Matan Asokoroo Book Compeleted

Description

THE ONLY FREE PAGE - EPISODE 1

An extraordinarily beautiful room. The moment you see it, you recognize an office because of its setup: a long, ultra-soft couch with throw pillows, a magnificent desk equipped with a desktop computer, a keyboard, and other accessories, and a gorgeous bookshelf filled with various books. The room is cool, with air conditioning gently blowing. A woman who looks to be around 35 or 36 years old sits on the office couch. She is dressed luxuriously, her legs crossed and slightly swaying. Her feet are adorned with red local henna, and she wears simple, unembellished orange Hermes sandals, paired with a matching orange Hermes handbag. She is wearing an expensive Ankara gown covered in intricate stonework, along with a large headscarf that clearly cost a fortune. In her hand, she clicks away on an iPhone 12 Pro Max, a gentle smile on her face highlighting her beauty and the radiant glow of her chocolate skin—the glow of luxury and comfort.

Hearing the door open, she raises her head to look. A chocolate-skinned doctor enters, wearing a white lab coat. She looks like a Black American woman, dressed in a stunning half-gown with red high heels beneath her lab coat. In her hand, she holds a stylish pad attached to a specialized pen meant for writing on the iPad. She smiles, closes the door behind her, and walks over to her desk. Putting on her white glasses before sitting down, she taps her pad, looks up at the woman with a bright smile, and says, "Hello, Mrs. Bakori right?"

The woman nods and says, "yes."

The doctor picks up her pad, pushes her chair back, walks around the front of the table, and sits on the one-seater couch facing the woman. Crossing her legs as well, she rests the pad on her lap and says, "This is your first time in our facility right?"

The woman nods and replies, "Right."

Nodding in satisfaction, the doctor says, "My name is Dr. Elizabeth Matthew Browns, I am the Psychotherapist of this facility. Before we start, I want to assure you that anything we discuss here is strictly confidential. All your information and your identity are very safe with us here, so feel free to talk to us, talk to me, your Doctor. I am a counselor, a consultant, a therapist, and so much more. So, Mrs. Bakori..." She pauses, holding her pad and pen firmly, lifts her head, looks at the woman, and says, "I want to know you better. Tell me who you are."

She shifts her position, pauses thoughtfully for a moment, and says, "My name is Hassana Lawal Bakori. We are twins; I have a twin sister, Hussaina, but she is not in Nigeria—she lives in Dubai. I am 35 years old, and I am married to Alhaji Alhassan Bakori." She falls silent.

Glancing at her iPad, the doctor asks, "What about kids? Your record here says you have children. Is that right?"

Nodding, she replies, "Oh yes, I have two children, boys—Khalid and Khalil. They are twins, currently in boarding school. They are 14 years old, both in SS2."

Calmly, the doctor asks, "Which means you only gave birth once? How long have you been married?"

"Fifteen years," she replies evenly.

Softly, the doctor asks, "Why? Why did you stop having children? Were there health complications, or did you simply not want more?"

Smiling slightly, she answers, "My husband doesn't want many children, which is why I didn't have any more."

Smiling, the doctor asks, "So, Mrs. Bakori, why are you here? What do you want to discuss with me? How can I be of help to you?" She speaks calmly to help her patient feel more relaxed and trusting.

Slowly shifting her position, the woman puts her phone aside, crosses her arms over her chest, lets out a sigh, and says, "It's about my husband."

The doctor nods, signaling her to continue. After another brief pause without any pressure from the doctor, she slowly raises her head and says, "I don't have feelings for my husband! Absolutely zero love in my heart for him, not even a single drop! He doesn't appeal to me! I don't find him attractive! I don't find him sexy! I have no desire for him! I don't want him to touch me! It's not that I don't have sexual desires—no, I do, but whenever he comes near me to intimate, I feel deeply annoyed. I completely hate for him to touch me, let alone anything else happening between us. I don't know why I am like this. I need help, serious help."

The doctor watches her intently throughout her speech. Once she finishes, the doctor jots a few notes on her pad, looks up, and asks softly, "Would you like some coffee, tea, or water?" (It is the facility's custom to offer every visitor one of these three).

She shakes her head and says, "No, I'm good, thank you."

The doctor nods and asks, "Does your husband have any terrible habits? Does he mistreat you or do things you dislike?"

Slowly shaking her head, she says, "Not really. It's just that my husband constantly belittles me. He shuts me down whenever I talk or even when I'm speaking somewhere near him, even if I'm not talking to him."

"Does that upset you?" the doctor probes.

Pausing to look at the doctor, she replies softly, "Yes, it upsets me. It breaks my heart."

"Do you think that is why you no longer have feelings for him?" asks the doctor.

She stays silent for nearly three minutes while the doctor watches her closely. Taking a deep breath, she says, "I know I hate it when my husband belittles me—in front of my domestic staff, my children, he will just shut me down. If I express an opinion on something, he will say I don't know what I'm talking about or that I'm incapable. I know it's very annoying, but I don't think that's why I stopped loving him. No! I don't think so." She finishes quietly.

Adjusting her seat, the doctor asks, "And what do you think made you lose feelings for your husband, Mrs. Bakori?"

She hesitates, gasping, "I... I... I..." Her voice begins to break severely.

Sensing this, the doctor says, "Take a deep breath, Mrs. Bakori."

As if waiting for permission, she takes a deep breath and lets it out.

"Are you ready? Shall we continue?" asks the doctor.

Nodding softly, she says, "Yes, Doctor, I am ready."

Nodding back, the doctor says, "Good. I asked you a question: why do you think you no longer have feelings for your husband?"

Softly, she replies, "Because I feel like he doesn't love me either. He doesn't love me."

The doctor pauses, noticing her eyes turning red. "Did you have a love marriage or an arranged marriage?"

"A love marriage," she answers quietly.

"Then why do you think he doesn't love you now?"

Pausing, she says, "Doctor, my husband doesn't know what it means to comfort a woman, and he doesn't know how to apologize. If I fall terribly ill, this man will not even stand up from where he is, let alone come over, lift me, and tell me sorry. Instead, he will just look at me, turn away, and say I lack mental stability and that I will eventually kill myself to give him peace of mind. If I break down, he won't say sorry. If my head aches, he won't say sorry. We have family doctors; whenever you have a problem, you call them and they bring medicine. But he will never ask me if I've taken my medicine, how I'm feeling, whether I've eaten or not. When it comes to me and my life, this man simply doesn't care. I loved my husband, which is why I married him. But this habit of his—his coldness, his lack of care or concern, his absolute indifference—made my heart lose all love for him. Why should I care for someone who doesn't care about my health? There was a time I had a high fever; the doctor had to set up an IV drip for me, and he walked out of the bedroom saying he couldn't sleep near me because I smelled like injections and medicine. Sometimes he goes to work and doesn't even bother to check on me. Doctor, do you know what..."

She stops to quickly wipe away a hot tear that escapes, then smiles and says, "Don't tell me I'm crying."

"Oh yes, you are," the doctor says softly, turning to grab a box of tissues and handing it to her.

She takes it gently, places it on her face, and wipes away the streaming tears while smiling at the same time. "Doctor, I am a very, very strong woman. You rarely see me cry. Even him—I don't think I've ever cried over the things he does to me. I am too strong to cry for him. But I don't know why I'm crying now. Why? Why am I crying? Look at what Baban Khalid is doing to my confidence and self-esteem." She wipes her tears while smiling, while the doctor watches and takes note of everything. Anyone could tell she is deeply hurt. Her heart is filled with sorrow and pain, yet she wears that mask of a strong woman.

Women! We go through a lot!! the doctor thinks to herself.

Seeing that her tears refuse to stop while she tries to smile through them, the doctor speaks with a heart-soothing voice: "Mrs. Bakori."

Slowly lifting her tear-stained face, she replies, "Yes?"

Softly, the doctor says, "Let them out. Cry to me. Cry for me. Cry all your problems out. It's part of the psychotherapy. Cry. Go ahead and cry."

With stubbornness and bitterness, she snaps, "No, Doctor, why should I cry over Baban Khalid? Why should I keep crying over a man who doesn't care about me, who doesn't care about my pain? Why? I swear, he is not worth..."

Suddenly, a sob catches in her throat, cutting off the rest of her words entirely.

The doctor turns and hands her the entire tissue box. She takes it, pulls out sheets, and covers her face, crying openly as she speaks: "When the children come home for holidays, I'm even afraid to speak to them or engage in casual conversation if their father is around, because he will belittle me. You know young boys lack wisdom and maturity compared to girls; when their father belittles me, they laugh out loud. But I never show them that it hurts me—I just smile and leave the area, and he takes them and goes out. I am his only wife; I can't even say he treats me this way because of another woman, and he doesn't womanize either. He has no time for women; he's just a recluse obsessed with making money. Accumulating wealth is all he has on his mind. He only stays home on weekends, and even then, not every weekend. On weekdays, he comes back late at night. I don't lack anything material—what I lack is his affection, his care, and him showing that he cares about me. These are the things my heart desires, but I don't get them from my husband. So what is the point? That's why I don't love him, I don't desire him, and I don't want him to approach me."

After crying continuously for about six minutes, she thoroughly wipes her face, looks at the doctor, forces a smile, and says, "Don't mind me, Doctor. I'm not the crying type, so I don't even know why I cried. Well, now you've heard my issue. I don't love my husband because he doesn't love me either. I saw an advert for your facility online. You are foreigners, and psychotherapy is your specialty. People with problems come to you so you can help them with their issues. After paying all that huge money for consultation, I hope I'll find a cure for my problem. Make me love my husband back."

Smiling gently at her words, the doctor says, "I will help you, Mrs. Bakori, but you have to be willing to help yourself."

She nods in agreement.

The doctor continues, "First of all, I want to ask you one question that will help me find a solution: Was your husband like this when you married him? Was this how he behaved when you were dating?"

Quickly shaking her head, she says, "No, he wasn't like this. When we were courting, I swear, if I even had a mild fever, he would start acting like he had a fever too. He would get so worried and anxious, no joking matter. Everything changed when I gave birth to our twin boys and he started making crazy money. You know he's an engineer—he deals in construction, building, and roads. Right now, he owns over ten massive companies. He gets major government contracts for building roads and crazy structures. In all of Nigeria, there is no company that rivals his when it comes to civil engineering and construction. Even the Nigerian government values him for his skill and talent. When he made all that bastard money, he suddenly changed because he realized he had become a hot cake, so he wanted to treat me like a hot cake too. He doesn't pay attention to me, though I lack nothing. Every month, huge sums of money drop into my account as monthly allowance. All kinds of food items and luxury goods you can think of are in my house. I am too proud to sit and cry over material things; he knows me well. Even before he made his fortune—though his money now far exceeds my father's—my father is the Nigerian Ambassador to Thailand, and my father was one of the key people who signed off on his rise to success and prominence. So what can he tell me?"

The doctor falls silent, watching her. One clear observation about this new patient is that she is arrogant and full of pride. In this kind of case involving her husband, one of them has to humble themselves and climb down before she can get what she truly wants: care and affection. Ah, working in a hospital, you see different patients every day, she thinks.

Taking a breath, the doctor says, "Mrs. Bakori, I think the first thing your marriage to Mr. Bakori is lacking is communication, and that's the first thing we are going to work on. Now, I will give you one week. Your next appointment will be this exact same day next week. But during these 7 days, I want you to try to establish communication between you and your husband. When he comes back from work, sit down, chat with him, or help him with his bath."

Shaking her head vigorously, she objects, "I just pack his food and take it upstairs to his room because he can't come down to the dining room. I drop it off and leave before he starts criticizing me. After a while, I go back up to collect the empty plates and leave. I'm the only one who enters his room, and then I go off to my own room to sleep. Mornings are the same. I don't meddle in his affairs, and he doesn't meddle in mine. Everyone minds their business."

The doctor stays silent, watching her, then says quietly, "Okay, starting today, you have to change that. When you take him his food, sit down with him and have a pleasant conversation."

"Conversation!" she exclaims, raising her voice slightly. "The moment I start telling him a story, he will tell me I'm wrong. You really don't know this man, Doctor. He is impossible! And I will never humiliate myself by throwing myself at him."

Shaking her head, the doctor responds, "Mrs. Bakori, the way you are living with your husband isn't even a marriage, and you are so damn hurt while pretending to be happy. If you value and respect your own happiness, you need to drop this mentality and work things out between you two. There is nothing wrong with your husband seeing your weak side. There is nothing wrong with him seeing you cry or seeing your distress. Even if he laughs at you, the joke is on him, because the two of you are one. There is nothing wrong with showing your husband that you aren't as tough and harsh as you pretend to be. Deep down, you are as fragile as a little baby who needs love and support to light up her day. Let me tell you this: the reason you brought yourself to this facility is because you know the burden you've placed on yourself has become too heavy, and you are on the verge of breaking. You needed help. So I want you to drop all this acting, listen to me, and do as I say. I am your doctor."

The doctor speaks with a firmness that commands the patient's attention. She then adds, "What I want you to do starting today is no more dropping off food and running away. Take it to him, sit there, help him shower so he can get dressed and eat. If possible, feed him. Start a conversation—a respectful conversation. If he belittles you, don't get discouraged; continue without showing anger or offense. Eventually, he will grow tired of it and actually listen to you. If he belittles you today, tomorrow, the day after, eventually he will stop. Do this for a week. When you come back next week, you will tell me how it goes, and we will move to the next step. Understood?"

Slowly, she nods.

Smiling, the doctor says, "If that's the case, we've come to the end of our session. See you next week."

Smiling faintly, she stands up and adjusts her headscarf. The doctor watches her leave. The woman is undeniably attractive—she has gorgeous curves, a full figure, ample bust, and healthy, non-emaciated flesh. Her dark skin has a radiant glow, and she wears intricate red henna on her hands and feet. You can tell she is the quintessential high-class Alhaji's wife who takes immaculate care of herself. Yet, her rigid mindset prevents her from enjoying life the way she should.

She picks up her handbag and phone, turns to the doctor, says "Thanks," and walks out with an air of absolute authority and grace. A true Hajiya through and through, dripping with wealth.

Arriving at the facility's premises, she heads toward a black SUV that looks brand new. As she approaches the vehicle, she stops dead in her tracks, her face twisting into a furious scowl, completely erasing any trace of her recent tears. She turns back to look at the hospital building, her eyes still reddened and showing traces of crying.

A tall young man is standing near a sugarcane vendor. He is wearing an ash-colored shadda tunic down to his knees, paired with black trousers that reach his ankles, and rubber slippers. He is tall and slightly built, with a fair complexion and curly, slightly blonde-tinted hair—not naturally black, but unkempt—giving him the distinct look of a Fulani nomad. He has sparse, blonde facial hair. He holds a piece of sugarcane, chewing on it while chatting with the vendor who is slicing up more sticks with a knife and bagging them. The boy looks no older than 25 or 26.

She lets out a sharp, venomous hiss, as if she choked on her own frustration and died. This village boy of a driver that Baban Khalid brought for me is the absolute worst driver I've ever had in my life! He's dirty, he's a rustic villager, and she cannot fathom why on earth Baban Khalid is treating her this way. He banned her from driving and saddled her with a village boy who can't even read. She doesn't even know where Baban Khalid dug him up from—he only brought him a month ago after her previous professional driver had to return to his village to care for a sick mother. Her former driver always wore a suit and a wristwatch, whereas this local bumpkin can't even read the alphabet from A to Z. She wonders if Baban Khalid did this deliberately just to spite her.

Feeling her blood boiling, she pulls her phone out of her bag and dials Murtala the driver's number.

Murtala is standing by the roadside chatting with the sugarcane vendor when his phone starts ringing. He panically plunges his hand into his trousers and pulls out a cheap Techno phone. He specifically saved Hajiya's number under the letter S and Alhaji's under A so he could easily identify who is calling. Seeing her name pop up on the screen, he slaps his hand to his head in sheer panic. In his heavy village Hausa accent, he gasps, "I am ruined! I am finished, Hajiya!"

Turning around in a frantic dash, he spots her standing by the hospital. With frantic speed, he plunges his hand into his pocket, pulls out a 500-naira note, shoves it at the sugarcane vendor, and stutters, "Here, take this, Hajiya has come out! Today I am done for!" Without waiting for a response, he snatches the bag of sugarcane and bolts.

"Your change, you left your change!" the vendor calls out.

"Keep it!" Murtala yells as he dashes across the street and rushes into the hospital premises, all while she glares at him with murderous eyes.

Reaching her without a moment's hesitation, he drops straight to his knees in front of her. "Hajiya, please forgive me! I swear I know you told me to wait in the car when you came out. I am begging for your forgiveness, Hajiya! May Allah cool your temper, may Allah soothe your shoulders, I am begging you, Hajiya!"

Furious enough to kick him aside, she restrains herself and says coldly, "My friend, will you stand up and open the car for me?"

"Eh, Hajiya, what did you say?" he stammers frantically.

She squeezes her eyes shut in deep annoyance, remembering that he doesn't understand English.

Lifting his head to look at her expression, he says desperately, "For the sake of God, please forgive me, Hajiya. I swear I only went to buy sugarcane for you!" He holds out the bag of sugarcane.

Opening her eyes, she snaps at him in a harsh shout, "Murtala, get up and open the car for me right now!"

Startled out of his wits, he scrambles to his feet, dropping the bag of sugarcane so that the pieces scatter everywhere on the ground. She glares at him with utter disgust. Jumping up quickly, he shoves his hand into his pocket, pulls out a flashy car key, and presses the lock button. Before opening the driver's side door, he bows his head and says, "May Allah cool Hajiya's anger. I am begging you, mother of my master, may your journey be peaceful, my mistress. Get in, let's go."

Mtswww! She lets out a miserable hiss, turns around, and climbs slowly into the car, her head throbbing painfully.

Murtala shuts the door. He glances down at the scattered sugarcane on the ground, desperately wishing he could bend down and pick it up, but the terror of Hajiya's wrath stops him. He opens the front passenger door, climbs inside, pulls the door shut, and fastens his seatbelt. Leaning backward through the gap between the seats, he looks at her bowed head as she nervously taps away on her phone.

Softly, he murmurs, "May Allah cool Hajiya's anger."

She raises her head and fixes him with her bloodshot eyes, which still bear the heavy traces of her crying. Just as he is about to offer another apology, the sight of her red eyes stops him short.

"Hajiya, did you cry? Innalillahi, what happened to you? Did someone do something to you in that hospital? Who upset you, tell me so I can go and teach them a lesson—I swear I'll ruin them! Who was it, Hajiya?"

Seeing how genuinely worried he looks on his face, a flicker of comfort touches her heart. Making a slight face of annoyance—half-wanting him to shut up and half-exhausted—she says, "I'm just tired, Murtala. Just take me home so I can rest."

Quickly turning back around, he starts the car, steps on the accelerator, and says...

Summary

In Episode 1 of The Only Free Page, we are introduced to Mrs. Hassana Lawal Bakori, a wealthy, elegant 35-year-old woman visiting a high-end psychotherapy clinic. During her consultation with Dr. Elizabeth Matthew Browns, Hassana reveals the deep emotional crisis plaguing her marriage to her husband, Alhaji Alhassan Bakori. Despite living a life of extreme luxury—her husband is a multi-millionaire construction mogul—Hassana feels utterly emotionally starved, neglected, and constantly belittled by him. She confesses that she has completely lost romantic feelings or desire for him due to his cold indifference during illnesses and his chronic habit of demeaning her. Dr. Elizabeth diagnoses a critical breakdown in communication and challenges Hassana to change her passive-aggressive routine by actively engaging with her husband over the coming week. Following her session, Hassana leaves the clinic and encounters her clumsy, rustic village driver, Murtala, whose awkward antics provide a touch of comic relief and further highlight the frustrations of her daily life.

Comments

This opening episode effectively establishes a compelling contrast between material wealth and emotional emptiness. Hassana represents a common archetype in contemporary fiction: the affluent housewife who has everything money can buy yet suffers from profound loneliness and psychological neglect. The author skillfully builds sympathy for her through her vulnerabilities, while simultaneously acknowledging her pride and high-bred arrogance. Dr. Elizabeth serves as a grounded, insightful therapist whose advice pushes Hassana toward accountability rather than self-pity. Additionally, the introduction of Murtala injects a dose of cultural humor and lightens the heavy emotional atmosphere of the therapy session, creating a well-rounded and engaging narrative flow.

Conclusions

The first episode sets a solid foundation for a deep psychological and domestic drama. It highlights how financial success and social status cannot substitute for genuine emotional connection, mutual respect, and basic empathy in a marriage. Hassana’s journey toward self-awareness and improved communication is poised to be the central conflict of the story, promising character growth and inevitable marital confrontation in subsequent episodes.

Keywords

• Psychotherapy
• Emotional Neglect
• Wealth and Isolation
• Marital Communication
• Domestic Drama
• Hausa Fiction
• High-Class Lifestyle

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