By Aisha Mohammed Danpullo
We were sent to get cooking oil from a house nearby. My cousin and I wore a popular Malaysian Hijab with trimmed lace at the edges and a rope around the back. We were so excited to have a ram that year (I come from a humble background).
We were eager to watch the ram we had crowded around for days, feeding, watering and cleaning its poo. Finally, we were going to watch as it got slaughtered. I, for one, was most excited for the blood that would come gushing out as it took its last breath.
We went to the oil merchant’s house and met the husband, the head of the house with his kids around him, about to make his sacrifice. He was about to slaughter three fat fish. He had it held down by his eldest son as it squirmed just the way one would slaughter a ram.
The kids were all excited; the wife was humbled and a little bit ashamed, probably because of our presence, spilling the oil she measured with beer bottles serving as a measurement for a litre. It’s quite ironic because beers are banned in our part of the country, but somehow, the bottles are always found in every oil merchant’s shop, and their origin is never questioned.
The family generously offered us some, but we wouldn’t take it because there wasn’t enough for them to share.
Every year during Eid, I think of that family, wondering how they are doing and hoping life has become better for them and that they get to eat ram some year.
Aisha Danpullo wrote from Kano via aishamohammaddanpullo@gmail.com.