Hidden Seed

Chapter Six

“Indeed, to Allah we belong, and to Him we shall return.”

She murmured the words under her breath, her voice buried and broken beneath the crushing agony of labor.

For two long days she had battled labor pains, yet there was still no sign of delivery. Severe bleeding worsened her condition, forcing the doctor to rush out of the operating room toward where the young man stood waiting.

The man—no more than twenty-five years old—hurried to the doctor, his face drenched in tears. He gripped the doctor’s hand tightly and pleaded,

“Where is my wife… please, let me see her.”

The doctor held his hand firmly, led him into an office, sat him down, and spoke calmly:

“What is happening is this: we have done everything possible to allow her deliver naturally, but it has failed. The tests show a serious problem with her uterus. Because of this, she must undergo surgery. Sign here—we have no choice but to operate and remove the baby.”

With trembling hands, he signed the document. The doctor stood up immediately and hurried away.

By the decree of the Almighty, a beautiful baby boy was delivered. But alas—during the operation, the doctors discovered a severe condition requiring a cesarean hysterectomy. Her uterus had to be removed to protect her from the spread of the disease throughout her body.

This news shattered her completely, especially when she regained consciousness and her husband told her the truth. She wept bitterly, as though her soul were being torn away, for her greatest dream had been to bear many children. But Allah had not destined it so. In time, she surrendered and entrusted her fate to her Lord.

Around midnight that same day, a baby’s intense crying jolted her awake. Slowly, she opened her eyes and scanned the room. Gathering her courage, she pushed herself upright and gazed at the child she had delivered. A wave of joy washed over her once again.

Yet the crying did not stop. Slowly, she rose and moved toward the window from where the sound seemed to come. To her astonishment, she saw a newborn—freshly delivered—wrapped in cloth, crying helplessly.

Summoning a mother’s courage, she returned, lifted her own baby into her arms, and quietly left the room.

She moved carefully toward the back of the ward, following the cries. Despite the pain and the burning pull of her surgical wound, she pressed on. With great effort, she bent down and lifted the abandoned baby, studying him closely.

She brought him together with her own child and held them both tightly. Looking around, she saw no one. Slowly, silently, she returned to her room and gazed at the two babies in her arms. Hot tears streamed down her face, dripping onto their tiny cheeks.

With a trembling voice, she whispered,

“Since they rejected you and cast you aside, know that I want you. No one will ever take you from me. May Allah preserve you both for me.”

She quickly removed his clothes and gently cleaned him. As she did, she noticed a mark—a fresh razor cut on his right shoulder, still oozing blood. It was clear it had been done recently.

A soft smile crossed her face. She reached for her belongings, took out a new razor, and carefully made an identical mark on her own baby. She then changed their clothes, wrapped them both in cloth, and held them tightly against her chest.

All of this happened deep in the night. No one noticed. The cold was severe, and she was in a special care ward. And Allah willed His decree—He turned away every mind and intention that night.

That night became one that carried a great secret, difficult to unravel.

Later that night, her husband entered the room. As a caregiver on duty, he had been unable to return home. To his shock, he saw two babies.

Knowing only one had been delivered, suspicion gripped him. Without resistance, she told him everything that had happened and insisted it remain a secret between them alone.

Stunned, he asked,

“Then… which one is ours?”

She smiled softly and replied,

“Decide for yourself.”

He turned them gently, studying them over and over, but could not tell them apart. They looked exactly the same. Bewildered, he said,

“Rukayya… I can’t tell which is ours. They look alike.”

She smiled again and said,

“Allah has concealed His affair. You will never distinguish them—and I do not wish for you to ever do so.”

She took the babies from his hands and began to nurse them, while he watched her in silent astonishment.

When relatives and friends later arrived, celebrations began for the birth of twins. When they had first come to the hospital, no announcement had been made, so as not to raise suspicion. The surgery had been performed after the night prayer, at a time when there were no phones—no urgent messages, no news spread.

She remained in the hospital until she recovered fully, then they were discharged and returned home filled with joy.

Three days after her discharge, chaos erupted at the hospital. Everyone had seen her with two babies, yet it was known with certainty that she had delivered only one. The issue surfaced during an internal review conducted by the doctor who performed the operation.

The matter caused great confusion. The hospital authorities demanded that the baby be brought in so a decision could be reached.

The family came from a lineage of honor and respect in the country, never before accused of anything of this nature. There was no missing-baby report, no public alarm. Moreover, their evident commitment to protecting the child impressed the hospital board.

As a result, the hospital requested that a temporary adoption certificate be issued, pending a court decision for a permanent one.

Here, the web began to tighten.

She was pressured in every possible way to identify which child was hers and which was found—but she refused. Eventually, they relented and registered the child as a foundling, without a name.

Although the hospital documents did not grant permanent custody, only the court could do that.

Thus, she, her husband, and the doctors who knew the truth gathered and buried the matter. They paid large, painful sums of money, left the country, and vanished from the scene.

Life moved on. She raised the two children with equal love and devotion. When they reached the age of three, a naming ceremony was held.

That day, her husband sat her down and pleaded relentlessly for her to tell him which child was truly theirs. She refused and said only death would reveal it.

Left with no choice, he surrendered—and continued to care for them both as his own.

Nothing could be heard from the living room except the violent crash of blows and the shattering of glass. Panic tightening her chest, she peered through her bedroom window, since they had locked the door and she could not get out. In anguish, she screamed their names:

“Sauban… Sultan… you can’t continue fighting like this…!”

She turned to her husband, who sat calmly reading the newspaper, and pleaded,

“Please, talk to them before they seriously hurt each other. I hate this fighting of theirs… please?”

He smiled faintly and replied,

“If they don’t fight, how would I know that the lions I raised are not sheep? Let them be. This is courage. They’ll stop on their own.”

“Please, at least help me tell them to open the door,” she begged again.

“Let them rage!”

he thundered.

At the sound of his voice, the fighting stopped abruptly. In a rush, they tried to open the door.

She ran to them and, seeing their injuries, pulled them into her arms, crying. Annoyance darkened his face as he stood and walked toward them. The moment they saw him, they slipped and dropped to their knees. He looked down at them and said coldly:

“Why did you stop? Are you done?”

They nodded yes.

“Good,” he said. “Now it’s my turn.”

He pulled off his belt and began to lash them mercilessly, striking everywhere without restraint. Their screams filled the house as they cried for help, but no one dared come near him—let alone stop him.

She kept begging him to stop, reminding him that they had already injured each other, but he only added more blows.

The entire household was thrown into chaos. The domestic staff stood frozen, watching in stunned silence, witnessing the might of fate. Only when he was exhausted and they lay utterly weak did he stop. He grabbed their hands, dragged them into his private quarters, and locked the door.

Burning with anger, he searched through his important documents. Then he pulled out the hospital adoption certificate and threw it at them.

They hurriedly picked it up and began to read.

With overwhelming shock, they looked up at their father. Their faces were swollen, blood streaming down, as he said:

“I do not know which of you is mine. But I assure you—one of you is not my blood. Only your mother can tell you apart.

Whether you love each other or destroy each other is your choice. But know this: only one of you truly belongs to this house.”

Utterly shattered, they turned and stared at each other. Then both collapsed to their knees and burst into a fierce, broken cry—raw with terror and disbelief.

When the storm of their tears finally eased, they embraced each other tightly. Deep in each heart was the same wish: let it be me who does not belong. Their bond could never endure seeing the other suffer. Though they fought like this often, the depth of their attachment went far beyond rivalry.

They wished this fight had never happened. They wished the revelation had come only as a dream, not reality. In the end, they swore a silent oath—this secret would never be spoken of, to anyone. Not even their mother would ever know that they knew.

They knelt again and begged their father for forgiveness, pleading with him never to tell anyone—not even their mother—and never to let her sense that they were aware.

He gave his word, then delivered counsel that cut deep into their souls. Afterward, he personally took them to the hospital to receive treatment.

ONE YEAR AFTER THAT INCIDENT

A year later, Allah took their father’s life. They wept beyond measure—especially their mother, who was left with a wound that would never heal. It was a scar she would carry forever, because even as he returned to his Lord, she had refused to tell him which of the two was Sultan and which was Sauban.

When the mourning period ended, they went to their father’s quarters. After a long and careful search through his documents, they finally found the adoption certificate. They burned it. Their hearts were filled with courage, resolve, and vows that would never be broken.

His death gave them a strange calm, and taught them a hard lesson about life. It deepened their bond, tightened their love—until neither could act without the other.

One day, as they returned from school and were just arriving home, they suddenly heard a car stop abruptly. The driver rushed out to see what was wrong.

Almost as if they had fallen from the sky, armed men appeared. They opened the car doors, forced them into a long bus with darkened windows, and shot the driver in the leg.

No sooner had they been taken inside than something was forced upon them to inhale. A heavy sleep claimed them instantly.

They did not wake until they found themselves in a house surrounded by men carrying guns everywhere.

Gripped by fear, they held each other’s hands tightly, their hearts pounding violently. Yet, like the lions their father had once named them, they showed none of it outwardly.

A man entered the room, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He exhaled smoke, studied them closely, then laughed.

“Ridwan was right,” he said. “He truly raised lion cubs. But tell me—which of you is really his son?”

They exchanged a startled glance, then turned back to him, staring with anger and resentment at the wound he had deliberately reopened.

Sultan suddenly lunged at him with a shout, but the men beside him intercepted instantly. A rifle butt struck his back, and a boot crushed him to the floor, pinning him down.

Seeing this, Sauban sprang forward toward Sultan, but he too was overpowered and slammed down, his head pressed hard against the ground.

The man smiled.

“He raised you with love,” he said calmly. “One attacks, one protects—those are his traits. But one of you must be imitating the other, because only one carries his blood. So tell me.”

With a raw cry, Sauban shouted,

“We are both his blood. There is no outsider among us.”

The man laughed—a strange, mocking laugh—because he saw no weakness that would reveal one as чуж. Still, he kept repeating,

“One of you is a stray. Found. Discarded.”

Each time he said it, they cried out in pain and rage, struggling desperately to rise, but the pressure holding them down was relentless.

Then he grabbed both of them by the hair and forced their faces up.

“Your grandfather—the chief justice—was the one who imprisoned my father. Later, he was sentenced to death. I swore I would wipe out his entire lineage.

Your father was the last of them. The rest died long ago. Now he is gone too. That leaves only one of you. So tell me now who you are, or I kill you both.”

They burst into laughter at his words. Then they looked at each other and smiled. Sauban spoke first:

“Kill us both if you want. But you will never kill only his blood. You’ll have to spill someone else’s as well.”

They continued laughing at him, as though he were mad.

Burning with rage, he stormed out. They were dragged to another room, their hands tied.

Late that night, Sultan looked at Sauban, his face swollen and bruised.

“Have you seen your face?” he said—and burst out laughing.

Sauban laughed too, staring at Sultan’s equally swollen face.

Then Sauban said quietly,

“My body tells me we’ll leave this place tomorrow. That fool can’t do anything to us.”

Sultan smiled.

“The moment I saw him, he made me laugh. He’s not made for evil—he belongs in comedy. He won’t kill us. Besides, I still have ten children to father before I die, in shā’ Allah.”

Sauban grinned.

“You and your children talk—don’t you ever feel shy?”

“Shy of you?” Sultan snapped. “In shā’ Allah, I’ll make it a dozen.”

They laughed again.

The next morning, as if it were nothing, they heard police vehicles surround the house. They were brought out as all the criminals were arrested. They themselves were taken to the hospital for examination.

The man was charged with two crimes: kidnapping and attempted murder. At the time, kidnapping carried a sentence of ten years’ imprisonment. Attempted murder, however, carried life imprisonment under Nigerian law.

To protect their secret, they concealed the attempted murder charge—from the police, from the court, and even from their mother.

They warned him sternly never to reveal the real reason behind the kidnapping. They promised leniency if he claimed he had abducted them purely for ransom.

He agreed—driven by deep remorse. He was convicted only of kidnapping and sentenced to ten years in prison.

They did all this to bury two fears that burned constantly within them:

the fear that one of them might not belong to the family by blood,

and the fear of how one could live without the other if that were true.

This is what strengthened their bond even more. It gave them greater reason to guard their secret, to renew their vows, and to trust each other completely. To this day, they have never left even the smallest opening through which their secret could escape.

Yet one question haunts them endlessly:

Why do they look exactly alike?