What a place! Late afternoon — when the sunlight is starting to thin and preparing to fall into evening — the deepening dusk of Maghrib (sunset) was creeping in, replacing the last traces of daylight the sun had left before it finally set. A collection of trees — tall and straight — mixed with grasses of different roots, came together to decorate the forest. It could be beautiful for a curious visitor who didn’t know what the forest held.
But for anyone who knew what it contained, it would be a place of dread, panic and alarm.
She ran as if escaping life and death, clutching a cloth to her chest; from a distance you could not tell what she held so tightly. Her feet were bare, her body without a shawl. Even though the town weather wasn’t hot, her lips were chapped and dry like a rock that had gone years without water. There was no sign she knew where to place her next step. Despite her terrible condition, she treated what she was holding with great, great care.
Without realizing it, she collided with something she couldn’t at first identify; the weight and force of it threw her to the ground and she let out a pitiful cry as blood began to flow from her side.
Only then did the thing she’d been clutching begin to cry too, startled by the fright.
It was a newborn baby, still raw and fragile — its spine perhaps not yet firm; its whole body covered in the gritty dirt of birth, as if the child had been born by the roadside two days ago and had never seen water, let alone a bath.
In the City of Kano — Dorayi Tinga Neighborhood
Around four in the afternoon on a Thursday in Dorayi Tinga, Kano, there’s a modest house on a short row of homes. At a glance you can tell they belong to people of limited means: the building materials, the lines of the houses, the lack of proper drainage, the rough wiring — everyone’s house shows where they stand. Each person keeps their courtyard how they can; some repair their place, some don’t. The small houses sit so close it looks like one might stand on another.
“Won’t you come out and do the errand I sent you? Or do you want the charcoal to finish first?” said an older young woman sitting in front of the small charcoal stove, holding a pestle and stirring, with a shallow silver plate of cornmeal porridge beside her.
A girl came out from a room behind the woman, holding her hijab in one hand and wiping tears with the other.
The woman looked at her and asked, “Why are you crying?”
Like someone waiting for a scolding, the girl answered, “It’s not Huzaifa — he…”
“Shh! Stop that crying. You always cry like you’re squeezing each other’s intestines. If I forbid you to go to where he is, you wouldn’t stay away. Take this money and go to Laure’s house. I gave you sixty in cash and forty in daddawa and a hundred-naira margarine; bring me the change. Hurry and cook that soup for Maghrib.”
The girl made a face and said, “Are we making soup from my crying today? Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.”
The woman watched her and, in a hard tone, said, “If I grind the tumbler and you don’t drink it, will you leave with your money or shall I shame you here?”
She bowed down, took the money, put on her hijab and headed for the door, thinking to herself that maybe today there would be nothing to eat — this porridge would be like a blessing.
The woman warned her, “If you have time, go and sit. Don’t rush to see what I’ll do to you. Or if you must follow the kids, don’t fool around in the street.”
Without more fuss she left, moving off with her head down.
Her friend Habiba’s house was next. She found Habiba’s mother in the courtyard having her hair done. Ruma knelt to greet her, then asked where Habiba was. Habiba came out smiling and asked, “Ruma, where are you going?”
Ruma, with urgency in her voice, said, “Please, Habiba, lend me your ‘Tayar Sani’ (a small gift or item), Mama sent me; I want to go quickly and come back.”
Habiba said, “Oh Ruma, you know Sani is only one piece — I won’t let you go waste it; between the two of us we’ll be three.”
Confidently Ruma said, “I swear she won’t waste it. Just lend it to me; I’ll hurry and come back.”
Habiba took down the small cushion from the chicken coop area in the little front room, handed Ruma the ‘Tayar Sani’ and said, “Please, Ruma, be careful. Don’t let anything happen to it. Hurry and come back.”
Ruma smiled, “Don’t worry. I’ll dash and be back. I want that little thing — it was left for me; I’m fond of it. You’ll see I’ll return.”
Habiba smiled, “Alright, hurry before he returns.”
Ruma touched the item and set off running like a boy, not stopping until she reached Laure’s house. She finished her shopping, came out and prepared the bundle to take home. There she saw some schoolmates at Hanne’s gate playing the marbles game; forgetting her mother’s warning, she set the bag of groceries and change nearby, then joined them in their play carrying the little cushion she’d borrowed.
Being skilled at distraction and playing, she quickly drew them into a rough game. The play got heated and turned into a fight. At Ruma’s place she struck one girl’s marble so hard it flew like a horse. With difficulty someone separated the fight. Ruma, angry, pinched and marked the children’s bodies, and when a man threatened to tell their parents she gave up the fight.
The girls who had been beaten, seeing their marbles broken, took the margarine Ruma had bought for her mother and grabbed the spare clothes she brought as change; they tore open the shopping bag and ran away. Ruma barely managed to salvage some items; the bag of porridge was torn and its contents spilled everywhere.
She gathered what was left and went home, worrying what lie to tell her mother to avoid a beating. She didn’t like upsetting her mother. At the same time she thought of the beating she would give Safiya if they met at school because of what had happened.
By the time Ruma reached home the call to Maghrib prayer had started at some mosques, and fear gripped her again.
She snuck in and peeked into the house, seeing her mother performing ablution; her mother glanced once and returned to her washing.
Carefully Ruma entered, hiding what remained of the shopping, then went to perform ablution too. She moved to the living room and stood behind her mother to join the prayer. When her mother finished and went out into the courtyard to check the items Ruma had brought, she saw the state of what Ruma had bought.
Her mother returned to the sitting room waiting for Ruma to finish prayer so she could chastise her, but Ruma refused to end her prayers; she stood in voluntary prayer without reason. Usually after the obligatory prayer her mother would also beat her, but today she was angry enough to add the voluntary prayer too.
When the mother saw that what Ruma had brought was incomplete, and that she had not finished the prayer, she grabbed her by the neck, pulled her into a seat, looked at her with a scowl and asked, “Which fellow’s house did you go to when I sent you?”
Terrified, Ruma shook her head, “Nowhere, Mama.”
“You’re lying. Tell me or I’ll twist your neck. I sent you since Asr but you came in at Maghrib — whose house did you go to?”
With darting eyes Ruma kept denying, “I swear, Mama, I didn’t go anywhere.”
In a rage the mother said, “You won’t tell me?”
“Mama, I swear it’s true.”
“Assalamu alaikum,” someone greeted from the courtyard.
The mother returned the greeting and the young man who had come in said, “Mama, I just returned.”
She replied, “Welcome.”
He looked at the mother standing over Ruma; Ruma’s eyes were wide as if she’d insulted a king.
“Mama, what happened?” he asked, wanting to know.
Annoyed, the mother said, “Because of this girl’s wickedness. She went to Laure’s house to buy ingredients after Asr but only came home now at Maghrib with no shopping and no explanation. I questioned her and she kept lying.”
He looked at Ruma and said, “You won’t say where you were? And where’s the change? You should have at least come home after spending; you’re used to that.”
With impudence Ruma spat out, “I don’t know. Who asked you to butt in? You think you’re a big man…”
At that, the mother slapped her hard until she thought her mouth would split.
She staggered back quickly, clutching her mouth, crying from the pain of that heavy blow.
He shook his head and said, “Mama, leave her. She has no shame; don’t trouble yourself. Let someone called Baba or Haidar come and accuse her if they like.”
Hearing that made Ruma panic. She begged, “Mama, truly I’m telling you the truth. The change fell on the way and I fell; the margarine broke. Please don’t tell them.”
“Really, Mama, she’s lying. You know her lies mean she won’t pray. Accuse her; let the one named Baba return and you’ll see.” The mother, satisfied, said, “Yes, that’s what should be done since she has no manners.”
He rolled his eyes at the mother and winked at Ruma. “Mama, you see, he’s smiling at me; please have patience.”
The mother dismissed her; she gave Huzaifa some money and he made some bargaining/sarcastic remark.
Ruma retreated to one side and lay down, her heart heavy with dread at what might happen if Baba or Haidar learned what she had done. Even if she drank palm wine, she would not be able to tell her mother the truth. She only prayed that God would hide her secret and that Huzaifa would persuade her mother not to tell Baba or Haidar.
While she was lost in thought she heard Mama and Huzaifa talking in the yard as if the argument hadn’t ended. They spoke while Mama kept preparing her stew. A greeting was heard again in the courtyard; Ruma trembled because their voices sounded so similar. She steadied hers
elf when she remembered the voice that had greeted earlier — it was not like Haidar’s; that one had a calm manner.
Description
The Forest at God’s Reserve (Daji Ajiyar Allah)
What a place! Late afternoon — when the sunlight is starting to thin and preparing to fall into evening — the deepening dusk of Maghrib (sunset) was creeping in, replacing the last traces of daylight the sun had left before it finally set. A collection of trees — tall and straight — mixed with grasses of different roots, came together to decorate the forest. It could be beautiful for a curious visitor who didn’t know what the forest held.
But for anyone who knew what it contained, it would be a place of dread, panic and alarm.
She ran as if escaping life and death, clutching a cloth to her chest; from a distance you could not tell what she held so tightly. Her feet were bare, her body without a shawl. Even though the town weather wasn’t hot, her lips were chapped and dry like a rock that had gone years without water. There was no sign she knew where to place her next step. Despite her terrible condition, she treated what she was holding with great, great care.
Without realizing it, she collided with something she couldn’t at first identify; the weight and force of it threw her to the ground and she let out a pitiful cry as blood began to flow from her side.
Only then did the thing she’d been clutching begin to cry too, startled by the fright.
It was a newborn baby, still raw and fragile — its spine perhaps not yet firm; its whole body covered in the gritty dirt of birth, as if the child had been born by the roadside two days ago and had never seen water, let alone a bath.
In the City of Kano — Dorayi Tinga Neighborhood
Around four in the afternoon on a Thursday in Dorayi Tinga, Kano, there’s a modest house on a short row of homes. At a glance you can tell they belong to people of limited means: the building materials, the lines of the houses, the lack of proper drainage, the rough wiring — everyone’s house shows where they stand. Each person keeps their courtyard how they can; some repair their place, some don’t. The small houses sit so close it looks like one might stand on another.
“Won’t you come out and do the errand I sent you? Or do you want the charcoal to finish first?” said an older young woman sitting in front of the small charcoal stove, holding a pestle and stirring, with a shallow silver plate of cornmeal porridge beside her.
A girl came out from a room behind the woman, holding her hijab in one hand and wiping tears with the other.
The woman looked at her and asked, “Why are you crying?”
Like someone waiting for a scolding, the girl answered, “It’s not Huzaifa — he…”
“Shh! Stop that crying. You always cry like you’re squeezing each other’s intestines. If I forbid you to go to where he is, you wouldn’t stay away. Take this money and go to Laure’s house. I gave you sixty in cash and forty in daddawa and a hundred-naira margarine; bring me the change. Hurry and cook that soup for Maghrib.”
The girl made a face and said, “Are we making soup from my crying today? Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.”
The woman watched her and, in a hard tone, said, “If I grind the tumbler and you don’t drink it, will you leave with your money or shall I shame you here?”
She bowed down, took the money, put on her hijab and headed for the door, thinking to herself that maybe today there would be nothing to eat — this porridge would be like a blessing.
The woman warned her, “If you have time, go and sit. Don’t rush to see what I’ll do to you. Or if you must follow the kids, don’t fool around in the street.”
Without more fuss she left, moving off with her head down.
Her friend Habiba’s house was next. She found Habiba’s mother in the courtyard having her hair done. Ruma knelt to greet her, then asked where Habiba was. Habiba came out smiling and asked, “Ruma, where are you going?”
Ruma, with urgency in her voice, said, “Please, Habiba, lend me your ‘Tayar Sani’ (a small gift or item), Mama sent me; I want to go quickly and come back.”
Habiba said, “Oh Ruma, you know Sani is only one piece — I won’t let you go waste it; between the two of us we’ll be three.”
Confidently Ruma said, “I swear she won’t waste it. Just lend it to me; I’ll hurry and come back.”
Habiba took down the small cushion from the chicken coop area in the little front room, handed Ruma the ‘Tayar Sani’ and said, “Please, Ruma, be careful. Don’t let anything happen to it. Hurry and come back.”
Ruma smiled, “Don’t worry. I’ll dash and be back. I want that little thing — it was left for me; I’m fond of it. You’ll see I’ll return.”
Habiba smiled, “Alright, hurry before he returns.”
Ruma touched the item and set off running like a boy, not stopping until she reached Laure’s house. She finished her shopping, came out and prepared the bundle to take home. There she saw some schoolmates at Hanne’s gate playing the marbles game; forgetting her mother’s warning, she set the bag of groceries and change nearby, then joined them in their play carrying the little cushion she’d borrowed.
Being skilled at distraction and playing, she quickly drew them into a rough game. The play got heated and turned into a fight. At Ruma’s place she struck one girl’s marble so hard it flew like a horse. With difficulty someone separated the fight. Ruma, angry, pinched and marked the children’s bodies, and when a man threatened to tell their parents she gave up the fight.
The girls who had been beaten, seeing their marbles broken, took the margarine Ruma had bought for her mother and grabbed the spare clothes she brought as change; they tore open the shopping bag and ran away. Ruma barely managed to salvage some items; the bag of porridge was torn and its contents spilled everywhere.
She gathered what was left and went home, worrying what lie to tell her mother to avoid a beating. She didn’t like upsetting her mother. At the same time she thought of the beating she would give Safiya if they met at school because of what had happened.
By the time Ruma reached home the call to Maghrib prayer had started at some mosques, and fear gripped her again.
She snuck in and peeked into the house, seeing her mother performing ablution; her mother glanced once and returned to her washing.
Carefully Ruma entered, hiding what remained of the shopping, then went to perform ablution too. She moved to the living room and stood behind her mother to join the prayer. When her mother finished and went out into the courtyard to check the items Ruma had brought, she saw the state of what Ruma had bought.
Her mother returned to the sitting room waiting for Ruma to finish prayer so she could chastise her, but Ruma refused to end her prayers; she stood in voluntary prayer without reason. Usually after the obligatory prayer her mother would also beat her, but today she was angry enough to add the voluntary prayer too.
When the mother saw that what Ruma had brought was incomplete, and that she had not finished the prayer, she grabbed her by the neck, pulled her into a seat, looked at her with a scowl and asked, “Which fellow’s house did you go to when I sent you?”
Terrified, Ruma shook her head, “Nowhere, Mama.”
“You’re lying. Tell me or I’ll twist your neck. I sent you since Asr but you came in at Maghrib — whose house did you go to?”
With darting eyes Ruma kept denying, “I swear, Mama, I didn’t go anywhere.”
In a rage the mother said, “You won’t tell me?”
“Mama, I swear it’s true.”
“Assalamu alaikum,” someone greeted from the courtyard.
The mother returned the greeting and the young man who had come in said, “Mama, I just returned.”
She replied, “Welcome.”
He looked at the mother standing over Ruma; Ruma’s eyes were wide as if she’d insulted a king.
“Mama, what happened?” he asked, wanting to know.
Annoyed, the mother said, “Because of this girl’s wickedness. She went to Laure’s house to buy ingredients after Asr but only came home now at Maghrib with no shopping and no explanation. I questioned her and she kept lying.”
He looked at Ruma and said, “You won’t say where you were? And where’s the change? You should have at least come home after spending; you’re used to that.”
With impudence Ruma spat out, “I don’t know. Who asked you to butt in? You think you’re a big man…”
At that, the mother slapped her hard until she thought her mouth would split.
She staggered back quickly, clutching her mouth, crying from the pain of that heavy blow.
He shook his head and said, “Mama, leave her. She has no shame; don’t trouble yourself. Let someone called Baba or Haidar come and accuse her if they like.”
Hearing that made Ruma panic. She begged, “Mama, truly I’m telling you the truth. The change fell on the way and I fell; the margarine broke. Please don’t tell them.”
“Really, Mama, she’s lying. You know her lies mean she won’t pray. Accuse her; let the one named Baba return and you’ll see.” The mother, satisfied, said, “Yes, that’s what should be done since she has no manners.”
He rolled his eyes at the mother and winked at Ruma. “Mama, you see, he’s smiling at me; please have patience.”
The mother dismissed her; she gave Huzaifa some money and he made some bargaining/sarcastic remark.
Ruma retreated to one side and lay down, her heart heavy with dread at what might happen if Baba or Haidar learned what she had done. Even if she drank palm wine, she would not be able to tell her mother the truth. She only prayed that God would hide her secret and that Huzaifa would persuade her mother not to tell Baba or Haidar.
While she was lost in thought she heard Mama and Huzaifa talking in the yard as if the argument hadn’t ended. They spoke while Mama kept preparing her stew. A greeting was heard again in the courtyard; Ruma trembled because their voices sounded so similar. She steadied hers
elf when she remembered the voice that had greeted earlier — it was not like Haidar’s; that one had a calm manner.