The first rays of the Lagos sun crept through the thin curtains of the Musa family apartment, painting the living room in soft gold. The small middle-class flat on the third floor of a modest building in Ikeja smelled faintly of breakfast—boiled eggs, akara, and fresh bread—and the faint scent of incense that Abdul Musa had burned after his morning prayer.
At exactly 5:30 a.m., the family stirred. The call to Fajr echoed faintly from a nearby mosque, and the Musa household moved as one. Abdul Musa, strict and commanding, led the prayer in the living room. Khadija Musa, their mother, knelt beside him in her hijab, soft hands pressed to the prayer mat. Their youngest son, Zaynab "Zayn" Musa, 14, bowed silently behind them, careful not to draw attention to himself. His heart always raced during these moments—the pressure of expectations weighed heavily on him.
The sisters moved quietly around the apartment. Zainab, 18, was already preparing her bag for university, neatly folding her notes and tucking in her ID card. Her long hijab framed her thoughtful face as she whispered a soft prayer for strength and success. Fatima, 16, zipped her schooluniform bag as she prepared to leave for her all-girls secondary school, glancing at Zayn with a gentle smile, unaware of how much he tried to hide his secret feelings and differences.
Aisha, the eldest, 23, dressed in a professional blouse and skirt, was preparing for work at EcoTech Solutions, a medium-sized tech company in Lagos. She paused to make sure her siblings were all ready, adjusting Fatima's hijab with a sisterly tug and patting Zayn's head.
Khadija, meanwhile, tended to the home with quiet efficiency, a motherly hum in her throat. Her eyes softened as she watched her children move through their morning routines. She carried the warmth of the family but upheld the rules of a strict Muslim household—discipline, modesty, and obedience.
Zayn slipped into his school uniform, a white shirt and navy trousers, and carefully adjusted his shoes. He avoided looking at the mirror, afraid of the small smile that appeared every time he thought of how different he felt from the other boys. His heart thumped as he grabbed his bag and whispered goodbye to his sisters. At all-boysschool, he would have to be careful. No one could ever know the truth about him.
Breakfast was quiet, filled with small prayers and murmurs about schoolwork, university, and deadlines. Zainab reminded Fatima to finish her homework, Abdul Musa reminded them of manners and discipline, and Zayn kept silent, feeling the heavy weight of being the youngest, the only boy, and the one hiding a secret that could never see the light of day.the apartment buzzed with the familiar rhythm of middle-class life in Lagos: Fatima and Zayn heading to their separate schools, Zainab already gone on her way to university, Aisha grabbing her briefcase and slipping out for work, and Khadija tidying the apartment before her own quiet prayer.
Should I continue the novel or not?
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