a wall, her clothes soaked and clinging to her skin, clutching the baby as if holding on to the last ounce of hope. Musa tightened his fists. His knuckles rose white against his skin. No. No, it couldn’t be true. His mother couldn’t have been that cruel.
But then another voice echoed inside him, the one he’d ignored for years. She wanted a grandson, someone to carry the family name. She never accepted the truth. Musa opened his eyes and stared out the window. The glowing lights of Doha shrank beneath the aircraft, swallowed by an endless stretch of darkness.
In the silence of the night sky, he could hear his own breath shaky, angry, afraid, he whispered as if speaking to the shattered pieces of his heart. Boy or girl, they’re still my children. It wasn’t just a sentence, it was a vow. A flight attendant walked past and asked softly, “Sir, are you okay?” Musa didn’t answer. He only nodded once, eyes forward, cold and distant.
The attendant stepped back. Sometimes a man’s quiet pain is more terrifying than any scream. The plane shook lightly as it hit turbulence. Passengers flinched, but Musa didn’t feel a thing. His mind was stuck on one question. Why? Why did a 7-month-old child have to be thrown out of her own home? He remembered his last phone call with his mother before traveling to Qatar.
She was strict but calm. no hint that she could ever commit such cruelty. But deep inside, Musa knew she had been disappointed that the baby was a girl. In House culture and in many parts of Nigeria, sons were still often seen as the heirs, the carriers of legacy and lineage. But Musa, educated in London, a man who had seen the world, a man who lost his father early enough to understand the true value of love, he refused that belief. A baby started crying in the row ahead. Musa looked up.
A little boy about a year old squirmed in his mother’s arms. His chest tightened. That child was warm, safe, held close by his mother, but his daughter. He clenched his jaw until it hurt. The man beside him leaned slightly and asked, “Brother, are you all right? You look troubled.” Musa turned his voice. My wife and daughter, they’re in danger.” The man fell silent.
He didn’t ask again. He simply placed a gentle hand on Moose’s shoulder, a silent prayer. Musa bowed his head. Time felt like it was torturing him second by second. Why wasn’t the plane flying faster? Why was Doha so far from Abuja? He unlocked his phone no signal. They were already cruising at 36,000 ft. He stared at the dark screen as if staring into an abyss.
A seven-month-old baby begging in the rain. Each word stabbed deeper. He whispered barely audible, “Hold on, my princess. Daddy is coming.” And then Musa felt something he hadn’t felt in years. Fear. The fear of losing the only people he truly loved. In the trembling darkness of the cabin, Musa understood.
When he landed in Abuja, he would not be just a father returning home. He would be a lion robbed of his cubs. And he swore whoever forced his wife and daughter to kneel in the rain would pay. The flight landed in Abuja at 3. The city lay under a heavy blanket of darkness with only a few dim yellow street lights flickering like dying embers.
Musa practically lunged off the plane before the speakers even finished announcing the door was open. He carried no luggage, no coat, only a heart burning with panic and a fear that was slowly suffocating every breath. His phone regained signal. He unlocked it so fast his fingers trembled. A message from the unknown number. Sir Musa, I saw your wife and the baby near Gi Market.
If the rain continues, they’ll be in danger. I’m trying to look for them, but I’m not sure they reach still there. Musa swallowed hard. Gi market, a place not meant for a woman already fragile, let alone a seven-month-old child. His driver, Gibbrel, had been waiting.
But the moment Musa approached with the fury of a storm on his face, Jibu stepped back. Sir, what happened? Musa opened the car door. his voice low and rumbling like a lion robbed of its cubs. “Darki, now should we stop by the house for a moment?” Gibbrel asked. Musa turned. His eyes were bloodshot, sharp with a rage that felt metallic.
“I’m not going home while my wife and my daughter are on the streets.” The car sped through Abuja’s rain soaked roads. Musa stared out the window as the street light stretched like glowing knives dragging across his chest. How could a baby survive an Abuja rainstorm? How could his wife, the woman he left in a safe home, be wandering the streets at night? He imagined it.
His daughter crying until her voice cracked. His wife shielding her with her own body. Vendors shoeing them away. people passing by, assuming they were beggars. Moose’s throat tightened. He had faced politicians, ruthless corporations, impossible negotiations, but he had never been this scared. Never this close to losing everything he loved. “Sir,” Gibbrel whispered.
The rain tonight was very heavy. “If they were outside,” Musa slammed his hand against the seat. “Nothing is allowed to happen to them.” Moments later, the car screeched to a stop. Rainwater splashed everywhere. At the gate of Gi Market, a small crowd had gathered. Faces lit by the pale street light, murmuring.
Musa stepped out. His shoes sank into cold puddles. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked, but he felt nothing except the pounding of his heart, ready to explode. He pushed through the crowd. A woman selling vegetables spoke up. Are you looking for someone? There was a young mother and a baby, but they left.
The rain was too strong. Musa’s voice shook with restrained fury. Where did they go? She pointed toward a narrow road leading to the slum behind the market. That way. She was holding the baby, covering her with her own shirt. She looked very weak. Musa didn’t wait. He sprinted down the dark alley. Gibbrel followed but couldn’t keep up.
The alley was dim, muddy, littered with trash and rusty metal sheets. Musa gasped for breath, calling out not with his voice, but with his breaking heart. Aisha, Aisha, my baby, where are you? A cold gust swept through, carrying with it a tiny cry. Very faint, very weak, like it could vanish any second. Musa froze. He turned. That cry, he knew it instantly.
weak or not, it was the cry of his little princess. He ran toward the last corner of the alley, and he found them. Oisha sat on the freezing cement, slumped against a peeling wall, her hair dripping wet, eyes swollen and red, lips turning blue. Her shirt removed, wrapped tightly around the baby to keep her warm, and his daughter.
Her tiny body shivered uncontrollably. Her face was purple from the cold. Her cry had faded into broken breaths so faint Musa felt his knees weaken. Asha looked up. Her tearfilled eyes widened when she saw Musa, her lips trembled. “Moo! Musa” dropped to his knees. He pulled them both into his arms, his voice cracking.
“Oh God, Aisha, you went through all of this alone?” Aisha sobbed into his chest. “Your mother? She kicked us out?” She said, “A girl child is useless.” Musa went still. His chest rose and fell, rage shaking through him. He lifted the baby, kissed her forehead, the same spot he kissed the night he left Abuja. “Daddy is here. Daddy is here now, my princess.
” The baby didn’t cry anymore. She only opened her eyes slightly weak, unfocused. Terror ripped through Musa. He turned to Gibbro. take them to the hospital immediately. Then Musa looked toward the direction of his mansion where Mama Aduni slept peacefully, completely unaware. She didn’t know that Musa, a father who just found his family freezing in the night, was burning with a fury powerful enough to set all of Abuja ablaze. And this time, nothing would stop him.
The SUV tore through the Abuja night, rain exploding off the road like shards of broken glass. Musa sat in the back seat, one arm around Aisha, the other holding his baby girl tightly against his chest. He cared about nothing except the fragile breath trembling on his forearm.
The child was purple, her tiny body shaking and uneven spasms, her eyelids heavy like lead. “Aisha, are you all right?” Musa asked, his voice deep and shaking. She leaned against his shoulder, lips blue from the cold. I’m fine. Just make sure she’s safe. Those words tore Moose’s heart apart.
How long had she endured this? How many hours in the rain? How many humiliations? How many cold stares from strangers? All because she gave birth to a girl. The SUV screeched to a stop at the gates of Abuja National Hospital. Musa nearly ripped the door open, rushing inside with the baby pressed so tightly against him, his knuckles turned white, “Emergency! My daughter is freezing. She’s only 7 months.
” He shouted, “Nurses hurried over.” A young doctor took one glance at the baby and his eyes widened. “Hypothermia, severe cold exposure. get her into emergency care now. A small rolling bed was pushed forward. Musa placed the baby down, but when a nurse held his arm and said, “Sir, please let us handle this.” Musa felt his soul drop into a bottomless pit.
He stood frozen, hands empty, a sense of helplessness stabbing into his chest. A shell was so weak, she had to be assisted for her own medical check. Muso watched as both of them were wheeled down a stark white hallway, disappearing behind a glass door, and he remained outside under the cold hospital lights, feeling like a spirit abandoned in a storm.
Gibbrel placed a coat over his shoulders. “Sir, they’ll be all right.” Musa didn’t respond. His eyes were burning, not from the rain, but from a pain that had been building layer by layer. He sat in the waiting area. The hospital was quiet except for the tapping of rain on the roof and the distant echo of announcements. In that silence, Ashisha’s words replayed in his mind. She kicked me out.
She said, “She’s not her granddaughter.” She said, “Women who give birth to girls don’t deserve a place in the house.” Musa leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked so tightly his nails dug into his skin. His mother, the woman he respected all his life, the woman he believed was the pillar of their family, the woman who cradled him as a child, taught him to pray, taught him to be a man.
Yet now, after seeing Aisha’s trembling eyes and hearing his daughter’s faint breaths, something inside him had shattered. A sound made him look up. The doctor stepped out, removing his gloves. “Mr. Musa,” he said gently. Your daughter is stabilizing. We’ve warmed her body and started fluids. She’s very weak, but she will live. Musa closed his eyes, releasing a broken breath. He placed a hand over his face, his shoulders trembling slightly.
Your wife is stable as well, the doctor continued. “She’s suffering from cold exposure and exhaustion. They just need rest and safety.” Musa nodded and shook the doctor’s hand longer than he usually would. But when the doctor walked away, Moose’s eyes sharpened like a blade. Safety. That word echoed inside him like a warning bell.
And the person who threatened the safety of his wife and child was the woman he called mother. Ash lay on the hospital bed, the baby resting beside her in a warm incubator. Musa stood between them, watching their gentle breaths blur into the white glow of the room. He took Alicia’s hand. She gave him a weak smile. I’m sorry for letting her suffer like that.
Musa shook his head, eyes wet, but voice rigid as steel. No, this is not your fault and not hers. I swear to you, this will never happen again. Aisha’s eyes widened with fear. Musa, don’t do anything reckless. Mama is still your mother. Musa stayed silent for a long moment. Then he spoke slow, deliberate, final.
A mother doesn’t do this to her grandchild. A mother doesn’t throw a seven-month-old into the rain. A mother doesn’t turn her daughter-in-law into a beggar because of gender. He squeezed her hand. I will protect you and our daughter. Even if I have to stand against anyone. Aisha tried to speak, but tears spilled down her cheeks.
Not from fear, but because for the first time, she felt truly protected. When Musa stepped into the hallway, the white lights carved the silhouette of a man who was no longer just a billionaire, but a father who almost lost his child, a husband who rescued his wife from hell. Gibbrel asked quietly, “Sir, do you want to go home now to speak with Mama?” Musa looked out the hospital window where the rain still hammered the city.
His voice was deep cold, commanding, “No, I’m not speaking.” Gibbrel blinked, confused. “Then what will you do, sir?” Musa turned, his eyes glinting like steel under lightning. “I’m going to show her. This is no longer her house.” Musa’s mansion on Matama Hill glowed like a fortress against the rain soaked Abuja sky. But to Musa, the place that once felt like home, now looked like a battlefield.
The SUV stopped at the gate. None of the guards dared speak. They could feel the storm brewing inside the car. Musa stepped out in a silence so angry it was terrifying. No shouting, no trembling, no words. Only his eyes sharp as the blade of a house of warrior returning from the desert to find his tribe betrayed. The mansion doors opened.
Golden lights spilled across the polished marble floor. Mama Adoney appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in a green wrapper, headscarf perfectly tied, her familiar air of pride and authorities surrounding her. She looked down at Musa, frowning. Where have you been all night? People said they saw you running like a lunatic in the rain. Musa cut her off.
His voice was low, deep, like the ground cracking open beneath their feet. What did you do? Mama Aduni stiffened, eyes narrowing. What are you talking about? Musa stepped forward. The air in the house tightened heavy, suffocating. Aisha and my daughter were thrown out of this house. You left them in the rain. My child almost died. Silence swallowed the mansion whole.
Mama Adoney scoffed, lifting her chin. So what? That is her fate. I warned her. This house needs a male heir. She gave birth to something useless, a girl, so she must accept the consequences. The words hit Musa like a hammer to the chest. He tilted his head slightly, eyes darkening until they seemed to swallow every light in the room.
You just called your own granddaughter useless. Mama Adoney folded her arms. Yes, a girl cannot carry the family name. She cannot secure the lineage. She does not deserve your name. Musa stared at her. 1 minute, 2 minutes. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He looked carved from stone. Then suddenly, bam.
He slammed his hand into the staircase railing so hard the wood shook. The thunderous sound made Mama Adoney flinch. Musa roared, voice breaking with fury. My daughter is my flesh and blood. She’s bone of my bone, and she almost died because of you. Mama Aduni’s face drained of color. This wasn’t the muses she knew. Not the obedient, gentle son.
This was a lion whose cub had been taken. “You, you dare speak to me like this?” she stammered. Musa climbed the stairs, every step echoing like a storm pressing down on her. I stood outside an emergency room, watching my child turn purple. I watched my wife kneel in the rain for hours while you slept in a warm bed under a roof that I paid for.
She opened her mouth, but Musa raised a hand sharper than a knife. No, tonight you do not speak. You listen. Mama Adoney froze. Her eyes trembled. Perhaps for the first time in years, Musa continued, “Slow and cold enough to freeze the air. From this moment, you no longer have the right to touch my wife. You no longer have the right to go near my daughter.
You no longer have the right to decide anything in this house.” Mama Aduni’s voice cracked. “Musa, you dare speak to your mother like this. I am the woman who gave birth to.” Musa roared. A real mother does not throw her grandchild into the rain. The words pierced her like a spear. She stumbled back, hand trembling.
“Ah, a girl is just a girl,” she whispered desperately, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what she’d done. Musa stared straight into her eyes, his voice low, dominant, merciless. “It is because you believe that, that you have lost everything.” He turned away. “You may stay here.” His voice dropped colder still. Only if you apologize to Aisha and kneel before my daughter.
Mama Aduni shrieked, stomping her foot. You want me, your mother, to kneel before a baby girl? Musa looked back his gaze like a warrior emerging from the shadows. Not a baby girl, my princess and your only grandchild, if you still have a heart capable of claiming her. Mama Adoney froze. Her mouth trembled. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Musa, you cannot throw me out of your father’s house. Musa walked past her down the stairs and opened the front door. Cool night air rushed in. Without turning back, he said, “My father taught me love, but he did not teach me to tolerate cruelty.” Then he delivered the sentence that shook the entire mansion.
“If you do not apologize, you may leave this house tonight.” The door closed behind him. Mama Aduni sank onto the steps, knees buckling. In her entire life, she had never felt herself lose everything so quickly. After Musa left, the mansion fell into a silence so heavy the ticking of the wall clock echoed like a hammer in an empty cave.
Mama Aduni stood frozen on the staircase, her trembling hands gripping the railing as if she had just stepped out of an earthquake of the soul. Never in her entire life had Musa spoken to her like that. Never had his eyes been that sharp, that unforgiving. Musa, the son she raised with strict discipline. Musa, the boy she beat so he would grow strong.
Musa, the pride of the family lineage, now stood before her as a stranger. And what hurt her more than his anger was this. Musa chose Aisha and the useless child over her. Mama Adoney sat on the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest, loud enough to drown out every sound.
The chandelier glowed above her, but the world around felt darker than ever. “It’s just a baby girl,” she whispered to herself, voice shaking. “But this time, for the first time, she truly heard her own words. They sounded cold, cruel, and far more vicious than she had ever realized. A strong gust slammed into the windows, whipping the curtains wildly.
Mama Adoney closed her eyes, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw Moose’s daughter, tiny purple, shivering in the night rain. A flicker of doubt stabbed her heart. But it didn’t last long. Her pride bigger than her love strangled it immediately. She jerked to her feet. Her eyes sharpened, burning as she prepared for war.
No, I am not wrong. A mother has the right to decide what’s best for her family. Musa is bewitched by that woman. Rage rose inside her like a fire devouring dry wood. She walked into her private room and opened an old chest only she was allowed to touch. Inside were ancient charms, herbal powders, scrolls of incantations, traditions Moose’s generation dismissed as superstition.
She muttered under her breath. If gentleness won’t work, then I’ll use the ways of the ancestors. Musa cannot lose himself because of a woman. She lit an oil lamp. The flame flickered violently, casting dark, angular shadows across her face. She scattered herbal powder across the wooden table. A sharp, bitter smell filled the room.
My son will return to his rightful place. And that child, that weak little thing, if she isn’t truly my grandchild, she will not remain in this house. Her voice was soft, too soft, and that made it horrifying. A black cat rushed past the door, hissing as if warning her she didn’t care. She mixed the powder, whispering ancient housea incantations. Return Musa to his blood.
Remove the stranger from our home. The oil lamp flared bright purple. A blast of wind howled through the windows, making the curtains flap like wings. Mama Adoney opened her eyes, cold and sharp. Tomorrow, I will go to the hospital. I will take the baby outside, and I will take her far away. Somewhere Musa will never find her. The thought sent a shiver through her, not of fear, but of triumph.
She walked to the vanity and slipped a gold bracelet onto her wrist engraved with old houses script. Gashini Aiko, the house’s power. She stared into the mirror. The woman staring back wasn’t a mother, not a grandmother, but a matriarch of the old world, a ruler who controlled her family’s fate with an iron fist.
Tomorrow, Asa will learn what it means to challenge Mama Aduni. She smiled, a cold, unblinking smile. The smile of someone who had lost their sanity yet believed they were absolutely right. Just then, boom! A bolt of lightning tore across the Abuja sky. White light blasted through the window, illuminating the entire room. She gasped, turning sharply.
A icy chill crawled up her spine. The air felt heavy, as if someone was standing behind her. She turned back to the mirror and for a split second, just one, she didn’t see her own reflection. She saw Moose’s eyes burning, raging the eyes of the lion she had provoked. She stumbled back, then fueled by pride, forced herself upright again. I fear nothing. Musa belongs to me.
This family belongs to me. Mama Adoney blew out the oil lamp. The room plunged into thick blackness. She stepped into the hallway, her footsteps striking the marble like war drums. Her earlier breakdown was gone. In its place, Mama Aduni had chosen war, a final war against her own son.
Abuja National Hospital was unnervingly quiet the morning after the storm. White hallways, cold neon lights, and every echoing footstep felt like a knock on Fate’s door. A shield lay on her hospital bed, the warmth from the incubator beside her slowly bringing color back to her baby’s cheeks. Musa sat beside her, his hand resting gently on her back.
The rage in his eyes had softened, but the red veins of sleepless nights still lingered. Suddenly, “Cock! Cock!” high heels echoed at the end of the hallway. A nurse hurried in and whispered, “Mr. Musa, your mother is here.” The room went still. Musa rose, his entire body taught like a steel wire stretched to its breaking point. A gripped his hand.
Musa, please don’t let anything bad happen. He looked at her, eyes softening. No one will touch you or our child. The door opened. Mama Adoney stepped inside. Same green wrapper, same gold bracelet, but her eyes, they were no longer calm or proud. They were a storm of pride, pain, and desperation. The look of a woman who had just lost all the power she believed was hers.
Nurses stepped back instinctively as she walked forward. “Musa,” she said sternly, like issuing a command. “Come out here. I have something to say.” Musa stepped out and closed the door behind him. They stood across from each other in the silent hallway, a lion defending his family. A matriarch ready to wage her final war. Mama Adoney spoke first.
Musa, I came to take the baby. Musa closed his eyes for one second, just one before opening them again with a look so cold even the passing doctor shivered. He spoke slowly, each word landing like a stone. The baby is my child. Mama Adoney jabbed a finger at his chest. Musa, she’s a girl. No one in our lineage will accept her. I did what I did for this family.
Musa stepped forward, voice slamming like a hammer. This family begins with me, not you. Her face blanched. He continued, “You think tradition gives you the right to torment my wife? To throw a seven-month-old into the rain? To decide who deserves to live under my roof?” His roar shook the hallway. You almost killed my daughter.
Mama Adoney trembled. Musa, I only wanted what was best. No. Thunder cracked through his voice. What’s best for you? Not for my family. She tried to speak, but Musa didn’t let her. He straightened his back. Tall, powerful, like the newly risen head of the House of Bloodline. MD Kohhai Lua Chun, you have two choices. Silence swallowed the hallway. Nurses and doctors stopped walking. Even the air held its breath.
Musa raised two fingers. One, you apologize to my wife. Kneel before my daughter. Except you were wrong. Or his hand dropped, voice cooling into steel. You leave our lives forever. Mama Aduni staggered back as if struck. Musa, you’re casting your mother aside. He answered without hesitation. I’m protecting my family.
Something a mother should have taught me, but never did. She shook violently. For Asha, you turn your back on me. Musa’s voice was a blade. For the life of my daughter. A tear slipped down Mama Aduni’s cheek, the first in many years. She looked at Musa, then at the door where her granddaughter lay.
Then at the hands that had torn her family apart, and for the first time, she saw the truth. She wasn’t protecting her family. She was destroying it. Her knees buckled. She collapsed to the hospital floor. The sound echoed through the hallway. Musa, I I was wrong. Her voice cracked like shattered pottery. I forgot. I once lost a child, too. And I forgot that pain.
She wept, a raw, broken cry from a woman too strong for too long. Musa, please let me see her. Musa watched his mother crumble, torn between fury and compassion. Then he stepped forward, laying a hand on her shoulder. Not me, he opened the door. Ashisha will decide. Inside, Ashisha sat up, holding her daughter. The baby’s eyes were open. sparkling like the first light of dawn.
Mama Adoney entered. Her legs shook. Asha looked at her, not with hate, but with the pain of a mother who almost lost her child. Mama Adoney sank to her knees slowly, painfully. “I’m sorry,” she bowed her head. “She she is my granddaughter.” Aisha clutched her daughter to her chest, tears spilling down. Not tears of fear, but of release.
Musa stepped beside her, placing one hand on her shoulder and the other on the incubator. For the first time, all four of them stood in the same circle. Not a perfect family, but a real one. No more prejudice. No more poisonous tradition. No more cruelty disguised as family values. Only love and a promise. Musa kissed his daughter’s forehead.
My little princess, from today, no one will ever hurt you again. Outside the hospital window, the Abuja sunrise broke through the clouds. Warm light filled the room. A new beginning, not just for Musa, not just for Aisha, but for the entire bloodline. A generation free from the chains of old beliefs.
And Mama Aduni, the woman who once put tradition above love, finally understood some battles are not meant to be won. They’re meant to teach you how to say sorry.