*Chapter 6*
*Two stories*
At around 5:00 a.m., Anaya was deep in sleep when Zayd woke her up.
"Anaya… Anaya," his voice was gentle but firm.
She stirred, rubbing her eyes before finally opening them.
"What?" she mumbled, her voice laced with sleep.
"It's prayer time. Please pray. I'll be heading to the mosque," Zayd told her. He was already dressed in his jalabiya, looking ready to leave.
Anaya just nodded, feeling annoyed that he had woken her up.
With a sigh, she got out of bed, went to bathe, and prayed. By the time she was done, she was exhausted again. She climbed back into bed, eager to rest her head on the pillow when—
Knock, knock.
A sudden knock at the door made her pause.
The knocking continued, persistent and unwavering.
"Who is there?" Anaya called out, her voice laced with irritation.
No response. But the knocking didn't stop.
Scowling, Anaya tossed off her blanket and stomped toward the door, convinced it was Zayd. But if it were really him, wouldn't he have just unlocked the door and walked in?
With an irritated sigh, she yanked the door open—only to come face-to-face with a middle-aged woman wearing a blank expression.
Anaya blinked in surprise. Before she could utter a word, the woman stepped past her, striding into the room with an air of ownership.
Her sharp gaze swept across the space, scanning every detail—the neatly arranged furniture, the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the bed Anaya had just left.
Anaya's initial confusion quickly morphed into irritation. Was this how people behaved in this house? Barging in uninvited, inspecting things like they owned the place? Hmm, may the Lord grant her patience to tolerate such absurdity.
When the woman was done, she finally turned to face Anaya.
"I am Mrs. Raliya. Perhaps Zayd has mentioned me," she said coolly.
Anaya stiffened. So this is Zayd's stepmother, she realized.
"Oh, you are?" Anaya asked, her tone laced with innocent curiosity—though she had said it purely to annoy the woman.
Mrs. Raliya didn't bother with small talk. She ignored Anaya's question and got straight to the point.
"Since your husband's sister is not around, we need you to take over some of her responsibilities from now on," she announced.
Anaya frowned. Responsibilities? What is this woman talking about?
"Responsibilities as in what, exactly?" she asked, trying to mask her irritation.
Mrs. Raliya's expression remained indifferent. "Before Zeenat left, she used to clean the house, do the laundry, cook, and so on. But for as for you richkid, we only need you to cook for the household."
Anaya's brows Richkid? Cook? The request baffled her, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
"And all those chores Zeenat was doing…" she thought to herself. "Why would one person do all that?"
Mrs. Raliya arched a brow, unimpressed by the question. "Yes, cook. You are the daughter-in-law of this house, you should know your duties. We are a family, and we should all contribute."
"I expect you in the kitchen in less than five minutes. Change and come downstairs for your chores," Mrs. Raliya said, glancing at her watch. Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked out.
Anaya stared after her, frustration bubbling inside her. What kind of marriage is this? Why was her stepmother-in-law trying to control her, forcing her to do something she had no interest in?
Grabbing her phone, she quickly dialed her father's number. The phone rang and rang, but he didn't pick up. She sighed in exasperation and called again.
This time, he answered. "Hello, Good morning, Anaya. I hope all is well. Why are you calling me this early?"
"Nothing is well, Dad," Anaya said, her voice heavy with frustration. "Zayd's stepmother woke me up early and told me I have to cook for the household from now on."
"Oh, is that so?" he asked calmly. "Have you cooked already?"
Anaya's eyes widened in disbelief. "No, Dad! What are you saying?"
"Is this why you called me so early, Anaya?" Mr. Abbas asked, his tone carrying a hint of disapproval. "It's just cooking. What did you expect to be doing in your husband's house?"
Anaya fell silent, gripping her phone tightly. "But you know I can't even cook", she finally admitted.
"You can't what?" Her father's voice rose in disbelief. "Oh, Anaya… go and learn! The last time you visited, didn't you tell me you could cook all sorts of Nigerian dishes? So you were just lying to me?"
He paused before continuing, "Listen, go figure out what you'll do before you embarrass yourself and your husband." With that, he ended the call.
Anaya stared at her phone, fuming. Embarrass myself and my husband? Who cares about any damn husband?
Without hesitation, she dialed her father again.
"What is it now, Anaya?" Mr. Abbas asked, his patience wearing thin.
"Dad, regarding the contract… when am I going to get it?" she asked, this time in a sweeter tone.
"By Allah's grace, next week," he replied. "But only if you don't cause trouble at your husband's house," he warned.
"Fine, Dad," she muttered.
"But remember, Anaya," Mr. Abbas added, his voice firm, "whatever you do, do it for the sake of Allah."
He knew all too well that Anaya would only try to tolerate the situation because of the project. The real question was—what would she do once she finally got what she wanted?
Anaya slipped into the maroon ankle-length gown her aunt had given her the day before. Both her aunt and father had strictly forbidden her from wearing her usual outfits around others in her husband house.
Anaya wrapped her turban neatly around her head, adjusting it carefully before making her way downstairs.
The house was that of an upper-middle-class family—spacious yet carrying a minimalistic, traditional charm. Unlike her father's grand mansion, this place had a warmth that felt different.
It took her a while to locate the kitchen, as she was still unfamiliar with the layout.
When she finally found it, Mrs. Raliya stood at the center, her arms crossed, inspecting the food items neatly arranged on the counter. Anaya stepped forward hesitantly, standing beside her.
Without looking up, Mrs. Raliya spoke, her voice firm. "You'll prepare fried yam with egg sauce for the four of us and the seven workers in the house. Also, boil water for tea."
Anaya's brows furrowed. Cook for eleven people? She had never even cooked for herself before, let alone for an entire household.
"They have seven workers, yet I'm the one being made to cook?" she thought bitterly.
"I prefer mine dry, while my son, Umar, likes his lightly fried," Mrs. Raliya continued.
Anaya remained silent, staring at the food items in front of her. Umar? Her son?
"Are you listening?" Mrs. Raliya's voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
She pointed to a bowl of freshly chopped fruits. "You should also prepare a fruit salad for Umar."
Anaya stiffened. She married Zayd, yet she was being made to prepare something specifically for Umar?
She clenched her jaw but said nothing as Mrs. Raliya walked away, leaving her alone with the unfamiliar task ahead.
Anaya had barely started when Mrs. Raliya returned, her tone brisk. "Remember to be quick. Everything should be ready before 7:30 a.m.—that's in two hours." Without waiting for a response, she turned and left again.
Anaya's chest tightened at the daunting task, but she already had a plan.
She shut the kitchen door behind her and quickly pulled out her phone. In this digital age, nothing is impossible.
With swift fingers, she opened YouTube and searched for a tutorial on making fried yam. Once she found a video, she propped her phone against the counter and hit play.
She followed the instructions as best as she could, but the real challenge wasn't frying—it was peeling and slicing the yam properly. The pieces either turned out too big or too small, uneven and awkward.
An hour passed, and she had managed to peel, slice, and fry the yam. However, when she looked at the results, they were nothing like what she had seen in the video. Some pieces were burnt, others were barely fried, and none had the neat, uniform shape she had aimed for.
She sighed, staring at the tray of unevenly fried yam, before forcing herself to focus. Isn't this exactly what that woman wanted?
Shaking off her doubts, she turned her attention to the eggs.
Anaya was about to search for a video tutorial on frying eggs when the sound of approaching footsteps startled her. She quickly hid her phone and turned around, her heart pounding.
Thankfully It was Zayd.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," he said, stepping into the kitchen. "What are you even—" He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic scene before him.
His foot nearly landed on a stray piece of yam, and he stepped back in alarm. His brows furrowed as he took in the mess—oil splatters, yam peels, and the plate of oddly shaped, over-fried pieces sitting on the counter.
"Anaya... what is this?" His voice was filled with disbelief as he stepped closer, eyes locked on the tray of yam.
Anaya folded her arms, tilting her chin up defiantly. "Your stepmom told me to do it."
Zayd blinked at her, then at the yam, then back at her. "She told you to do this?"
As expected, he knew his stepmother wouldn't leave Anaya alone.
"Is this the only thing she asked you to do?" Zayd asked, his tone cautious.
Anaya shot him a sharp look, irritation evident in her eyes. "Only thing?" she echoed, unimpressed.
To her, cooking was a big deal—something she had never been made to do. But to Zayd, it was the least of what he expected his stepmother to demand from her.
He glanced at the chaotic kitchen, then at her. "Have you ever cooked in your life before?" he asked, his tone filled with disbelief. 'Because this…' He he thought looking around. 'Only someone completely inexperienced or careless could create such a mess.'
Anaya said nothing. She simply turned her head away, unwilling to entertain the conversation.
Glancing at his watch, he realized he had less than an hour before his stepmother returned. Without another word, he picked up a knife, grabbed a fresh yam, and quickly peeled and sliced it with precision. Within minutes, he had everything under control—frying the yam to perfection, preparing the eggs, cutting the fruit salad, and boiling the tea.
Meanwhile, Anaya sat aside, watching him work, He moved swiftly, knowing exactly how everyone liked their meals, adjusting flavors and textures effortlessly.
As he worked, he handed her items—the coolers, the pot of hot water, the plates of fried eggs—giving her a silent role in setting the dining table. When he was done, the kitchen was spotless, the meals were arranged perfectly, and even the workers' food was set aside.
All of it, completed in under an hour.
As Anaya was about to leave the kitchen, Zayd's voice stopped her.
"Please," he said in a low, urgent tone, "no one should know I cooked this."
She met his gaze and gave a small nod. No argument, no questions.
Without wasting a second, Zayd grabbed the burnt yam she had fried earlier and disappeared through the back door.
Anaya exhaled, trying to steady herself as she carried the last bowl to the dining table. Her hands trembled slightly—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of the moment. Would Mrs. Raliya notice?
Before she could dwell on it, the woman walked in, her presence commanding.
"Oh," Mrs. Raliya said, arching a brow. "You're done already? I thought a spoiled girl like you wouldn't even know where to start."
Anaya clenched her jaw but remained silent. So, she asked me to cook just to make fun of me.
Fine.
In less than a week, she would see exactly how Anaya Abbas handled people like her.
Mrs. Raliya stepped closer, lifting the lids one by one. Steam curled into the air, carrying the rich scent of perfectly fried eggs and crisp golden yam. Each dish was arranged exactly as she had requested—her own deep-fried yam and eggs set apart, while Umar's lightly fried yam and eggs rested separately. The tea was still hot, the fruit salad neatly arranged.
Her fingers hovered over a piece of yam, hesitating, as if debating whether to take a bite. Anaya's heart pounded.
Silence stretched between them before Mrs. Raliya finally pulled out a chair and sat down, her expression unreadable.
"Don't you know how to serve your elders their food?" Mrs. Raliya's sharp voice cut through the air, making Anaya pause.
She quickly moved to serve Mrs. Raliya, her hands steady despite the tension pressing on her chest.
Just then, Zayd walked in, now dressed in a spotless white casual outfit. The simplicity of it only made him look more refined, effortlessly elegant as always.
He took a seat, his eyes briefly scanning the table before landing on Anaya, who was carefully placing food in front of his stepmother.
When she was done, he gestured for her to sit beside him. Anaya was about to pull out a chair when Mrs. Raliya's voice halted her again.
"You're supposed to serve your husband first before sitting down," she reminded her, her tone laced with disapproval.
Without a word, Anaya reached for Zayd's plate and began serving him. He watched her in silence, his expression unreadable.
Just as she finished and was about to take a seat, another presence entered the room.
Umar.
It was clear he had just woken up—his slightly tousled hair and relaxed posture gave it away. He walked over and sat beside his mother, his gaze immediately falling on Anaya.
And he didn't look away.
Anaya stiffened under his unwavering stare.
"Serve him," Mrs. Raliya instructed, motioning toward Umar.
Zayd wanted to stop her but control himself.
Anaya hesitated, her discomfort growing. Umar's eyes remained locked on her, making her skin prickle.
"My son, this is Anaya, our new bride in the house," Mrs. Raliya said, her voice carrying an air of satisfaction.
Umar's gaze remained fixed on her. "Oh, she is?" he murmured, his eyes never leaving Anaya.
"She made a special fruit salad just for you," his mother added.
Umar smirked slightly. "Oh, she did? Let me have it."
Anaya reached for the bowl, intending to place it beside him, but Umar gestured for her to hand it directly to him. She hesitated for a brief moment before extending it toward him.
Just as she was about to let go, he did the unexpected—his fingers brushed against hers, lingering slightly. He didn't look away, watching her instead.
A sharp jolt shot through Anaya, and she nearly dropped the bowl in her rush to pull her hand back. Heat rose to her face, a mix of discomfort and frustration bubbling inside her.
She was about to serve Umar his food when Zayd's voice cut in.
"Anaya, come sit. That's enough serving for today."
His tone was calm but firm.
Anaya didn't need to be told twice. She quickly turned away, escaping Umar's gaze as she took her seat beside Zayd.
Without a word, Zayd served her food, his movements smooth and deliberate. Anaya ate in silence, though the tension in the room was suffocating.
Mrs. Raliya's gaze bore into them like daggers, her displeasure evident. But neither Zayd nor Anaya paid her any mind anymore.
Umar was the first to rise from the dining table, pushing his chair back lazily as if he had all the time in the world. Just as he was about to leave, Zayd's voice cut through the room, stopping him in his tracks.
"It's been a long time since we had a conversation."
Zayd stood up, his posture calm yet firm. Without another word, he followed Umar out of the dining room.
And they left together.