CHAPTER 1: I CAN SEE YOU
1874 Words
– I CAN SEE YOU ~
The sun rose slowly over Abuja, spilling golden light across the Isa residence — a quiet, modern duplex tucked inside an estate where power and silence walked hand in hand. The walls of the house, painted in cream and calm, had witnessed laughter once — but lately, they had learned the language of silence.
Barrister Abdulsalam Isa sat at the dining table that morning, dressed in a crisp white kaftan, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the aroma of fresh coffee. His phone vibrated constantly beside his plate, a reminder that even at home, the world refused to wait.
Across from him, Mariam was serving breakfast for their three children. She moved gracefully, her veil flowing lightly as she placed the dishes down — yam, eggs, and fried plantain. Her smile was soft but tired, the kind of smile worn by someone who has given much and received too little in return.
“Baba,” the youngest daughter, 10-year-old Aisha, said cheerfully, “you promised to drop us at school today.”
Abdulsalam looked up from his phone, blinking as if returning from another world. “Hmm? Oh—yes, yes, of course, my dear.” He smiled briefly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He returned to scrolling through political updates.
The eldest, Fatimah, 18, sat quietly beside her mother. Her demeanor was mature — she had Mariam’s calm eyes, but her silence often carried judgment. She glanced at her father, then at his phone, then at her mother. She didn’t say anything, but her thoughts were clear: He’s here, but not really here.
Then there was Khalid, 14 — sharp-eyed, broad-shouldered for his age, his voice deeper than most boys his age. He was leaning back in his chair, watching his father with that intense, knowing gaze that made Abdulsalam uncomfortable sometimes.
“Dad,” Khalid said suddenly, his tone strong, confident. “Why do you have to go to the TV station today? You were there just last week.”
Abdulsalam looked up, half amused. “It’s an interview, son. They want to hear from me again — about leadership, reforms, law, politics.”
Khalid tilted his head slightly. “So they can hear from you,” he said slowly, “but can we?”
The table fell silent.
Mariam froze mid-motion, holding the jug of juice. Fatimah’s lips parted slightly, surprised by her brother’s boldness. Even little Aisha blinked in confusion, sensing the tension but not understanding it.
Abdulsalam chuckled softly, trying to defuse the moment. “You talk too much for your age, Khalid.”
Khalid didn’t back down. His eyes held his father’s firmly. “Maybe because the silence in this house talks too loudly.”
Mariam lowered her gaze, pretending to fix her plate. Fatimah sighed quietly. Abdulsalam said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he murmured, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
Khalid leaned forward slightly, his young face calm but sharp. “Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older, too.”
That stunned everyone. Aisha giggled without knowing why. Fatimah whispered, “Khalid!” — but the boy didn’t flinch. Mariam placed her hand gently on his shoulder, not in anger, but in warning.
Abdulsalam looked at his son, pride and irritation mixing in his chest. The boy had his mother’s honesty — and his father’s fire.
He sighed. “Eat your food,” he said finally, returning to his coffee.
But his mind wasn’t on the meal. It was already racing ahead — to the upcoming interview, the crowd of reporters, the cameras, the questions that always looked harmless but never were. And most of all, to the phone call he had received the night before — from Nasir Suleiman, his trusted aide.
---
Nasir had called at midnight. His voice was steady, smooth, like always.
“Sir,” he said, “Honorable Kabiru Danladi’s people are trying to push a story — they say you’re unstable, that your marriage is collapsing. They’re using it to question your fitness for office.”
Abdulsalam had sat up in bed, Mariam asleep beside him. “Nonsense,” he’d whispered. “My personal life has nothing to do with my political career.”
Nasir hesitated, then said, “Maybe. But people believe stories more than facts, sir. Be careful what you say in the interview tomorrow. The press will be watching.”
That warning echoed in Abdulsalam’s head as he adjusted his cufflinks that morning. He didn’t know that Nasir, the man who had served him for years, was already sitting in Hon. Kabiru’s office that very moment, sipping tea and smiling like a man who knew where to plant the next knife.
---
“Make sure he mentions family,” Kabiru said, leaning back in his chair. “Let the press see him pretend he has a happy home. The higher he rises in their hearts, the harder he’ll fall when we release the court documents.”
Nasir nodded calmly. “He trusts me completely. After the interview, he’ll call me to discuss strategy. That’s when I’ll leak the call logs to the media.”
Kabiru smiled, his gold tooth glinting under the fluorescent light. “Good. Let him dance under the spotlight first. Then we’ll turn the lights off.”
---
At home, Mariam stood by the window, adjusting her veil, watching her husband through the reflection. He was checking his phone again, lost in thought. She had once admired that — his focus, his drive — but now it felt like a wall she could no longer climb.
“You’ve been distant,” she said quietly.
He looked up. “I’m preparing for the interview. You know how important this one is.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He paused, watching her reflection in the glass. “Mariam, please, not today. I need peace of mind before I face those cameras.”
Her lips tightened slightly, but she said nothing more. She picked up her purse and went to call the children. Aisha ran to her, cheerful as always, while Fatimah trailed behind, helping her little sister fix her scarf. Khalid stood by the door, already dressed for school, his eyes flicking between his parents.
When they all walked to the car together, it looked — from the outside — like a perfect family. The guard opened the gate, the driver started the engine, and the Isa family drove out into the city where reputations were made and destroyed in a day.
---
At the broadcasting station, journalists swarmed. Cameras flashed. Abdulsalam smiled the politician’s smile — calm, confident, commanding. He shook hands, posed for photos, and said all the right things.
Mariam stayed close, but her silence said more than any speech could. The producers were excited — the power couple always brought views.
As they waited in the green room, Abdulsalam’s phone buzzed. Unknown number.
He hesitated. Then answered.
“Hello,” he said.
“Good afternoon, sir. We are calling from the court regarding the divorce lawsuit you filed. Can we proceed with the case this week?”
His blood ran cold. He froze. His eyes darted to Mariam.
She was right beside him — still, silent, but her expression hardened ever so slightly. She had heard. Of course she had.
“I… I need more time to think,” he said softly. “I will call you back.”
He ended the call. His hand trembled slightly.
Mariam looked straight ahead, not saying a word. The silence between them was deafening.
“Sir,” the director said politely, stepping in, “we’re about to begin. Please put your phone on flight mode.”
He nodded, slipping the device back into his pocket. He felt like the world had just shifted under his feet.
They walked to the stage together. The lights were blinding. The applause was polite. Cameras turned, lenses focused. Abdulsalam sat tall, his expression composed.
The host smiled warmly. “Good evening, viewers. Tonight, we welcome a man of vision — Barrister Abdulsalam Isa — and his wife, Mrs. Mariam Isa.”
Applause.
He smiled. “Thank you for having us.”
“Sir,” the host began, “you’ve become a symbol of hope for many young people. Tell us, who is Abdulsalam Isa behind the title?”
He straightened, speaking clearly. “I’m a lawyer, a politician, but above all, a man who believes in justice, faith, and service. My life began with discipline — my father, a soldier, taught me that a man’s word is his bond.”
The audience clapped. He smiled again, but his mind was spinning. The call. The lawsuit. Mariam’s silence.
The questions rolled on — about his plans, his reforms, his dreams for the nation. He answered smoothly, as he always did. But when the host turned to Mariam, his heart skipped.
“Mrs. Isa,” she said brightly, “you’ve been by his side through his journey. What do you see in your husband that the nation should also see?”
The studio hushed.
Mariam looked at him. Her eyes were calm, deep, unreadable. Then she smiled softly.
“I can see him,” she said.
The host blinked. “Sorry?”
“I can see him,” Mariam repeated. “Not the politician, not the lawyer. I see the man behind it all — the man who once believed love could change the world. That is who I married.”
The crowd clapped. The host smiled warmly. Abdulsalam forced a smile, too, but inside, her words struck like thunder.
She didn’t say she still saw him.
She said she could see him.
Past tense. A memory, not a present truth.
---
When the cameras dimmed, Abdulsalam sat still for a long moment. Mariam stood up calmly, thanked the crew, and walked toward the exit. He followed behind, his steps heavy.
Outside, reporters shouted questions, flashlights blinking. They smiled for the cameras — hand in hand — a perfect couple for the nation to adore.
But in the car, as the doors closed and silence fell again, he whispered, “Mariam…”
She looked at him. Her eyes were tired, but not cruel. “Yes?”
“That call you heard earlier… it wasn’t—”
“I know what it was,” she said quietly.
He swallowed. “Then you also know I haven’t made up my mind.”
She looked out the window, her reflection faint in the glass. “You already have.”
He turned away, guilt tightening his chest.
Meanwhile, across town, Hon. Kabiru Danladi and Nasir Suleiman sat in a dimly lit office, watching the interview replay on a laptop. Mariam’s words echoed through the speakers.
“I can see him.”
Kabiru smirked. “Perfect. She just gave us the headline.”
Nasir leaned forward, typing quickly. “Already sending it to the press. Tomorrow’s headline: ‘I Can See the Man He Used to Be — Mariam Isa Hints at Political Cracks in Marriage.’”
Kabiru chuckled. “Let the nation see their perfect hero start to crumble.”
He raised his teacup. “To the fall of Barrister Abdulsalam Isa.”
- Writer
