Penned in Rage Literary Journal, Edition 5

  It Is Not Over Until Ralia Loves Me

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The first time Bashir saw Ralia, the harmattan wind was blowing dust through the streets of Hadejia like forgotten prayers. The town was alive with the usual evening sounds—children chasing old bicycle tires, traders folding their mats in Kasuwar kara market, and the distant echo of the Maghrib adhan rising softly from the mosque near the riverbank.

 

Ralia stood beside her mother at a fabric stall, adjusting the edge of her blue veil as the wind fought against it. Bashir had gone there to deliver bags of rice for Alhaji Maikudi, the wealthy merchant he worked for. But the moment he saw her face, everything else disappeared.

 

Not because she was the most beautiful girl in Hadejia—though many said she was—but because sadness already lived in her eyes.

“Who is she?” Bashir asked quietly.

His friend, Nura, laughed. “Kai, Bashir. That is Ralia, daughter of Alhaji Balarabe. Forget her. Girls like that do not marry boys who carry rice under the sun.”

But Bashir could not forget her.

From that day, he began searching for reasons to pass through her street. Sometimes he would see her fetching water with other girls in the early morning. Sometimes he saw her standing outside their compound after isha, greeting elderly women respectfully.

“Assalamu alaikum, Hajiya,” she would say softly.

And every time Bashir saw her, something inside him tightened.

He was poor, yes. His father had died years ago, leaving him to care for his sick mother and two younger sisters. He never finished secondary school because survival became more important than education. Yet his heart carried dreams too large for his pocket.

One evening after Isha prayer, Bashir gathered courage and approached her near the narrow dusty path behind the mosque.

“Ralia,” he called gently.

She turned slowly, startled.

“I know this may sound strange,” he said nervously, “but I have carried your image in my heart for many months.”

Ralia lowered her eyes immediately.

“People are watching,” she whispered.

“I do not fear people.”

“But I do,” she replied.

Still, she did not walk away.

That small moment became the beginning of their secret love.

Days turned into months. Bashir would wait for her near the old neem tree after evening lessons. Sometimes they spoke only for a few minutes before she hurried home. Other times, they shared long conversations beneath the pale moonlight of Hadejia skies.

 

Ralia loved the way Bashir listened carefully whenever she spoke. He loved the softness in her voice whenever she said his name.

“Bashir,” she once told him, “my father will never accept this.”

“Then I will work harder,” he replied quickly. “I will become somebody.”

“You do not understand my family.”

“I understand love.”

Ralia smiled sadly.

In Northern towns like Hadejia, love alone was rarely enough.

Her father, Alhaji Balarabe, was respected across Jigawa. Wealthy cattle owners greeted him with deep respect. Politicians visited his compound during elections. His daughters were expected to marry men of status, men with cars, lands, and family influence.

Not boys who smelled of sweat and rice dust

When rumors of Bashir and Ralia began spreading through the community, her mother became worried.

“Ralia,” Hajiya Balarabe warned one evening, “people are talking. A girl’s dignity is like an egg. Once broken, it cannot be repaired.”

Ralia remained silent.

Then came the day everything changed.

A wealthy businessman from Kano, Alhaji Musa Dantata, arrived seeking Ralia’s hand in marriage for his son, Sadiq. The family celebrated immediately. Women filled the compound with laughter and congratulations.

But inside her room, Ralia cried until dawn.

When she finally met Bashir near the riverbank, her face looked empty.

“They want me to marry Sadiq,” she whispered.

Bashir stared at her as if the earth had cracked open beneath him.

“No.”

“My father has agreed already.”

“Then tell him you love me.”

“You know I cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because I am his daughter.”

Bashir’s voice broke. “And what am I?”

Ralia’s tears rolled silently.

“You are the only thing my heart ever chose.”

For weeks, Bashir fought desperately against fate. He worked day and night, carrying goods, repairing bicycles, even traveling to nearby villages searching for extra work. He wanted money, dignity, something worthy enough to stand before Alhaji Balarabe.

But poverty is cruel. The harder he ran, the more it mocked him.

One afternoon, he finally gathered courage and visited Ralia’s father.

The compound was large and quiet. Goats wandered near the entrance while elderly men discussed politics beneath a mango tree.

Alhaji Balarabe listened coldly as Bashir spoke.

“I love your daughter,” Bashir said carefully. “I may not have wealth now, but I am hardworking. I will spend my life making her happy.”

The old man looked at him for a long moment.

Then he laughed softly.

“Young man, love does not feed a family.”

“I can work.”

“You can struggle,” Alhaji corrected. “My daughter was not raised for suffering.”

Bashir swallowed painfully.

“Please, Alhaji.”

“No.”

That single word destroyed something inside him.

The wedding preparations continued quickly. Drummers arrived. Tailors moved in and out of the compound. Women sang traditional songs late into the night.

Meanwhile, Bashir disappeared from public gatherings. He stopped joking with friends. He stopped playing football near the school field. Even his mother noticed the silence eating him alive.

One rainy evening, Ralia secretly came to see him.

He sat outside his small house under a leaking roof, staring into darkness.

“Bashir,” she called softly.

When he looked at her, his eyes were red from sleepless nights.

“I came to say goodbye.”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It is not over until Ralia loves me.”

She began crying immediately.

 “I already love you.”

“Then stay.”

“You know I cannot.”

“Then run away with me.”

Ralia stepped backward as though slapped.

“You want me to shame my family?”

“I want you to choose us!”

Silence fell heavily between them.

Then she whispered the cruelest truth.

“In our world, Bashir… love is not always enough.”

The wedding took place three days later.

The entire town celebrated. Expensive cars filled the streets. Bright fabrics danced beneath the afternoon sun. People praised the union between two respected families.

But Bashir stayed hidden inside his room.

That night, while wedding drums echoed through Hadejia, Bashir walked alone toward the river outside town. The rain had started again, soft and endless.

Nobody saw him except an old fisherman passing in the dark.

The next morning, they found Bashir’s sandals near the riverbank.

His body appeared two days later.

Hadejia fell silent with shock.

Even the market women spoke in whispers.

Ralia heard the news while sitting beside her new husband’s family. At first, she refused to believe it. Then someone mentioned the river.

She collapsed immediately.

For many years afterward, people still remembered Bashir.

Some said he was foolish for dying because of love. Others blamed poverty. A few blamed Ralia.

But every rainy season, when the river overflowed and the wind carried dust through Hadejia again, old people remembered the boy who loved beyond reason.

And inside a large house in Kano, Ralia sometimes woke at night hearing his voice one final time:

“It is not over until Ralia loves me.”

But by then, it already was.