Literature

By Zaynab Abdool

It’s winter morning, a new day, and I’m awake, Alhamdulillah. When my foggy gaze fell upon the aesthetic rays of sunshine that sneaked through the holes in the window, surged past the transparent curtains, and stood grandly on my bedroom’s plain wall, I couldn’t help but admire its gracious beauty while my soul sent praises to the creator of man and nature. 

‘Zainabuwa, what on earth are you still doing in bed? Reincarnating?’         

A lusty yet irritating voice accompanied by a loud knock sailed me back from my small world of imagination. That was Husna, my new friend who just moved next door a month ago. The love we both had for certain things, such as the love for books, poetry, cats, henna and hijab, truly helped blow the flames of our friendship. So, we were on good terms.    

Stepping down from my bed, I yawned lazily, ignoring the annoying voice behind the closed door. After taking off my crystalline PJ’s, I slipped on a black gown and strolled across my room to get to the door. Glowering Husna was all I saw before I was kicked aside, and the next was the elegant Husna clad in a light blue hijab that complemented her black skin, cat-walking towards my bed while reciting a poem with the zestiest voice ever:

‘Habibi, you carried          

The weight of my poem         

Like pen amidst thy fingers,          

You stole my lines, stanzas         

And my entire muse         

With just a blink.’

After listening to those lines, I was shocked out of my wits. 

‘WTF! I’ve always thought you’re only into dark poetry! Don’t tell me you wrote that piece!”

‘Babe, forget about those dark kinds of stuff, I’m a phoenix now, and I’ve finally found him,’ she said happily with stars in her eyes.

‘Him? Who?’ I asked, confused.’ My knight mana,’ she replied with a sly smile plastered on her pretty face.

‘Oh! Do you mean to tell me that you’ve found a handsome male lad in those web novels you downloaded lately?’

‘Damn! I found one last night, and he’s so damn amazing that I felt like dying in his arms…’

I scooped and sat beside her on the bed, rolling my eyes.

‘You’re a fool, you know?’, she reacted to my body language. 

‘Yeah, a pretty fool,’ I chuckled before adding: ‘You need to get back home and return after I had my breakfast. It’s hot milk and chips today.’

‘I hate milk and chips,’ she frowned.’ Oh, wow! Stay and feel at home then,’ I exclaimed gladly.

‘Stingy brat, now let’s discuss some serious kinds of stuff.’ 

‘Oh, okay, let’s discuss fast; I’m hungry,’ I yawned

‘My man’s birthday party is in five days and, of course, I will be there because I’m his queen,’ she stated happily. 

I stared blankly at her flushed face, uttering: ‘What’s she talking about,’ I thought, still finding it hard to believe what I just heard.

‘What man? What birthday party? What queen? Do you want to slay? Or you wanna join the movie industry?’ I asked hectically.

‘Yeah, babe, I wanna slay for my boo. He’s worth it,’ she replied while browsing through her phone’s gallery. ‘Here, meet my prince,’ she flashed me a photo on her screen which got me back from my blackout state. ‘Huh!’ My jaw dropped. All I saw was a bronze skin guy with dreadlocks, dressed in sophisticated cocktail attire. The stiff aura around him emits a strong ‘arrogant playboy’ vibe.

‘How on earth did she even meet him? He’s so disgusting,’ I thought. ‘Erm, hmm Husna yo…you fancy him? Erhm, I, I mean you love him?’ I asked in between stammers.

‘Yeah, I truly love him. He’s charming and amazing… He’s not what you’re thinking, Zainab. He’s an overall different person inside. Don’t judge him by his appearance.”

‘So, to you, he’s worth imitating to your future kids?’ I asked in a low muttering voice. 

‘Yes, at least that’s what I think, and nobody’s perfect anyway. So, what do you suggest I wear to the party? ‘He said I should appear as classy and sexy as possible, even though he claimed to do something about my black skin before the D-day. I still need to give in some effort, right?’

‘What nonsense!’ I thought.

‘Husna, you’ve changed,’ I whispered. She chuckled before saying, ‘love has changed me.’

‘What love? This is pure bullshit. Have your parents even acknowledged him?’ I asked, finally coming back to my senses, knowing quite well that Husna’s parents – being the typical Hausa parents who will strictly push their kids towards the Deen; the type of parents who will teach their kids that Islamic education and good morals are far more important than anything – would never acknowledge her ‘so-called boyfriend’ as their son-in-law.      

‘No! Wallahi, you’re so dumb. Can’t you understand that we are into a secret relationship?’ she almost barked. 

‘Whatever the case, you’ve to break up with that demon you call a prince. You deserve someone far better than him-someone that will accept all your flaws and appreciate everything about you, someone with the ilm to defend his religion, a man of Deen whom your kids will be so proud to call ‘papa.’ You deserve someone whose testimonials are inspiring, someone whose effect on you would extend beyond this Dunya, a man who will walk you to Jannah, a man you can hold on to, a man you can proudly call the source of your true happiness and external strength. Not someone that will encourage you to bleach your skin and change who you are, not someone that will persuade you to flaunt your beauty and mess up your goals.’ I stopped to breathe.

‘You don’t have to impress anybody, my dear, you don’t have to sacrifice your happiness to anyone-the happiness your parents put so much effort to build and protect…’ I paused again and stared blankly at the walk with misty eyes, not sparing Husna a glance.

‘Our parents had gone through a lot to make us who we are today. They have sacrificed their blood and sweat to give us happiness, yet we chose to, to…’ I paused as tears of pity flowed down my cheeks to seek solace on my lips—tears of pain, the pain of betraying their thoughts and trust.

I restricted my gaze from the plain wall and pasted it on Husna’s forlorn face. I was shocked when I saw tears rolling down her flushed cheeks.

‘But it’s a free world, Husna, and as a friend, I’ve played my role here to guide you. So now it’s left for you to decide because hell is free, anyway,’ I said as I stood up lazily, wiped my tears and walked to the door. ‘I need to get my breakfast, Habibty; feel at home,’ I said, holding the doorknob. 

‘Innalillahi, I almost destroyed my life. What was I thinking, Astagfirullah’ I heard Husna mutters to herself from behind. 

I smiled, let out a sigh of relief and closed the door behind me before walking to the kitchen in high spirit.

© Zaynab Abdool (abdullateefzainab96@gmail.com)

Book Title: Kwaraption

Editors: Khalid Imam and Ola Ifatimehin                                                                                   

Type: Anthology of poetry written in Engausa

Publisher: Whetstone Art and Information Service

Pages: 72

Year of publication: 2021

Introduction:

Although not simple to define, corruption is a major impediment and barrier to Nigeria’s progress. For many years the country suffers a lack of infrastructure and poor condition of living because of corruption, which not only stagnates the nation but also derails it from the path of progress. Although more endemic now than ever before, the story of corruption in Nigeria is at least very old.

A missionary teacher in Kano, Madam Ethel Daniel Miller (who came to Kano in 1917) in her book The change here in Kano complained of a prince from the emirate that gifted her a set of clothes for the simple reason that she is a sister to Dr Walter Miller, thinking that she could influence his choice as a successor to the throne.

Other examples can be found in fictional works such as Magana Jari Ce (1937), where Dan’iya bribed a police officer to deceive his friend, Daudu, in a story titled “An ƙi cin biri an ci dila.” The case of Obi Okonkwo in Achebe’s No longer at ease (1960) and that of The Incorruptible Judge (1962) by Olu Olagoke were just a few out of many similar cases. These are clear indications of how writers used their pen to expose and sometimes fight corruption since the beginning of Nigeria formation.

This anthology of poetry edited by indefatigable Khalid Imam and awesome Ola Ifatimehin contains 51 poems contributed by 45 poets. Nearly half of the contributors are female writers, which is a clear indication that females have come of age in terms of literature in northern Nigeria.

The title of the book “Kwaraption” is a Hausa and English attempt at pronouncing corruption. While the first, “kwara” part is just the Hausa sound of the first four letters, “corru” (in a word corruption), the second part was derived from the last for letters (ption) of the original word. In other words, kwaraption is a corrupt way of saying corruption. Instead of the editors using Hausa translation of the word corruption which is loosely translated as Cin-hanci or Rashawa, or just writing Hausa variant of corruption as kwarafshin, they decided to retain part of the original English words. This is to portray the uniqueness of the work as an anthology of poems written using Engausa which involves coding switch or mixing of languages (English and Hausa) with a view to achieving artistical beauty and increasing richness of literature.

An Appreciation of Some of the Poems in the Collection

Looking at the anthology, one can understand that the poems covered a wide range of issues of interest as far as corruption in Nigeria is concerned. Some of the issues covered are:

1. Recognizing Nigeria as a rich country which is very blessed with both human and material resources, but whose citizens are poor because of corruption and other social vices.

“ƙasa mai albarka da albarkatu,

mai attajirai, masu ilmi da ‘yan siyasa” Hafsa Ja’afar in a poem titled Rashawa (p. 30). 

• The state of the country as far as corruption is concern. For example, Ameer Nasir in Cutar Zamani described the country as one having expertise in corruption to the extent that it is difficult to separate us from corruption “tamkar jini da hanta” (p.17). Basheer Adam Gobir assumes that ‘almost everyone’ in the country is corrupt (p.23). Similarly, Farida Mohammed Shehuin Abin Takaice (p.24)and Khalid Imam (p.37) see corruption as a hazard whose impact is everywhere; mosque, church and in all places, and Khalid particularly described corruption as ‘flood’ that destroys (Corruption Everywhere, p.39). Khadija Hanga in her poem titled Despicable Diseases sees corruption as marriageable girl, however dubious whose main goal is to deceive “a fool”. In fact, as captured by Ola in his allegory, “Kukan Kurciya”, corruption is now “new education”. Because we are so accustomed to corruption that we are given it good names and the corrupt person were assumed to be philanthropist as captured in a poem Philanthropist na gangan (p.26) “barazanar ɗan ta’adda ba ta mayar da shi gwarzo”. Also, YZ Ya’u corroborates this in his “Sai Mai Taimako”. Umma Aliyu educates us on different forms of corruption that we don’t see as such due to level of societal decay.
• Looking at corruption as a cause to many problems this country witnesses.  For example, in a poem “Tick” byAbubakar Isah Baba, corruption is responsible for poverty and insecurity;

It causes abubuwa masu yawa,

Poverty mai kashe gwiwa,

Insecurity mai karkatse rayuwa,

Ga misalan scandals nan da yawa.”

In “Lamentations for a Country,” Adesina Ajala blamed corruption for dividing the country along many social layers “Corruption is the common denominator that divides this land without fractions.” The division is along religious, ethnic, regional and even occupational strata. In “Gobarar Daji” Yahaya Abubakar sees corruption as “alpha and Omega”, hence, the chance of getting out of the current quagmire is very slim,

“ta yaya za mu yi rayuwa sustainable,

tattalin arziƙinmu disabled.”

Bashir Umar blames corruption for bankrolling the country such that it cannot meet its basic needs, he sees it as embarrassing that the country now relies on foreign aid for its development “wai yau ni ke neman aid from foreign organization”. The writers believed that Nigeria has taken a poisonous venom, whose effect transmitted to the children, making them engaged in killing one another “mun ɗauki kansakali, maimakon magani.” Ajuji in his “Bragging da Kayan Sata” captures an attribute of a corrupt person.

“there stand akimbo…

carrying pot belly,

like expected mother.”

• Trying to understand the dynamism and causes of corruption is one other focus of the poets in the anthology. Amatullah Saulawa in her “We shall not be afraid” boldly says:

“yes, it is our faults,

if dictators shift gears,

we bring them back” (p.15).

This is a similar submission of Maryam Baffer in the poem “Har da ni”. However, the politicians are most blamed in the collection because they stand for it

“ko da tsiya ko da tsiya tsiya

sun kasa

sun tsare,

sun raka,

sun rabe”

as stated by Hafsa Ja’afar in Rashawa (p. 30). Lynda Mustapha in her two poems “Write it down” and “Buhu-buhun Iskanc”i blamed politicians for perpetrating corruption in the country. Moses Odozie writes on corrupt civil servants whom he nicknamed “Ɓarawo mai Biro”. Murtala Uba Mohammed, in his poem “Corrupt Nation”, believed that corruption is not limited to politicians, there is also the police, court and parents (p.51).  

• The writers are tense of corruption and eagerly want it to end. Adesina Ajala said;

“Yaushe zamu warke daga wannan ciwon ne?

Wa zai haska fitilar gaskiya cikin wannan duhun baƙi?”.

Corruption is here seen as a wound that needs to be cured and darkness of a night that should be put in the light. In “The Oak Tree”, Aliyu voices out; “yet we hope for betterment”

• The authors not only lamented over the problem, they also recommended some solutions to the problem. Madinah Abdussalam in his “Yours and Mine” sees the solution as public, that every person should do it himself.  He says “who will end corruption in ba mu ba”.

In “Soyyayar Corruption” by Elizabeth Zephaniah, the public is seen as a solution, she metaphorically states “yaushe za mu ga eagle na fighting corruption”. Musa Adam was also having a similar view in his “My father’s 61st Rebirth”. Some of the poets expressed unity as an important factor in the fight against corruption, “dole we have to be united” as stated by Haneefa Musa Isah in her poem “Mu haɗa kai” (p 31). Also, Sani Abdullahi Salisu in his Kwarapshin (p.61).      

Engausa

It was not surprising when I saw this anthology. This is because of my prior knowledge of the debate that started on the page of APNETi when Dr Ola began to release his poems in a fashion of code switch, mixing English with the Hausa language which Khalid and some other members called ENGAUSA and opined that it is new and welcomed development. Some members of the group, most especially Professor Yusuf Adamu objected to that saying that language blend and code switch is not new in poetry particularly among Hausa poets citing a popular line of late Nai’ibi Sulaiman Wali in his poem Damina

“… su yi kasuwa su yi kantuna,

kowa busy sai su damina.

Yaran gari ko sai bal suke,

kowa ka duba very happy…”.

Khalid and his likes were not convinced arguing that the example given is INGAUSA, different from ENGAUSA. They said INGAUSA is a Hausa poem where words and phrases are used to complement the writer’s inability to come up with the right words based on context or meaning as opposed to ENGAUSA which is a poem written specifically with two languages blending and it is purely artistical. In the introduction of this book, the editors maintained this view indicating that they had not shifted their position, more so, in an interview conducted by Ola stated that this Engausa is almost his own daughter.

While this anthology may certainly be the first collection on the ENGAUSA poem, the view that the ‘new ENGAUSA’ is different from the ‘conventional INGAUSA’ is very weak. This is because language swap in Hausa poetry is not just triggered by weakness or inability to come up with the right phrase or word in a context, it is equally deliberate. Also, when we look at recent popular Hausa songs we can see Engausa. In particular hip-hop singers such as Billy’o in his song “Rainy Season” wherein he said:

“Mosoyiya, farkon ganinki na yo confusing,

sai da zuciyata tai ta squeezing,

sai da temperature ta tai rising,

jiri nake sai ka ce na sha poising,

ni ko so nake a san ina da reason”

is a good example of Engausa. In recent, northern Nigeria’s film series such as “Son of the Caliphate” and “Gidan Danja” are also full of Engausa. In addition, Aliyu Idris aka Abdurabbihi is another example, whose poems are in a mix of Hausa, English and Arabic languages even before seeing Ola’s “Sarauniyata” which appeared first in APNETi platform. Agreed, Ola and to some extent. Khalid can take the accolades of popularizing the Engausa and APNETi for holding the first workshop to teach it. It is another issue as to whether the new Engausa has a rule or not. But it is important to state that Engausa is an attempt to mimic how we (particularly the educated elite among us) talk at home and other places.

Finally, I wish to congratulate the editors for the first Engausa anthology and the All Poet Network International (APNETi) and Centre for Information Technology and Development (CITAD) for sponsoring the publication of important literary work that can help in Nigeria’s corruption crusade. The text is truly a noble of a kind. While wishing to see more literary work of this format, I wish the editors will do more in editing the Hausa language in the subsequent publications. I noticed many orthographic errors with respect to the Hausa language, which our indefatigable Imam will share the larger blame for his expertise in the area. I also conclude with the following lines:

Mai biɗar gane corruption,

To ya ɗau wannan collection,

Hausa tare da Englishin,

Sandwich kuma conjugation,

An zubo concatenation,

Kar ku ce contamination,

An yi ne don education,

Tun da Ola ya yi motion,

Ka ga Khalid zai yi action,

An yi  don inganta nation,

Yau kwaraption mun rejection.

The reviewer, Dr Murtala Uba Mohammed, is with Geography Department, Bayero University Kano, and can be reached via murtalamuhammadu@gmail.com.

By Yahuza Abdulkadir

Many a time, I listen to people expressing their feelings and emotions, telling their beautiful and ugly stories, talking about the experiences they encountered through their journeys.

But then, there’s this story I wanted to write, but I couldn’t. Whenever I tried to, fear overwhelmed me. So, I overcame my fears and summoned the courage to write this story today.

In April 2021, while travelling to Funtua in Katsina State, I had a dreadful experience that left a big scar on my heart.

On that day, I reached Kano at around 6:30 PM and boarded the ‘Adaidata Sahu’ tricycle to Rijiyar Zaki Park because I was told that it’s only there I could get a car that would take me to Funtua by that time.

We started the journey to Funtua at around 9:00 PM. It was late and a lovely friend who happened to know how the road used to be at night advised me to stay till morning. But I couldn’t heed her advice because I wanted to reach Funtua that night and complete my assignment the following day.

I started regretting why I embarked on the journey when our car spoiled at Malumfashi. The driver tried to get the car back to work for almost an hour but no progress. Finally, he decided to walk a few metres away to get a mechanic. And we were lucky that he came back with one. After several trials, the car engine started, and it got back to work.

I can still echo the voices of the two women seated at the back, pouring blessings upon the mechanic who helped fix the car’s problem. He really tried, but God’s miracle has taken place, I believe.

As we continued the journey – chatting and listening to other passengers telling their stories, I fixed my eyes on the road, and many thoughts knocked me on the head. When I noticed no car coming from the other side of the road, fear robbed my mind. My heart kept beating. I wanted to tell the driver that I was uncomfortable with this journey, but silence kissed my lips. I kept mute for some minutes. But deep inside of me, I wasn’t feeling okay.

A few kilometres to Bakori, we spotted torchlights reflecting from a close distance. And I heard the driver saying, “Inna-lillahi Waa Inna Ilaihir-rajiun,” meaning: “From Allah we are, and unto him is our return.” He tried turning the car to escape the trap in our front, but the sound of gunshots flying in the air made him stop the car.

I couldn’t remember what happened, but I saw people with guns and torchlights telling us to get out of the car. We went out, and I was terrified. Some voices began to whisper into my ears, “Had I known, I could have stayed in Kano till the following day like my friend said, but my stubbornness got me into this, it’s not my fault; this is my fate.”

That night we were robbed. “The Children of the Night” collected all our money and that of the driver. Then, they took away our cell phones and walked into the bush, shooting in the air.

When they left, I got into the car, shivering. Then, I realized that my smartphone was inside my small travelling bag, which I kept close to where I sat. I put the phone into the bag earlier because its battery was flat. So, I was lucky that my smartphone was still with me, though they took my small phone I used for calls. I know that we were lucky enough to be alive that night.

We stayed there till dawn because our car couldn’t get back to work again. We were thinking of what to do next when a car carrying bags of maize showed up. We waved hands for the driver to stop. And he did. He got out of the car and headed to where we stood. We told him about the incident, and he showed his concern, sympathizing with us. He told our driver that he was rushing to get to his destination. Then I saw him removing some money from his pocket and offering it to our driver. The driver thanked him and asked us to do the same. This man is very kind. Humanity lies in his heart, I whispered.

We kept waiting there till an empty commercial bus came. Then, after discussing with its driver, he asked us to get in. And we headed to Funtua. Our driver left his car with the intention to get a mechanic at Funtua who could repair it.

When we reached Funtua, I wished the other passengers well and prayed for their safety everywhere they would be. Then, I took my travelling bag and walked to my destination.

Although I have been travelling along the Damaturu-Maiduguri highway, I have never felt shocked and frightened like this before.

This was the most dreadful experience of my life. It’s a memory I can never forget.

Yahuza Abdulkadir wrote via yahuzaabdulkadir50@gmail.com.

By Maryam Muhammad Lawan

“Baby sis! I’m craving for something spicy,” I said in a cosseted voice. 

“Don’t worry, please. Your lazy sis will take care of you today. Guess what! No, I’m not even telling you anymore. Just wait for it,” sis said. 

I jabbed at her amusingly while saying, “Go and prepare whatsoever it’s please”.

“So, you’re poking fun at me. I’ll surprise you today”, My sister said while cackling.

“Yeah, don’t surprise me with rubbish, please, “I teased while she guffawed and moved on. “What a sis? Bless her ya Allah, “I said silently.  

I was left alone in the room when I logged into my Facebook account and started scrolling. Why do I see Haneefah’s pictures on almost every post? Did those other sets of humans release her? So I decided to read, to discover what it is. 

SubhanAllah! AstagfiruLah! I read as many updates as possible, for I couldn’t believe what I read from the first update. But eventually, I realized even the first update was as right as a trivet. 

“Don’t tell me you couldn’t wait for me to finish. I want to cook delicious food, so be more patient, please,” My sister said as she heard my footsteps towards the kitchen. I stood there, and she quickly looked at me. “Okay. Cry, cry, baby, what’s wrong again? Let me turn off this cooker before this mood of yours spoil my hot spicy meal,” sis said aggressively.

I couldn’t spell out even a word, maybe because I was emotional. So all I could do was to extend the phone to her. 

She used her hands and closed her mouth. Tears had no option rather than to roll out of her eyes.

“Innaa lillaahi wa innaa ilaihi raaji’uun! AstagfirulLah wa atubu ilaik! Ya Allah, have mercy on us. The girl I so much like? Though I don’t know her, the girl I always pray for Allah to protect her wherever she’s, and from the evil of those men?” she said with a sorrowful voice. She continued reciting, “HasbunalLahu wa ni’imal wakeel”.

“Her school teacher did this, then, if learning places are not safe, where on earth then? What a wicked world, Ya Rahman, have mercy on us. Ya Razzaq, grant her parents the fortitude to bear this loss,” My sister prayed

I replied, “Ameen ya Rabb,” while giving her a shoulder to cry on.

Maryam Muhammad Lawal wrote from Kaduna via mmafamam@gmail.com.

By Salma Yakubu

I sat on a bench under a neem tree behind the Faculty of Education lecture hall. I stared emptily at nothing in particular.

‘Hey! Karima!’ My classmate, Siyama, snapped me out of my thoughts.

‘What are you thinking?’ She scowled as she sat down.

‘The test, I hadn’t studied well.’ I complained.

‘You should have studied enough. You know that lecturer is very tough, he wouldn’t hesitate to fail you. Plus, you are not so good in his course.’ She blamed me.

‘Shut up!’ I roared in anger while already in remorse.

‘I should have studied.’  I murmured to myself.

I was still nursing the pain when Aliyu, the class rep, walked up to us. Aliyu is a young and vibrant student of average height and in his early twenties.

‘Oh, you guys are here; I have been looking for you.’ He said.

‘What’s up?’ I held my breath to hear if it was about another test, assignment, or attendance.

‘Mr. Bashir, statistics, asked me to call you.’ He said. My heart skipped a beat.

‘Why?’ I asked before I sprang to my feet. ‘Did I do anything wrong?’ I enquired.

‘I don’t know. He only said I should call you.’ He replied. I turned to Siyama, who was also in awe.

‘Okay, Aliyu, I’m right behind you.’ I threw my stuff inside the bag and started walking. Siyama followed me.

Two lecturers were leaving as we got to Mr Bashir’s office door. Immediately the door closed back, I knocked.

‘Come in’, Mr Bashir responded. So Siyama and I entered the office.

‘Karima only,’ he said without looking at either of us. Siyama and I exchanged a glance as she slammed the door behind her.

‘Sit down,’ he pointed at a sofa across the room. I sat anxiously and clutched tightly to my bag.

‘You…called…for me…sir.’ I stammered.

‘Yes, Karima.’ He removed his spec, dusted it off and placed it in the spec case. ‘You failed my statistics test, do you know that?’ He furrowed.

‘Yes,’ I nodded. He sighed.

‘You score seven out of twenty points. This is going to affect your grade. How do you plan to stop that from happening?’ He focused his eyes on me. I lowered my gaze in silence. ‘Study harder for exams?’ He asked.

‘Yes,’ I mumbled.

He chuckled. ‘You lost thirteen marks. That’s too much. You are most likely to fail the exam.’ He leaned forward. ‘But you have nothing to worry about. I will help you.’ He then retracted. I breathe in relief. ‘You know Karima; we have an unfinished business.’ He gave me a flirty stare. I felt chunks in my throat.

The very day Mr Bashir introduced himself as the statistics lecturer was the day he invited me for lunch, and that was in the first semester. I turned him down. And we never talked about it again. I have forgotten or almost forgotten we had such an encounter. Even the following morning, when we met in school, he didn’t say a word to me.

‘Are you with me?’ He lurched me out.

‘Yes, sir’

‘I still like you,’ he walked over to where I sat. I swallowed hard as he leaned in. ‘Karima, you are  beautiful and smart, but statistics break your egos.’ He laughed devilishly. ‘ In your last result, you got “E”. Do you know what comes after an “E” grade?

I was dumbfounded.

“Fail.” He said as if that means a well-deserved medal of honour. ‘You might repeat the same course.’ He squirmed. ‘Aren’t you worried about not graduating with your classmates?’ I lowered my gaze again. ‘I’m not only going to help you pass the exam but also provide you with a private tutor.’ He dropped his contact card beside me and returned to his chair. ‘Think about it.’ He said and sat down. ‘Oh! My bad! What will I offer you?’ He snapped out.

‘Nothing, I’m okay. Thank you.’ I faked a smile, and thankfully, just then, my phone buzzed.

‘What is vibrating?’ He asked.

‘My phone.’

Before I could answer it, the phone hung.

‘My friend is calling. We’re going home.’ I told him.

‘Oh, I am sorry to have kept you here.’ He slid out three thousand Naira notes from his pocket and forwarded them to me. ‘Please, fare with this,” he said.

‘I have transport fare, thank you.’ Then, in astonishment, he said okay, and I left.

By the time I got home, it was past six o’clock. My Abba was sitting in the parlour, his attention on the television when I entered. I greeted him and headed to my room.

‘Karima,’ Abba called out. I stopped halfway. ‘I’ll like  to talk to you later.’

‘Okayyyyyyyyyyyy,’ I said.

After a cold shower, I sat on the bedside drawer, towelling myself. My phone buzzed inside the handbag. While I was trying to locate the phone, Mr Bashir’s contact card fell off. I picked the contact card up and plugged my phone into charging while I threw on a long multicoloured chiffon gown and went to Abba. His focus was no longer on the television but a book on his hands. Edge of politics, I read the book title as I sat on the fur carpet by his side.

‘How are studies?’ Abba asked while his eyes were still searching on the book. How can I tell him the truth? Aren’t that studies fine?

‘Study’s fine,’ I lied. He shoved the book aside and turned to me.

‘Karima, you are doing well in a lot of things, especially your education. I’m proud of you.’ I smiled. He continued. ‘I want you to do whatever it takes to graduate with good grades. Don’t worry about a job; I am making arrangements for that. I don’t want you to fail, never.’ He said in a mixture of advice and threat.

This is the problem with Abba; he hates any excuse for failure. Did he know my academic challenges? No, he doesn’t. He consistently gives fare, feeds and if there is any need to buy, he gives the money. Abba thought he must have covered the basic problems in my studies. When I told him once about my difficulty in statistics, he laughed it off, saying that I was mumbling because I wasn’t paying attention and also hated the course. It was not true.

I also told Abba about my coursemate, who was willing to tutor me freely, but he rejected the idea. I know he hated to hear me call a male my friend.

‘You see this male tutor? They are fake. They will drive you into falling in love with them and end up messing with you. In the end, you will lose both love and tutoring. The same with girls, too. Don’t be too close; else, you will end up homosexual. You are just 19. Have you ever imagined what your life would look like when you let a boy or girl a mess with you?’ He would say, and I would squirm.

Since my Abba doesn’t like close relations with the same or opposite gender other than Siyama, who was his friend’s daughter, everyone is either a university mate, department mate, neighbour and nothing special.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ His voice drew me back to our discussion.

‘Yes.’ I replied.

‘God bless you.’

‘Thank you, Abba. Can I join Umma in the kitchen?’

‘Yes, she’ll need you.’

‘Take this to your father.’ She served hot jollof rice and beans on a soleplate and arranged them on a tray.

I carried Abba’s food to the dining room, where he asked me to share the food with him. That was the most thing I derived joy from, eating with my father. I left the food halfway and told him I would observe Isha’i prayers.

I went to my room, performed ablution and observed my prayers. Still, on the prayer mat, I picked up a book from the bedside drawer to read; the thought of Abba’s words pinched me at heart. I nurse them deeply. My father might not be a rich Dad, but he was always on top of his responsibilities—a prestigious father. I would not want to either disappoint or do what he disapproved of me. But, the fear of statistics lingered at my heart and let blood flow on my face. I know or perhaps believe there is no way to pass the exam; worse, I scored so low on the test. Yet, my father saw the light and prospect in me, and I must keep that glittering.

Since I couldn’t disobey Abba to have a good tutor and Mr Bashir is offering to help me, I have no option but to take the first step. So I picked the card from my bedside drawer and typed the number on my phone. I managed to keep my breath steady and dial-up. It rang for few times before he answered.

‘Hello!’ I propped up. ‘Karima speaking.’ I listened to him ask which Karima, but he didn’t. Instead, he was awed.

‘How are you?’ He asked calmly.

‘Sir, I don’t want anything to delay my graduation, not even statistics.’ I mumbled. He chuckled and paused a bit.

‘Calm down. You shouldn’t fear. By the way, my birthday is tomorrow, and I’m inviting you. Will you come?’ He asked.

I mulled for a while before I answered him. ‘Yes’

‘I will send my address tomorrow.’ He said. I hung the phone and breathed in. By then, the sweat on my palms turned cold.

The following day, I woke up and, as usual, did chores. Then, I went to collect clothes from Umma’s tailor before  Kaduna’s hot sunset.

At 4 p.m., I sat in front of my mirror and applied cake powder, eye pencil and lip-gloss. Then wore a long black-stoned abaya and a yellow veil. Finally, I sprayed body perfume and picked my handbag.

I went to meet Umma, reading in her room.

‘Umma, I’m off to Siyama’s house.’ I said to her.

‘All this dressing for Siyama’s house?’ She asked. I knew she suspected nothing, but she always thought I sophisticated dressing for simple outings.

‘Siyama’s friend is having a birthday, so she invited me.’ She nodded and said, ‘Be careful. Return safely.’

‘Thank you, Umma.’ I smiled and left.

That is one thing my parents have for me: trust. They never question nor stop my outings. They believe I would never hurt them.

The cab drove me from Unguwan Rimi to Kigo road. We stopped at Balin hotel while I re-checked the address to ensure I was in the correct location. I brought out my phone and dialled Mr Bashir’s up.

‘I’m at Balin hotel.’ I said as he answered the phone.

‘I’m coming,’ he responded from the other end.

So, I paid and freed the tricycle rider.

After a few minutes of standing and clutching my handbag, a car hunk and stopped beside me, when I looked, it was Mr Bashir.

‘Salam Alaikum’, he greeted, winding the glass down. Without a word, I hurriedly sat in the car. I wouldn’t want anyone to recognize me, and thankfully, the car glass had a tint. He drove off to the end of the lane and cornered into the last street. It was two minutes drive into a three-bedroom flat. He parked the car at his garage, and we came out.

‘Welcome’, he said and led the way into the house. I was expecting to meet people, a lot of them. Thus, I arranged to shield myself to avoid running into somebody I knew.

‘Where are your guests? There isn’t seem to be anybody here.’ I rolled my eyeballs around.

‘On my birthday this year, I decide to invite only you.’ He smiled sheepishly. My heart skipped a beat.

‘Only me? No, I can’t stay with you in this building.’ I protested. He ended up reminding me of why I was there in the first place. My body chilled down instantly, and I followed him into the house. He walked me straight to the dining room. We sat down. Varieties of food and drinks were already served.

‘Is today truly your birthday?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Yes,’ he replied without looking in my direction. ‘I only need both of us here. That’s why I invited only you.’

‘Happy birthday.’ I said.

‘Thank you. Shall we eat?’ He asked. I told him I was full, but he insisted I eat the food.

After the meal, I thanked him and stood to take my leave. I had expected him to see me out, but instead, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me to the sitting room.

‘I have something for you.’ He whispered. With his hands wrapped around my waist, lumps began to grow in my throat. One of his hands still held me while he used the other one to take a shopping bag from the centre table. We sat down while he unwrapped the stuff. It was a brand new phone, a wristwatch and shoes. I liked them, but I didn’t want to take them from him.

‘It is from my heart. You must go with them.’ He said. I had explained that my parent would kill me if I went home with the gifts. I started to leave, but he came behind and held me tightly. I went numb. Before I could bring myself to know what was happening, he threw me to the cushion and pinned me there. I tried to wriggle but couldn’t.

‘Stop!’ I barked, but he didn’t stop pulling my clothes.

When he finally loosened me, I ran home panting as if a dog chased me. Umma asked what was wrong, but I went to my room without a word. I could feel her eyes taking a step with me, but I cared less. I went straight to the bathroom, showered and lay on the bed.

‘Today, I broke my parent’s trust. I won’t be that same saint they had as a daughter.’ I wept the whole night.

I didn’t come out the following day, so Umma came to my room and asked why I hadn’t prepared for school. I quickly wiped my tears and sat up.

‘I can’t go for lectures today. My body aches; I have a fever, Umma.’ I explained even before she asked. She sat beside me on the bed and felt my temperature with the back of her hand.

‘Your temperature isn’t so bad. Anyway, get up and get some drugs and see if it subside, or else we go to the hospital. I’m going out right now.’ She dropped some money in my bedside drawer and left.

I breathed down in relief. It would be easy for Umma to decipher what was going on if I made any move. But, if she saw my gait, I’d be doomed because I haven’t been able to walk since I woke up that morning. My laps were sour and numb.

I could not talk to, text, or call Mr Bashir ever since the incident happened. And when he does, I never replied. 

A few weeks or about a month later, I  began to have itches around my lower abdomen. Then, it developed into a burning sensation, reddish rashes and lumps, and waist pain. Finally, it got worse that I couldn’t walk or urinate effortlessly without crying from the burning sensation. I told Umma about it.

‘How could you be so careless?’ She struck at me. ‘Let me see.’ She opened my legs, and I saw the situation by herself. She screamed out. ‘Is this what you have been living with?’

‘I’m sorry, Umma.’ I cried.

‘Let’s go to the hospital right now.’ She helped me walk down to her car and drive off.

We met a gynaecologist at the hospital. He immediately took a swap from me to the laboratory. After some time, he returned and asked Umma to follow him. Umma returned with tears. She sniffed and shook her head.

‘Umma, why are you crying?’ I asked.

‘Karima, you have gonorrhoea.’ She replied. My heart skipped a bit.

‘Mr. Bashir has finished me.’ I wailed.

Umma paused and faced me. ‘Who is Mr Bashir?’ She asked with curiosity. ‘What did you have with him?’

I narrated everything to her. I saw Umma weakened to her bones. But, even without a word from her, I knew she was pressing herself not to injure me.

‘Forgive me, Umma.’ I cried.

‘Where is he? Where is the dan iska [rascal]?’ She yelled.

‘He should be in the school.’ I said.

She stomped out of the ward.

By the time she came back, it was with my Abba. I almost peed on the bed. I threw my face away in shame.

‘Karima, I heard what you did.’ He turned his back to me. ‘I hope you know; I will never trust you?’ He said with all bitterness. ‘The so-called Mr Bashir whom you trust as your statistics god, the one who put you in this condition, has escaped my retribution.’

I was surprised but dared not ask him. Umma left the room as Abba set to say the final words. ‘He’s dead. The bastard is dead.’ He raged.

Cold ran down my spine.

‘What happen to him?’ I asked.

‘A tanker fell on his car yesterday as he was leaving the school.’ Abba said.

‘Noooooooo’ I screamed out. Abba’s heartbreak was boldly written in his eyes.

‘He can’t ruin me and die like that.’ I cried.

For the first time in my life, my parents were angry with me. Unfortunately, that would be the price for disobedience and too much fear. But, If Abba wasn’t too strict, I would have been tutored by my classmates, and things wouldn’t have been this way.

‘Abba, I was ready to do anything for you, to make you proud.’ I said while holding tightly unto his hand. That was when I saw tears roll down his cheeks.

‘I’m sorry, Karima. I cause this upon you.’ He held me, too.

‘Your exam is next week. I hope you will be able to read, okay?’ Abba said.

Salma Yakubu is the author of Behind The Moon. She can be reached via princessbeautynigeria111@gmail.com.

By Habeeb Abdullah Musa Kiru

Tofa the last of the black-maned lions is no more!
May you walk amongst the saints,
As God enriched your life in this world may he grant you a Billion folds in the hereafter.

You didn’t neglect your portion of this world!
Opportunities unwasted nor a life of regrets,
A life at its best!
If I want to be Tofa Oh! From where do I start?

Is it Tofa of the beautiful palace and the most elegant of Mosques !?
Whom the good Lord granted a life of wealth, piety, fame and prestige !?
Whom he honoured above most men,
Bestowed him with talent and he utilized it all?

A former presidential aspirant,
Whom had a passion for Nigeria
Makes us wonder what could have been!
The travails you’ve foreseen
The security of the Nation of which you were so keen! 

The father to all, a mentor to many,
A connoisseur of the arts; A keen student of religion, the sciences include!
The historian whom tried his best to preserve an Emirate of which he was immensely proud.
“Advocates for a united Kano” we recall!

Tofa the Philanthropist who contracted tailors whose work was to sow for the destitute by night and day.
An Author of great works that would suffice a life of peace in this chaotic world.

An Ambassador of Islam,
A prince of the North,
A Poet, Reformer and Astronomer.
His collection of telescopes till date are unmatched!

A statesman, an icon of democracy, a colossal Pillar;
His Philosophy is not what can the North do for me but what can I do for its people!
You tried to secure our lives and future, generations will forever be grateful.

Men sat to mourn you,
A madwoman came!
Thus she spoke:
“From home, you’ve had your fill;
Now you have buried the one, who gives us feed.
Now I’m hungry
Have you no feelings?”

Such was the generosity of Tofa,
A saintly character,
With his absence now you will see!

So what will be the fate of the Nation when the Lions keep ascending and the reigns falls to the Jackals?
Who will steer the cubs away from fracas?

We always believe such men immortal,
Constantly putting it off, that we’ll find time and meet them.
Forgetting that as we grow so their time draws nigh!
When a great man dies, a whole library burns…
All the ideas they envisioned for Arewa unless in print, flees and with it comes our doom!

We didn’t tap into the wisdom of Sardauna nor of Balewa to study the art of statecraft!
So we procrastinated in meeting Dan Masani to learn diplomacy and eloquence.
We believed Bayero would forever be here to shield us!
And Sheikh Jaafar left; Ahmad Bamba same, Albany is at faraway Zaria we can’t take the bus;
Deluding ourselves that Dantata is inaccessible to us,
His Highness Sanusi just too busy for us!
Nor would I go to Alfurqan to rid my heart of its rust.
No wonder we are lost!

We’d rather disparage the Tofas amongst us;
Ridicule their reverence,
Tell them they are useless, toothless and clueless!
Our utterances reckless;
And manners thoughtless.
You friend,
Without them, rudderless!

And so they keep going,
And morals are ebbing,
Our heritage dissecting,
Standards are falling,
Culture’s corrupting,
The Nation is ailing,
‘Cos the wise souls keep leaving!

When a river dries up
All living dwellers around
Are gripped by fear,
Throats become thirsty
Leaving all far and near
In great danger.

When a river dries up
Doom and uncertainty
Pounce from the shadow
Like a lurking tiger
Hounds poor preys.

When a river dries up
All the living plants
And weeds too
Live at risk
Since clouds of sand
Only flood eyes
And rain not.

When a river dries up
Wise birds migrate
In search for new streams
As visiting flamingos
Stop coming, forever.

Oh Shiekh Dr. Ahmad,
Indeed, you are a river
Who will never dry –
Your teachings will live
With us eternally.

Dwell in Firdaus,
Pious soul!

Khalid Imam
7/1/2022

By Khalid Shafi’i

“Officer, please accept this small change make we kuku japa for here. We dey in a hurry abeg,” I said, mustering all the courage I could. “Oga, open dis booth before I slap you now. You’re wasting my time,” he asked angrily. 

***

“Officer, my mother taught me to respect my elders, so I’m not going to say what I’m thinking,” I lamented. I didn’t even know where I summoned the courage from. 

“I’m sure she’d be proud to know you still remember those lessons, but I heard what you’re thinking.”

“Then I’m sorry you had to hear that,” I joked.

“You’re funny, but fifty naira is too small. Add something sharp sharp and go.”

I instantly went for my wallet and gave him all its content. I didn’t want to have any more malarkey with him. ₦1,000 was all I had left after the spending spree at SFC. I would have offered it in the first place if I knew things would get serious. I was, I mean, we were lucky. I was prepared never to take such a chance again.

Immediately, I drove to a remote location around the Naraguta axis to dump the body. Leila insisted we search the body for valuables. She took his debit card, phone, wallet and handed them all to me.

“But how is the debit card useful? I don’t want to land in trouble, Leila,” I asked.

“Think about it, Omar. You can use some of the money in his account to start a business. Don’t you want to marry me? You could pay my bride price, you know? Don’t worry; I know the debit card pin and the phone password,” she assured.

It was like Leila worked some magic on me. I found myself doing as she bade. I had a tenuous grasp of reality. “I definitely won’t mind marrying her. I mean, who wouldn’t? I was sure the body we just dumped was an accident. “Leila is no Killer”, I assured myself again. I’d scout the world for a wife like her.” I thought.

Three hours ago, If someone had told me I would be aiding and abetting murder, I’d probably sue him. Those three hours were like a movie. They weren’t idyllic for me. 

I never envisioned my life committing a crime. Why would I? I was raised right. I went to a local but decent primary school. Immediately after, I was enrolled in an Islamic secondary school. Eleven years after, I was a degree holder. I had no ties with criminals. It was like foraying into an unknown world. Nevertheless, I was determined to make the voyage if it leads to me having Leila for myself. 

“What are you thinking, Omar? Let’s go!” exclaimed Leila. 

“Where to? It’s late. I can’t take you home with me, Leila. So go home, we’ll meet tomorrow.”

“No, I can’t go home. Find us a place to stay the night together, Omar. I’m scared. And don’t you want to know my story?” 

“I do, Leila, I really do. But I can’t spend the night outside my home. My dad would kill me.” I answered almost immediately.

However, a part of me wanted to spend the night with Leila. I wanted to know everything. And all of a sudden, she pulled my hand and started dragging me. “Don’t be silly; we’re spending the night together.” She giggled. “C’mon, let’s go”.

I couldn’t help but follow her. It was glorious. My hand still tingled where she grabbed it. 

“So, Omar….” She began again. I knew that tone of voice. It was dangerous.

“How would you like to spend the night? We can book a hotel using Auwal’s debit card. We could have fun tonight.” She whispered. She looked at me with a cautious smile. Her smile was infectious. I couldn’t answer her. I only shrugged my shoulders and looked down. 

“Do you Like me?” She asked.

“I do, but…..” 

“No but’s, you’re going with me tonight,” she continued.  

“Okay, let’s go”, I agreed.

***

It felt like a dream at first, I heard the door bang. I saw grisly images of the police coming through the door. After some seconds, it dawned on me that it wasn’t a dream. I mustered some strength and overcame the inertia I was going through to check if Leila was lying beside me. To my greatest surprise, she wasn’t. 

I tried to recall the previous night. I remember lying with her on the bed. After that, everything went blank. What happened? Was I drugged?

 
“Hol’it there, young man. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.” 

I was struggling to get up when all of a sudden, strong hands grabbed and cuffed my hands. Almost immediately, billows of tears started gushing out of my eyes. I knew it was over for me, but what baffled me most was Leila. Where is she? How did the police know our… no, my whereabouts? Did Leila frame me, or was she also arrested? 

TBC. Keep a date with me to know the answers to these and many more questions.

About the Author: Khalid Shafi’I is a graduate of Law from the prestigious Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. Also, he’s currently undergoing a one-year study at the Kano campus of the Nigerian Law School for the license to practice law. He loves reading and writing.

By Zee Aslam

It was a fantastic autumn evening. October’s weather had sedated, but the wind was blowing intensively. Mrs Busari’s car came to a screening halt after knocking down a beggar and her baby. The road was not busy as only a few pedestrians were retiring back to their houses due to the wind. 

The thud sound enticed a passer-by’s attention, who ran to the accident scene. The victim fell opined, and the baby keenly wrapped on her back popped out into the drainage nearby. Mrs Busari had leapt out of the car but reverted when she saw the passer-by approaching. 

In a jiffy, she started her car and zoomed off. “I’ve been away from Junior for too long. I need to run ahead to avoid being delayed here”, she murmured while driving fast. 

When she got home, she noticed her husband’s car parked in the garage and heard his voice echoing in the compound. He seldom returns home around this time, so she quickly turned the doorknob and walked in. The face of a worried, perplexed nanny welcomed her. 

“Babe, why are you are back so early and what’s with these faces you both are wearing?” She asked him. 

“I think you should ask this devil here. Could you believe she gave out Junior to a friend?” He responded, adding yet another question. The nanny began trembling in fear. 

“Who did you give my baby to?” Mrs Busari bellowed. 

The nanny’s heart was palpitating, and her hands were sweating. Words deserted her mouth. She only stood there motionless, staring. 

“PAU!” Mrs Busari’s impatient hand landed on her face, which made the words in her mouth gush out like loosened prisoners. “I always get paid for giving out Junior to a guy who disguises as a beggar so that he could earn himself money easily due to the pity”. 

“What! You gave out my son to a beggar. How dare you, what were you thinking?” 

“Call him now to return Junior, and if anything should happen to my son, I won’t hesitate to dismantle your bones and pile them up in heaps for vultures to feed on”, Mr Busari croaked out. 

After several attempts, the call was eventually picked. It was said that the phone was found lying beside the road, and it looked like the owner was the one involved in an accident. 

When those words hit Mrs Busari’s ears, she became utterly baffled. Some moments ago, she had recklessly run into a beggar and acted rashly. Could it be Junior that was wrapped on her back? No! It can’t be. 

As soon as they confirmed the hospital the woman and the small boy were taken to, they ran as their lives depended on what they were aiming for. A few minutes into the hospital, they were told the news of their deaths. They felt numbed.

However, Mrs Busari couldn’t control her emotions, owning that her son slipped away from her fingertips due to her carefree attitude. If only she had been more considerate and not selfish. 

The man that came through for the victims recognized her as the perpetrator. He beckoned on the policemen and pointed her out. They immediately approached the grieving couple, explaining to Mr Busari why they needed to arrest his wife. 

“She might be charged with vehicular manslaughter and possibly serve a jail term. However, if it is proven that the death was indeed a result of a genuine accident, it is doubtful that she will face criminal charges”. He watched as she was introduced into the police van, and they drove off. 

He got the nanny arrested after claiming the body of his son. It was indeed an October to remember, but he pulled through. 

Zee Aslam wrote from Abuja via zeeaslam19059@gmail.com

By Khalid Shafi’i

After our high school graduation, each day seemed to blur into the next. I had no structure or purpose, no reason to get up in the morning. I was going to bed late every night. I spent hours hanging out with friends at Amar’s house.

Deedat, Abdul, Serdeeq, Amar himself, and I will cocoon in the tiny room so much more than the sum of its parts when it encourages the soul to breathe. We would play games, surf the web, and occasionally chit-chat. Moments I’ll hold unto for the rest of my life. 

And one fine morning, after returning home, my phone buzzed loudly, waking me from a restless sleep. I reached for it blindly, knocking it from the nightstand. It fell to the floor with a clatter. And one gaze was enough to recall the caller, Leila.

Leila and I met at a friend’s birthday party. She’s beautiful, alluring, and angelic. She has midnight-black hair that always flowed over her shoulders, and even though I had never tasted her honey-sweet-looking lips, I can tell they were lilac soft. After all, we are not married, or not yet.

I know Leila wasn’t the type to fall for a guy like me. Nevertheless, I made a botched attempt to ask her out. And since then, I never heard from her again. So, I wonder why she still held on to my phone number. 

“Hello, Omar”. She called from the other end of the phone. 

I took a deep breath. Even though it’s been a while I heard from Leila, I still recall how mellifluous her voice was. It always sends a chill down my spine. Like a form of therapy, her voice would heal a psychic patient.

“Hi, Leila. Is that you?” I managed to answer.

“I know It’s been a while, but I’d love to hang out with you tonight if you wouldn’t mind? Meet me at Southern Fried Chicken.” She ended the call before I could protest, but as soon as I caught her words, I was confused.

Leila sounded desperate. “This could be my chance,” I thought to myself. Immediately, I got into the bathroom, cleaned up, wore my favourite clothes, and headed to SFC. Upon entering, I sighted Leila seated with grace, like the Queen she should be. One look was enough to see the restlessness she’s trying so hard to hide. 

“Hello Leila”

“Hi, Omar, I need your help, please. Help me, and I’ll not only love you but also remain indebted to you for the rest of my life.”

“Whoa, whoa Leila, take a deep breath. Make an order, eat something and let’s talk,” I insisted. Of course, Leila didn’t want to do that, but I was insistent. I could see how desperate she was to talk, but I refused to give her audience.

Leila was not in the right state of mind to make an order, so I waved a waitress and placed the order – for us both. Immediately the waitress brought the food, Leila pounced on it like a hungry lion would pounce on a deer after starving for a month. I watched in shock as she devoured everything within a short period.

“Why wouldn’t she eat in the first place? Whatever is wrong must be so serious to prevent Leila from eating despite being this famished.” I thought to myself.

Leila suddenly stopped in the middle of her food and said, “Omar, I am pregnant for a guy I just killed.”

Like a break in transmission, the whole place became silent, at least, for me. I looked up to see if really that utterance was coming out of Leila’s mouth.

“Leila, did you hear yourself? Tell me you’re joking, please,” I quizzed.

One look was enough to make me register the seriousness on her face. After that, I didn’t know what more to say. 

Looks could deceive, but Leila is in no way a killer. I mean, how could she? She’s a lady, a beautiful young lady, for God sake. I raised my head to look at her face again. I wanted to see that ‘killer face’, but NO. All I saw was an innocent, scared young lady. I was lost in my thought when I heard her say, “won’t you ask me how it happened?”

“Yes, please, how?”

“It’s a long story, Omar. But I’ll try to cut it short.” She said. 

“Please, do,” I answered, almost nervously. 

“We don’t have much time now. Omar, please help me dump the body, and I promise to tell you everything.” 

“What! Leila, I…..” 

“It was an accident, Omar. Believe me. I won’t put you in harm’s way,” she interrupted. 

“what If..” I began again

“No what-ifs, Omar. Nothing will happen,” she assured. 

“Okay, where is he?“ I agreed.

I quickly went to the counter, paid for the food I ordered and in no time, Leila and I headed to her boyfriend’s house, retrieved his body and set out to dump it. I was driving, with Leila seated in the passenger’s seat and the body…. Well, the body was a tad uncomfortably lying in the trunk of my car when, all of a sudden, we were stopped by the police.

I was nervous, confused and scared. But, surprisingly, Leila was a little more composed than I was. How could she?

“What should we tell them, Leila? We’re caught. What should we do?“ I exclaimed. 

“Keep calm”, she retorted. “we’re not caught yet unless you want them to figure us out now, keep calm. Let me do the talking.”

“Hello, Madam,” the Police officer asked. 

“Yes, Officer, any problem?”

“No, we just want to see your particulars.”

I passed the papers to Leila, and she did the same to the police officer. He inspected the documents and went away to a patrol car not far from us. My heart began racing. The officer responded to a call on the radio and nodded. It looked like he was receiving instructions to arrest us.

The officer passed the instructions to his colleagues and came back to us after. “Oga, open your booth abeg. Make we see wetin dey inside,” he yelled in Pidgin. 

“Nothing dey inside officer, we dey in a hurry to go the hospital. My mama no well,” Leila answered in the same language. 

“Eyya, sorry ehn… just open the booth, and you’ll soon be on the way”, the officer assured her. 

I was confused. I didn’t know what to do anymore. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t me. I wanted to say to him that I was only helping her. I knew it was over for us. What was I going to tell my parent? Would they ever believe I didn’t do it? My friends, oh my God, how would I possibly explain this to them. 

“Oga just radio us say make we dey check booths. Queue don dey form, driver come open dis booth make I clear dis road,” he uttered.

His face was not friendly again. If I don’t open this booth, he might probably shoot me, I thought to myself. 

I came out from the car, went round like I would open the booth, but I didn’t. Instead, I dipped my hands into my pocket, brought out a fifty naira note and offered it to the police. 

“Officer, please accept this small change make we kuku japa for here. We dey in a hurry abeg,” I said, mustering all the courage I could. 

“Oga, open dis booth before I slap you now. You’re wasting my time,” he asked angrily. 

To be continued.

Khalid Shafi’i can be reached via alhausawiy_esq@yahoo.com.