The Meaning Behind “The Black Letter with White Writing”
When one says “The Black Letter with White Writing,” it refers to a deep, mysterious message that is hard to interpret — like when a good person is suddenly struck by misfortune.
I’m not saying this journey will be easy.
I’m not promising pure love.
I’m not saying there won’t be joy either.
Suffering, sadness, and worry are the things that have gathered to overshadow Aminatu’s happiness — the challenges of life after another life. Indeed, there will be tears, sorrow, and pain.
This is the story of Tafida, Rafi’a, Laila, Madina, Ramlee, Faruk, Amal, Kabir, and Aminatu.
The story of BAKAR WASIKA (The Black Letter) — a tale that touches the realities of a woman’s life, as well as that of her community and her parents.
I hope you’ll accept it like my other stories, even though I know it may not necessarily please you — because it’s not just about love. It’s about the struggles of life and the ups and downs of a refugee girl!
Where will she spend the night? Who will shelter her? How will she be understood enough for her worries to be lifted? Who will she cry to — her parents or her people?
How will her dreams come true?
Indeed, after hardship, there comes another hardship.
After pleasure, there is yet another trial.
And after pain, there is relief.
Truly, there is pain in living a life whose end you do not know. There is fear in a dream you cannot wake from. Where did it all begin? Where is the middle — and the end?
When will the suffering end? When will sadness fade? When will the tears stop? How long will the distress last?
Could it be that within life, there lies another life — and within that life, death?
BAKAR WASIKA is a fictional story like my other tales. You all know I never disappoint, right? 😉
This one will reach you beyond your expectations, in sha Allah.
However, it’s not free — it’s for sale.
But there are free pages (1–10) for those who want a taste before paying.
And as you all know, I don’t edit my stories — so please bear with any errors you find.
P.O.V. means Point of View.
The Beginning of Aminatu’s Story
A young girl of about seventeen stood by a classroom window, carrying a tray of snacks, peeking inside at students receiving a lesson.
The way she focused on the class made it seem as though she was part of the students herself.
Modern education was one of the things that deeply fascinated Aminatu, yet it was the one thing she lacked — something she had replaced with hawking.
At this point, she had accepted that she had no place in modern education, though education itself had found a place in her heart.
“Give me ten pieces,”
one of the students whispered, afraid the teacher might hear her. She then threw an old ten-naira note at Aminatu, pretending not to care, and returned her attention to the lesson.
Aminatu bent down, set her tray on the ground, picked up the money, tucked it inside her headscarf, then handed over the snacks. The girl grabbed them quickly and hid them.
That was when the teacher noticed Aminatu staring at the board. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen hawkers around the school — some even sneaking into classrooms when teachers weren’t around.
But to stand and follow the lessons seriously like Aminatu? That was rare. Even the students didn’t pay as much attention as she did, even though they were the ones actually enrolled.
“Tch! If this were not a village school, where else would this happen? Imagine hawkers entering a school compound freely, with no fence or proper security!”
the teacher said angrily, expressing his frustration at how education was being neglected in the area.
Hearing that, Aminatu’s heart began to race. She quietly stepped back, not wanting any trouble, and sneaked toward the school gate where other hawkers waited for students to close so they could buy from them.
Aminatu’s life revolved around religious learning and hawking. Her father was a farmer, like most men in their village, Galadi, and there was little else to rely on apart from the goods she sold.
By day, she hawked snacks to the primary school; at night, she helped her mother cook tuwo; and in the morning, she sold koko (pap).
Half her life had been spent hawking — yet she never complained.
She was the only daughter her mother had after seven sons.
Many girls in Galadi shared the same fate — few cared about Western education; hawking brought them everything, even household items for marriage.
Galadi is a community in Shinkafi Local Government Area of Zamfara State, Northwestern Nigeria.
It’s a fertile land of farmers — when you mention Shinkafi, everyone knows it’s an agricultural hub filled with good people.
The LGA covers an area of 674 square kilometers, with a population of 177,811, mostly Hausa and Fulani Muslims.
Its major economic activities include farming, hunting, trading, animal rearing, and leatherwork.
When the school closed, Aminatu sold the remaining snacks and placed the tray on her head, walking home with her friend Rumaisa. They parted ways at a crossroads and each went home.
“Assalamu alaikum, Inna!”
she greeted cheerfully as she entered.
“Wa alaikumus salam, my blessed daughter,”
Inna replied with a warm smile. Sanusi, her brother, widened his eyes and splashed water from his washing bowl.
“What about us, Inna’s sons? We don’t get such greetings?”
Aminatu laughed heartily, set down her tray, handed the money to Inna, and helped her pound fura while chatting about her sales.
“Aminatu the hardworking one!”
Sanusi teased again, always finding joy in joking with her.
“I work hard, unlike you — you can’t even farm!”
she shot back playfully.
Their mother, Inna, laughed.
“Tell him, my dear daughter. He’s too lazy for farm work!”
Seeing how his sister glowed at the praise, Sanusi teased again,
“Eheh, Miss Hardworking! You think you’re all that, eh?”
“Inna, see? He’s calling me names again!”
Aminatu pouted, pretending to be upset.
Inna scolded lightly,
“Sanusi, leave her alone, you’re disturbing us.”
Sanusi laughed and went to bathe outside in the small open bathroom.
Aminatu, though the youngest, was not like other spoiled children — she was industrious and obedient, though a little emotional.
Later, when her elder brother Amadu returned from the market, the mood changed.
He was a serious man — one whose presence silenced even Aminatu.
As he parked his old Honda motorcycle, Inna asked,
“You’re back?”
“Yes, Inna. How’s everything?”
“All fine. How was the market?”
He sighed heavily.
“The market was fine, Alhamdulillah, but this country keeps getting worse. Prices keep rising. If you don’t have a strong business now, trading is impossible.”
Sanusi joined in,
“It’s the leaders, no compassion — they only care about themselves.”
Amadu nodded.
“True. People live like animals now. Even animals are treated better. I don’t know when Nigeria will ever change.”
Description
The Meaning Behind “The Black Letter with White Writing”
When one says “The Black Letter with White Writing,” it refers to a deep, mysterious message that is hard to interpret — like when a good person is suddenly struck by misfortune.
I’m not saying this journey will be easy.
I’m not promising pure love.
I’m not saying there won’t be joy either.
Suffering, sadness, and worry are the things that have gathered to overshadow Aminatu’s happiness — the challenges of life after another life. Indeed, there will be tears, sorrow, and pain.
This is the story of Tafida, Rafi’a, Laila, Madina, Ramlee, Faruk, Amal, Kabir, and Aminatu.
The story of BAKAR WASIKA (The Black Letter) — a tale that touches the realities of a woman’s life, as well as that of her community and her parents.
I hope you’ll accept it like my other stories, even though I know it may not necessarily please you — because it’s not just about love. It’s about the struggles of life and the ups and downs of a refugee girl!
Where will she spend the night? Who will shelter her? How will she be understood enough for her worries to be lifted? Who will she cry to — her parents or her people?
How will her dreams come true?
Indeed, after hardship, there comes another hardship.
After pleasure, there is yet another trial.
And after pain, there is relief.
Truly, there is pain in living a life whose end you do not know. There is fear in a dream you cannot wake from. Where did it all begin? Where is the middle — and the end?
When will the suffering end? When will sadness fade? When will the tears stop? How long will the distress last?
Could it be that within life, there lies another life — and within that life, death?
BAKAR WASIKA is a fictional story like my other tales. You all know I never disappoint, right? 😉
This one will reach you beyond your expectations, in sha Allah.
However, it’s not free — it’s for sale.
But there are free pages (1–10) for those who want a taste before paying.
And as you all know, I don’t edit my stories — so please bear with any errors you find.
P.O.V. means Point of View.
The Beginning of Aminatu’s Story
A young girl of about seventeen stood by a classroom window, carrying a tray of snacks, peeking inside at students receiving a lesson.
The way she focused on the class made it seem as though she was part of the students herself.
Modern education was one of the things that deeply fascinated Aminatu, yet it was the one thing she lacked — something she had replaced with hawking.
At this point, she had accepted that she had no place in modern education, though education itself had found a place in her heart.
“Give me ten pieces,”
one of the students whispered, afraid the teacher might hear her. She then threw an old ten-naira note at Aminatu, pretending not to care, and returned her attention to the lesson.
Aminatu bent down, set her tray on the ground, picked up the money, tucked it inside her headscarf, then handed over the snacks. The girl grabbed them quickly and hid them.
That was when the teacher noticed Aminatu staring at the board. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen hawkers around the school — some even sneaking into classrooms when teachers weren’t around.
But to stand and follow the lessons seriously like Aminatu? That was rare. Even the students didn’t pay as much attention as she did, even though they were the ones actually enrolled.
“Tch! If this were not a village school, where else would this happen? Imagine hawkers entering a school compound freely, with no fence or proper security!”
the teacher said angrily, expressing his frustration at how education was being neglected in the area.
Hearing that, Aminatu’s heart began to race. She quietly stepped back, not wanting any trouble, and sneaked toward the school gate where other hawkers waited for students to close so they could buy from them.
Aminatu’s life revolved around religious learning and hawking. Her father was a farmer, like most men in their village, Galadi, and there was little else to rely on apart from the goods she sold.
By day, she hawked snacks to the primary school; at night, she helped her mother cook tuwo; and in the morning, she sold koko (pap).
Half her life had been spent hawking — yet she never complained.
She was the only daughter her mother had after seven sons.
Many girls in Galadi shared the same fate — few cared about Western education; hawking brought them everything, even household items for marriage.
Galadi is a community in Shinkafi Local Government Area of Zamfara State, Northwestern Nigeria.
It’s a fertile land of farmers — when you mention Shinkafi, everyone knows it’s an agricultural hub filled with good people.
The LGA covers an area of 674 square kilometers, with a population of 177,811, mostly Hausa and Fulani Muslims.
Its major economic activities include farming, hunting, trading, animal rearing, and leatherwork.
When the school closed, Aminatu sold the remaining snacks and placed the tray on her head, walking home with her friend Rumaisa. They parted ways at a crossroads and each went home.
“Assalamu alaikum, Inna!”
she greeted cheerfully as she entered.
“Wa alaikumus salam, my blessed daughter,”
Inna replied with a warm smile. Sanusi, her brother, widened his eyes and splashed water from his washing bowl.
“What about us, Inna’s sons? We don’t get such greetings?”
Aminatu laughed heartily, set down her tray, handed the money to Inna, and helped her pound fura while chatting about her sales.
“Aminatu the hardworking one!”
Sanusi teased again, always finding joy in joking with her.
“I work hard, unlike you — you can’t even farm!”
she shot back playfully.
Their mother, Inna, laughed.
“Tell him, my dear daughter. He’s too lazy for farm work!”
Seeing how his sister glowed at the praise, Sanusi teased again,
“Eheh, Miss Hardworking! You think you’re all that, eh?”
“Inna, see? He’s calling me names again!”
Aminatu pouted, pretending to be upset.
Inna scolded lightly,
“Sanusi, leave her alone, you’re disturbing us.”
Sanusi laughed and went to bathe outside in the small open bathroom.
Aminatu, though the youngest, was not like other spoiled children — she was industrious and obedient, though a little emotional.
Later, when her elder brother Amadu returned from the market, the mood changed.
He was a serious man — one whose presence silenced even Aminatu.
As he parked his old Honda motorcycle, Inna asked,
“You’re back?”
“Yes, Inna. How’s everything?”
“All fine. How was the market?”
He sighed heavily.
“The market was fine, Alhamdulillah, but this country keeps getting worse. Prices keep rising. If you don’t have a strong business now, trading is impossible.”
Sanusi joined in,
“It’s the leaders, no compassion — they only care about themselves.”
Amadu nodded.
“True. People live like animals now. Even animals are treated better. I don’t know when Nigeria will ever change.”