BEYOND AMBITION

CHAPTER FOUR

Omar was in a terrible mood; they were talking to him, but he didn’t even look at them before heading straight to his room. Sahar, on the other hand, scoffed and clicked her tongue in irritation.

It wasn’t until her friend Zuby said, “Sahar, go to your husband; he looks upset,” that she reacted. Sahar rolled her eyes and scoffed again. “So what? Now you’re all running after him? Come on, friends.”

Another colleague, Saleem, added, “Next time, we’ll come back, but for now, go to your husband.”

She didn’t want to, but they insisted, so she left. On her way, she yelled at the housemaid to come and clean up the place before heading directly to Omar’s room, grumbling under her breath.

Sahar was wearing a black T-shirt and an Atamfa skirt that fit her perfectly. She hadn’t bothered to cover her head with a scarf.

When she entered, she found Omar lying on the bed, pressing his phone. She pouted and gave him a long look—her husband was undeniably handsome, always clean and well-groomed. Instantly, a deep desire for him awakened within her. At that moment, nothing mattered to her more than having him fulfill her needs. But she knew he was upset, which meant he wouldn’t give her what she wanted right now.

She sat on the edge of the bed and said, "Welcome back, baby. How was your trip?"

The moment Omar heard that, he knew Sahar wanted something. She never spoke to him without a reason. He didn’t even bother looking at her.

Desire washed over her again. She moved closer and said, "Baby, please forgive me. I know I did something wrong."

Omar finally looked at her. He knew Sahar well—she never apologized unless she had an ulterior motive. He spoke calmly, "It’s fine. If someone does right, they know it. If they do wrong, they know it too. But remember, you don’t have the power to upset me. The only person who can is someone I actually care about."

Sahar felt irritated by his words, but because she wanted something from him, she stayed quiet. Instead, she said, "I’m really sorry," and climbed onto the bed.

Omar observed her carefully. He could see exactly what she wanted—her eyes were filled with pure desire.

She lay against his chest, completely unashamed. Sahar had never been the shy type.

She started stroking him gently, her voice turning soft and playful. "Baby, I missed you so much."

Omar sighed and watched her as she slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. He didn’t want to reject her, and he knew his duty as her husband. Especially since he had been away in London for so long.

Because of that, he gave in and let her have what she wanted.

Sahar felt complete satisfaction. Omar was truly a man’s man—strong, skilled, and attentive. He fulfilled her needs so well that she silently praised his abilities. When it came to romance and intimacy, Omar was unmatched.

But if only she knew—he felt nothing for her. She was never his choice to begin with.

Feeling fully satisfied, Sahar got up and left the room. As for Omar, he didn’t feel much pleasure from their time together. Sahar didn’t even take care of herself the way most women did—she never bothered with self-care rituals. If it wasn’t related to her government job, she didn’t care about anything else.

The next morning, Omar dressed sharply in a black suit, looking elegant and exuding confidence. He smelled fresh and expensive as he walked downstairs with his usual air of authority.

He headed to Sahar’s room, surprised that she wasn’t in bed when he woke up. But the room was empty.

He went to the living room and found only Hindatu, their housemaid.

"Where is Sahar?" he asked.

Hindatu quickly knelt in greeting. He acknowledged her with a nod before she answered, "She left for work at 6 AM, sir. She said she had surgery to attend."

Omar clicked his tongue in irritation and walked out of the house without even glancing at the dining table. He couldn’t believe his wife had left without saying a word to him.

Annoyed, he sighed and focused on reading his newspaper as he settled into the plush backseat of his luxurious ₦100 million car. His driver took the wheel—Omar never liked driving himself. He preferred to be driven.

That’s how real men move, readers.

Omar told his driver to take him straight to his mother’s house. When he arrived, he found her in the living room, burning incense. He immediately hugged her and greeted her warmly.

"Mama, did you sleep well?"

"I did, my son. How is home?"

"Great, Mama."

"Good. Alhamdulillah."

"Mama, what about breakfast?" Omar asked.

She turned to him with a questioning look. "Didn’t they serve you food at home?"

Omar sighed. "Mama, you know how things are. The housemaids handle everything, and you know I can’t stand uncleanliness."

His mother shook her head, already used to his habits.

"By the way, Mama, I want to check on your poultry farm today. It’s been a while since we inspected the workers and other matters."

She smiled warmly. "That’s wonderful, my son. May Allah bless you. I had even thought of going myself."

"Mama, how could I let you go through such stress when I’m here and healthy?"

"May Allah bless you, my dear."

"What about Abdallah and the others? Are they in school?"

"Yes, of course. You already know that."

Hajiya Amina owned a well-known poultry farm outside Abuja. Omar’s uncle had built it and gifted it to her since his wife, Hajiya Rahina, worked in the government sector.

When Hajiya Rahina found out about the gift, she made a huge fuss, but in the end, she had no choice but to accept it.

After eating his fill, Omar said his goodbyes and headed to his office. By 2 PM, he left work and drove straight to his mother’s poultry farm.

At 1:30 PM, Iklas arrived home from selling her goods. She attended an elite school that operated from 8 AM to 12 PM, designed for those who didn’t have to wake up too early. But she had only transferred there because she needed time for her business—selling goods on the roadside was how her family survived.

Every day, after returning from school at noon, she would quickly prepare and head back out to sell again, usually on the main road. By 1 or 1:30 PM, she would return home, eat, and get ready to go purchase apples and eggs for the next round of sales.

By the time she came back, Suhaila would have returned from her activities, and together they would prepare for their Islamic school classes. Saturdays and Sundays were no different—she sold from morning until around 3 or 4 PM. That was her life, nonstop work, no rest.

On top of it all, her grandmother, Ummi, often forced her to cook and do household chores. She was determined to make sure Iklas knew how to run a home so that when the time came, she wouldn’t be married off without domestic skills. This was why Iklas had become so hardworking—she could do everything. She had no choice.

After taking a quick bath, she dressed in a simple long gown given to her by an Igbo woman. It was light blue with red and black polka dots. The top part fit snugly, while the lower part flared slightly, stopping just past her knees.

Their clothes were mostly second-hand donations from kind-hearted people, some of whom gave them items that were too small, while others generously provided brand-new ones. Suhaila also received hand-me-downs from younger children, and whenever possible, Iklas tried to buy affordable second-hand clothes for them.

This was why almost all their outfits were English-style clothing—clean but basic. If not for the headscarves they wore, one might even mistake them for non-Muslims.

They barely had enough to eat, let alone worry about fine clothes.

A thin black scarf loosely covered her head. She hadn't applied any makeup, just a bit of powder and Vaseline on her lips. Yet, she still looked beautiful—some people were naturally attractive, with or without embellishments.

She slipped on a simple pair of black rubber sandals, a gift from a vendor who admired her hardworking nature and kind personality. Since she had no one to buy things for her, little acts of kindness like this meant a lot.

Looking well put together despite her simple outfit, she grabbed the small basket she used for buying eggs and a plastic bag for the apples. After bidding Ummi farewell, she stepped outside.

Right at the entrance, she ran into Suhaila, who had just returned from school.

"Anty, you’re already leaving?"

"Yeah."

"Iklas, wait for me, let’s go together."

"No, go eat, rest a bit, and prepare for Islamic school before I return."

"Okay, Anty. See you later."

"May Allah protect you." She gently stroked Suhaila’s head.

"Ameen." Suhaila smiled. She deeply loved her older sister.

Iklas walked for some distance before arriving at the poultry farm where she bought eggs and apples. The place was bustling with people—buyers, cars, and workers moving around.

Anyone who laid eyes on the farm could tell a fortune had been spent on it. It was divided into sections: one part for chickens and eggs, another for fruits, a separate area for fish, and another for various birds and other livestock. The scale of the operation was truly impressive.

Because the farm sold goods at affordable prices, it was always packed with buyers. That was exactly why Iklas chose to source her stock from there—she made a considerable profit.

She weaved her way through the crowd and entered the farm. The workers greeted her warmly, their faces bright with smiles. They had become familiar with her over time and had come to respect her quiet, dignified nature. They also pitied her—someone like her, hardworking and graceful, deserved better circumstances. Knowing she wasn’t well-off, they often gave her better prices than other buyers.

As she stood waiting for her turn, a sleek, foreign car rolled into the farm. The vehicle was unlike anything anyone had ever seen before.

People paused what they were doing, their eyes following the car in fascination. Whispers spread through the crowd as they speculated about the identity of the owner. The anticipation thickened—everyone was eager to see who would step out.