(Resolution)

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The sun barely rose before Munira was already awake. She hadn’t slept much — not since the scandal broke. Her phone sat silent on the wooden table, but she refused to touch it. The last time she checked it, she had seen her name trending for all the wrong reasons.

The lies were everywhere: screenshots of fake messages, edited videos, blog posts labeling her a "desperate gold digger" and "homewrecker." No one cared that she was pregnant, or that she had loved Amir long before the world knew his surname held weight.

She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and turned as Amir entered, carrying two small travel bags.

“We have to leave,” he said quietly.

“Where?” she asked, her voice almost broken.

“Kaduna. Jamila arranged a guest house — very discreet. She says it’s safer there while we file the lawsuit.”

Munira hesitated. “You’re serious about this case?”

“I’m serious about everything,” he said. “About you. About our child. About fighting back.”

She looked into his eyes, saw the fire behind them. Not the spoiled, obedient son of a politician — but a man trying to fix his past.

She nodded. “Then let’s go.”

***

By afternoon, they were on the road — the car quiet except for the sound of the engine and Munira’s soft breathing. Her hand rested on her belly. It was no longer about saving her name — it was about protecting her child’s future.

When they reached the small house outside Kaduna city, it was already dark. A compound surrounded by trees and a rusted gate. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was safe.

That night, they sat by the dim oil lamp in the living room, sipping warm kunu.

Amir took her hand gently.

“I want to do this again,” he said.

Munira looked confused. “Do what?”

“Marry you. Publicly. Legally. In front of the world. No more hiding.”

Her lips trembled. “But we’re already married.”

“I know. But this time, I want to shout it. I want everyone to know that I chose you. Not as a mistake. Not in secret. But as a man in love.”

Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. She nodded, unable to find the words.

***

Back in Kano, Alhaji Kabeer was far from celebrating. He sat in his study, reviewing the damage. His personal assistant, Bashir, stood nearby.

“Sir, the backlash is growing. The blog post was too aggressive. People are questioning it. Some are calling it a smear campaign.”

Kabeer glared. “Do you know how many elections I’ve won through scandal? Public sympathy fades.”

Bashir cleared his throat. “But sir… we may have a bigger problem.”

He handed him an envelope — unmarked, but official-looking.

Inside were copies of receipts, bank transactions, and audio transcripts — direct links tying Alhaji Kabeer’s name to bribery of bloggers and editors.

“What is this?” Kabeer asked sharply.

Bashir swallowed. “Evidence. Someone leaked it to Jamila.”

Alhaji Kabeer slammed the table. “Who?”

“No idea. It came anonymously.”

Attached was a note, printed in neat black ink:

*“Even kings have enemies.”*

***

In Kaduna, Jamila smiled as she read the documents. She knew this was her chance — not just to defend Munira, but to make a statement about justice.

That night, she filed a case in the Federal High Court:

*Defamation, misuse of public office, and media manipulation — against Alhaji Kabeer.*

The story broke within hours. Social media flipped. Hashtags changed from #ExposeMunira to #JusticeForMunira. The same voices that mocked her now demanded accountability.

Munira watched the coverage in silence. Amir stood behind her, hands resting on her shoulders.

“It’s starting,” he said.

“No,” she replied softly. “This is ending.”

But deep inside, both of them knew the truth:

Power does not fall without a fight.

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