It was the rainy season. The weather in the town was always cool and cloudy, with lush green grass covering everywhere the eye could see. Farming was going on beautifully in this region, which was a small village populated by people of different backgrounds. Wherever you looked, the land was filled with people working busily on their farms.
A fair-skinned man was busy cutting millet with a sharp knife. From time to time, he glanced at the road and at the three young girls helping him with the work, as if hoping to see someone. When he saw nothing, he stood upright and held his back, showing signs of pain. He wiped the sweat from his face and looked at the girls.
“Tell me, Aishatu, where did you leave your mother? She’s still not here. Why hasn’t she come, even though we’re exhausted from work? Or is it that the fever has returned today?”
He asked as he sat down heavily, completely worn out. One look at him was enough to tell that poverty had settled firmly on his body. The girl he called Aishatu looked up at him; she too was drenched in sweat, clearly tired and hungry.
“Wallahi, Baba, I don’t know. When we left, I didn’t see her at all. But maybe Asma’u saw her,” she said.
Asma’u shook her head and replied, “No, I didn’t see her either.”
The man nodded slowly. “Only Allah knows. May Allah keep her safe. I’m worried about that stubborn fever of hers that refuses to go. And now even the little money I had is finished. You don’t have it at home, you don’t have it outside. The rich only look at you with contempt when you stand to ask. O Allah, cover our shame,” he said worriedly as he stood up, picked up his knife, and returned to work. His children followed him with pity in their eyes, for they knew their father well—whenever he had anything, he never denied his family and always provided for them, but now he had absolutely nothing.
Amatullah and Fatima’s Conversation
Walking along the path was a tall, striking young lady of about twenty-two years. She carried a basket on her head and paid attention to no one, focusing only on the road ahead, where the grass lay flattened behind her. Suddenly, she heard someone call out loudly from behind her, “AMATULLAH! AMATU, STOP!”
She stopped without turning around until the caller caught up with her, slightly out of breath. “Haba, Amatu, it’s as if you’re going deaf. I’ve been calling you and it’s only now you heard me,” she said with a teasing tone.
With a soft, beautiful smile, Amatu turned her large, bright eyes and replied in a pleasant voice, “Haba, Fatima, you know I’d never ignore you.”
Fatima sighed. “But I wanted to ask you something,” she said, surprised by the cheerful smile lighting up Amatu’s face. “That smile shows something made you really happy, if I’m guessing right.”
Amatu laughed lightly. “I’m in a hurry; I’m going to Baba’s place. Let me go—when I come back, I’ll tell you.”
Fatima nodded. “That’s fine, I was actually coming to walk with you.”
“Alright then, let’s go.”
As they walked on, Fatima’s curiosity grew stronger because of the excitement she saw on her friend’s face. Unable to hold back, she said, “Amatu, I really don’t understand. Please tell me what made you this happy.”
Amatu sighed. “Do you know what surprised me? I had a strange dream that I can’t even explain. I don’t know what to call it. Fatima, tell me—I'm confused. I first thought it was just nonsense, but it’s far beyond my usual thoughts. I keep seeing the same kind of dream. Please advise me; I’m looking for someone to help me.”
Fatima looked at her closely. “Honestly, Amatu, I don’t quite understand you. You sound confused. Calm down first—maybe you’re slipping into some strange mood.”
“Yes, I am, Fati. You know last night I dreamed—”
Fatima interrupted, eyes wide. “A dream? May Allah make it not a bad one.”
They were already close to Amatu’s farm when Amatu said, “You really don’t let someone finish speaking. I haven’t said anything yet.”
Fatima laughed. “True. I’ll keep quiet and listen.”
A Dream That Sparked Hope
Before they could continue, they heard Baba’s voice calling out, “My daughter, where did you stop? You left me worried. I even thought the fever had returned.”
Amatu looked at his face briefly, then turned away, holding back tears. With a trembling voice, she said, “Yes, Baba, I’m better now. I brought food—Umma said I should bring it to you.”
“Alright, my daughter. May Allah bless you. Aishatu, come quickly, there’s food—leave the work for now,” he said. They gathered under a mango tree in the farm and sat down. Amatu stood aside, wiping her tears quietly as she watched her father and siblings with deep pity, making sure they didn’t notice her. When they finished eating and were about to return to work, she stood up to help, but her father stopped her.
“My daughter, what are you going to do?”
“I want to help you finish the work,” she replied politely.
He shook his head. “No, my daughter. Go home—you’re not well. May Allah grant you ease. Don’t worry.”
She sighed softly. “Alright, Baba. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Okay, my daughter. May Allah bless your life.”
“Amin, Baba. Thank you,” she replied happily.
She turned and joined Fatima, who was waiting for her. Together they left the farm and walked down the road.
Impatiently, Fatima said, “Amatu, I’m dying to know—tell me about the dream already.”
“I said I would tell you,” Amatu replied.
“I’m listening.”
Amatu took a deep breath and began. “Fatima, I dreamed I was in a beautiful place filled with plants and flowers of many colors. I was wearing a pure white cloak, my feet decorated with henna, wearing elegant and expensive shoes. Around my neck was a gold necklace, my face beautifully made up. On both sides and behind me were servants standing respectfully. Ahead of me stood a man near a place where water flowed gently, surrounded by colorful flowers. I approached him quietly from behind without him noticing. I stepped on a stone to match his height and covered his eyes with my hands. I heard him smile before he held my hands, opened his eyes, and turned to me. He lifted me from the stone and placed me on a soft, decorated carpet filled with ornaments and drinks I had never seen. We sat together; he held me and said in a sweet voice, ‘I am deeply in love with you, my woman. There is none like you. I wish we could be together.’ I smiled, and my smile caught his attention so much that he touched my beauty spots and kissed me. I was about to speak when I suddenly heard Umma waking me up. I couldn’t continue the dream. After the dawn prayer, I slept again hoping to continue from where I stopped, but nothing came. That’s what made me happy—and yet, I don’t even know why.”
Fatima sighed, then burst into laughter. “My dear friend, you dreamed of a prince—a king’s son—and you became his wife!”
Amatu nodded shyly.
Fatima continued, “Dreams are really strange. Sometimes they feel so real, but we don’t know if they’ll ever come true.”
Amatu shook her head. “How could it ever be real, Fatima? That place—I could live my whole life and never see anything like it.”
Teasing her, Fatima said, “Well, who knows? Maybe you’ll marry Sa’adu, the son of the village head.”
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Rainy Season in the Village
It was the rainy season. The weather in the town was always cool and cloudy, with lush green grass covering everywhere the eye could see. Farming was going on beautifully in this region, which was a small village populated by people of different backgrounds. Wherever you looked, the land was filled with people working busily on their farms.
A fair-skinned man was busy cutting millet with a sharp knife. From time to time, he glanced at the road and at the three young girls helping him with the work, as if hoping to see someone. When he saw nothing, he stood upright and held his back, showing signs of pain. He wiped the sweat from his face and looked at the girls.
“Tell me, Aishatu, where did you leave your mother? She’s still not here. Why hasn’t she come, even though we’re exhausted from work? Or is it that the fever has returned today?”
He asked as he sat down heavily, completely worn out. One look at him was enough to tell that poverty had settled firmly on his body. The girl he called Aishatu looked up at him; she too was drenched in sweat, clearly tired and hungry.
“Wallahi, Baba, I don’t know. When we left, I didn’t see her at all. But maybe Asma’u saw her,” she said.
Asma’u shook her head and replied, “No, I didn’t see her either.”
The man nodded slowly. “Only Allah knows. May Allah keep her safe. I’m worried about that stubborn fever of hers that refuses to go. And now even the little money I had is finished. You don’t have it at home, you don’t have it outside. The rich only look at you with contempt when you stand to ask. O Allah, cover our shame,” he said worriedly as he stood up, picked up his knife, and returned to work. His children followed him with pity in their eyes, for they knew their father well—whenever he had anything, he never denied his family and always provided for them, but now he had absolutely nothing.
Amatullah and Fatima’s Conversation
Walking along the path was a tall, striking young lady of about twenty-two years. She carried a basket on her head and paid attention to no one, focusing only on the road ahead, where the grass lay flattened behind her. Suddenly, she heard someone call out loudly from behind her, “AMATULLAH! AMATU, STOP!”
She stopped without turning around until the caller caught up with her, slightly out of breath. “Haba, Amatu, it’s as if you’re going deaf. I’ve been calling you and it’s only now you heard me,” she said with a teasing tone.
With a soft, beautiful smile, Amatu turned her large, bright eyes and replied in a pleasant voice, “Haba, Fatima, you know I’d never ignore you.”
Fatima sighed. “But I wanted to ask you something,” she said, surprised by the cheerful smile lighting up Amatu’s face. “That smile shows something made you really happy, if I’m guessing right.”
Amatu laughed lightly. “I’m in a hurry; I’m going to Baba’s place. Let me go—when I come back, I’ll tell you.”
Fatima nodded. “That’s fine, I was actually coming to walk with you.”
“Alright then, let’s go.”
As they walked on, Fatima’s curiosity grew stronger because of the excitement she saw on her friend’s face. Unable to hold back, she said, “Amatu, I really don’t understand. Please tell me what made you this happy.”
Amatu sighed. “Do you know what surprised me? I had a strange dream that I can’t even explain. I don’t know what to call it. Fatima, tell me—I'm confused. I first thought it was just nonsense, but it’s far beyond my usual thoughts. I keep seeing the same kind of dream. Please advise me; I’m looking for someone to help me.”
Fatima looked at her closely. “Honestly, Amatu, I don’t quite understand you. You sound confused. Calm down first—maybe you’re slipping into some strange mood.”
“Yes, I am, Fati. You know last night I dreamed—”
Fatima interrupted, eyes wide. “A dream? May Allah make it not a bad one.”
They were already close to Amatu’s farm when Amatu said, “You really don’t let someone finish speaking. I haven’t said anything yet.”
Fatima laughed. “True. I’ll keep quiet and listen.”
A Dream That Sparked Hope
Before they could continue, they heard Baba’s voice calling out, “My daughter, where did you stop? You left me worried. I even thought the fever had returned.”
Amatu looked at his face briefly, then turned away, holding back tears. With a trembling voice, she said, “Yes, Baba, I’m better now. I brought food—Umma said I should bring it to you.”
“Alright, my daughter. May Allah bless you. Aishatu, come quickly, there’s food—leave the work for now,” he said. They gathered under a mango tree in the farm and sat down. Amatu stood aside, wiping her tears quietly as she watched her father and siblings with deep pity, making sure they didn’t notice her. When they finished eating and were about to return to work, she stood up to help, but her father stopped her.
“My daughter, what are you going to do?”
“I want to help you finish the work,” she replied politely.
He shook his head. “No, my daughter. Go home—you’re not well. May Allah grant you ease. Don’t worry.”
She sighed softly. “Alright, Baba. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Okay, my daughter. May Allah bless your life.”
“Amin, Baba. Thank you,” she replied happily.
She turned and joined Fatima, who was waiting for her. Together they left the farm and walked down the road.
Impatiently, Fatima said, “Amatu, I’m dying to know—tell me about the dream already.”
“I said I would tell you,” Amatu replied.
“I’m listening.”
Amatu took a deep breath and began. “Fatima, I dreamed I was in a beautiful place filled with plants and flowers of many colors. I was wearing a pure white cloak, my feet decorated with henna, wearing elegant and expensive shoes. Around my neck was a gold necklace, my face beautifully made up. On both sides and behind me were servants standing respectfully. Ahead of me stood a man near a place where water flowed gently, surrounded by colorful flowers. I approached him quietly from behind without him noticing. I stepped on a stone to match his height and covered his eyes with my hands. I heard him smile before he held my hands, opened his eyes, and turned to me. He lifted me from the stone and placed me on a soft, decorated carpet filled with ornaments and drinks I had never seen. We sat together; he held me and said in a sweet voice, ‘I am deeply in love with you, my woman. There is none like you. I wish we could be together.’ I smiled, and my smile caught his attention so much that he touched my beauty spots and kissed me. I was about to speak when I suddenly heard Umma waking me up. I couldn’t continue the dream. After the dawn prayer, I slept again hoping to continue from where I stopped, but nothing came. That’s what made me happy—and yet, I don’t even know why.”
Fatima sighed, then burst into laughter. “My dear friend, you dreamed of a prince—a king’s son—and you became his wife!”
Amatu nodded shyly.
Fatima continued, “Dreams are really strange. Sometimes they feel so real, but we don’t know if they’ll ever come true.”
Amatu shook her head. “How could it ever be real, Fatima? That place—I could live my whole life and never see anything like it.”
Teasing her, Fatima said, “Well, who knows? Maybe you’ll marry Sa’adu, the son of the village head.”
Amatu frowned. “Please, stop that.”