Literature

By Tijjani Muhammad Musa

Poetic Wednesday Initiatives (PW) was started by a group of poets of Arewa extract, but global in netizenry that have their muses tied confidently and securely to their minds.

Young, talented, prolific and spontaneous males and females write poetry with a passion that can surpass the fieriness of the sun as well as the soft and gentle subtleness of a sprouting flower.

As a poet myself, I have had close contact with the founding pillars of the movement and have interacted poetically with their brilliant works at an individual level on various literary platforms on and offline.

And when they, Salim Yunusa, Nasiba Babale, Abdulbasit Abubakar Adamu and a few others decided to unite as one, pulling their writing prowess and resources together and initiating PW, I knew something big was in the offing.

What I find fascinating about the whole Poetic Wednesday Initiatives thing is the innovation and strategy with which the youthful minds developed the idea into a viable literary concept that has turned out to be a force reckon with.

Soon, it became the in-thing to have a poet’s piece published on their platform or else it’s not worth reading. Everybody eventually started talking about the beautiful works coming from different hitherto unknown bards, all thanks to their featuring on Poetic Wednesday.

Budding poets on this side of the divide and those across the Niger river found it a challenge to up their writings to meet the unofficial standards set by the PW team. And on social media, the “Poetic Wednesday!” echo was all over the place.

To encourage further participation by shy and underdeveloped poets, PW started offering poetic lessons and coaching to young and not so young struggling poets to develop their skills. They even began a state by state tour in which they taught many the basics of writing good poetry.

Many who have benefitted from such an initiative have developed not just their words craftsmanship, but the confidence to share their poetry on various social media poetry sites. So many were the collections had never seen the light of the day earlier.

There is no doubt that the initiative within the first six (6) of its existence has successfully awakened the inert poets residing in many of us. The question now on many people’s minds is; how do PW consolidate on its success and achievements so far?

Well, for a start, PW is no more a mere platform for poetic talents, both budding, seasoned or veterans, to come and showcase their creative stuff and then walk away. The PW guys have turned the set-up into a fully incorporated business entity. Way to go!

Having been upgraded into a registered business outfit, PW is hoped to set out not only to promote creative literary works but, in collaboration with other stakeholders, to make it its affair to promote, sponsor, and publish writings from writers and poets, making them published authors among other things.

As part of their future strives, PW should also look into the potential of organizing literary workshops, seminars, webinars, shows etc. that will give opportunities to talents in the literary circle to be taught how to measure up in meeting requirements for entering and winning competitions and contests at local, national and international levels.

It will also be an outstanding achievement on PW’s part if it can organize sponsored literary competitions and contests for primary, secondary, and even tertiary institutions to discover hidden literary talents in society and connect them with corporate sponsors to publish their books and anthologies.

I would not mind seeing PW start an institution of learning where poetry, poets and writers in other genres of literature from across the world can find a haven to come and exchange ideas and technical knowhow towards furthering the development of writing skills in various languages such as Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, Nupe, Kanuri among others via the art of writing.

Congratulations to the PW team for achieving such a monumental milestone. It has been six exciting and value-adding years for society. This is definitely worth going to the moon for. Thus we are pleased to associate with you and your success and believe that if careful planning, focus and dedication to execution would hold sway, more wins are assuredly guaranteed.

Tijjani Muhammad Musa – Poetic Tee is the Chairman of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) Kano Chapter.

By Namse Udosen

I came across Poetic Wednesday on Facebook. It was refreshing to see young people telling their stories in verse. During the Covid-19 lockdown, I followed keenly as Eclectic voices sang tunes that ranged from despair to hope.

Poetry is a beautiful part of literature often not paid deserved attention in this climes. It breathes colours and creates philosophy. Therefore, immersing myself in the words of the poets of Poetic Wednesday provides me with a refreshing view of life in Northern Nigeria.

Aside from providing an outlet on social media for budding poets, they have organized a series of offline creative writing workshops for more than 300 secondary school students in Kano, Katsina, Yobe, and Kaduna. These workshops provide opportunities for non-formal education in creative writing. These workshops also expand the thinking range of these students and them better in their academic work. As a result, many young writers have participated in and won writing competitions which are essential for building confidence.

Poetic Wednesday has used its online presence to drive narrative around pressing societal issues in Arewa. The works have been bold and daring, covering domestic violence, Almajirci, drug abuse, and girl-child education. The conservative toga around Northern Nigeria is regularly broken by the strength of the poetry published.

I have also had the opportunity of attending some of the physical poetry events. Asides from the big players in Kaduna, they have one of the best poetry events in Kaduna.

They have been able to collaborate and partner with several literary organizations such as The Art-Muse Fair, Open Arts, Ahmadu Bello University Arts Festival (ABUFEST), Poets In Nigeria (PIN), Creative Writers Club, ABU Zaria, Minna Book and Arts Festival (MinnaBAF), For The Love of Poetry, Campus Watch, The AlhanIslam Tutoring Center, Chapter One, Open Arts, Hausa International Book and Arts Festival and several others to support and promote literary activities.

I am glad to be part of their growth and successes. I don’t know where they get their drive from, but I appreciate the sacrifices of the young men and women behind the initiative. Long live Poetic Wednesday.

Namse Udosen wrote from Kaduna via namse.udosen@gmail.com.

Nigerian Universities lament…

Are we not akin to nursing mothers?

With maternal tenderness and compassion, we breed.

Etiquettes and knowledge in our students

Isn’t it from our breast they suckle?

The milk of freedom and wisdom

To enable them differentiate right from wrong

And to make their future bright

But melancholically,  with choppers, these tyrants unceasingly chopped off our udders.

Who delivers us from the clutches of tyrants in the jungle? 

Nigerian students lament

Dear Mother, beloved patron of our course.

In every whisper, they hear your anguish

In lieu of salvation, to the ground, they malevolently choose to turn their ears.

From the serenity of academic society, they always exile us

To the ennui of waiting idly in our parents’ home

When and what will halt this malice?

When do we have our basic rights to education?

Who will shake sense in the diseased brain of these monsters?

Who can deliver us from their shackles?

Inhabitants of Northern Nigeria lament.

Our beloved students and varsities

Your blues and agonies we are sorry for…

By her visage, we say the country is extremely sick

And remedy from the omnipotent Lord we should only seek 

Strong security measures they feigned

Yet in homes, our lives are at stake

We are famished but our  farmlands irrigate with our blood

Enroute to worship, work,  business places we are waylaid

Quotidian reports place our pogroms and theft at a toll of  hundreds of thousands rate

But to the mercy of the blood-sucking beast we are always left.

Chorus: God we are helpless in the hands of tyrants. 

Only You can deliver us from the clutches of their mischief…

Abba Muhammad Tawfiq is a 500L Medical Rehabilitation Student University Of Maiduguri.

By Maryam Muhammad Lawan

They both entered Ammi’s room with crestfallen faces.

“Ammi, I don’t know what’s wrong with this boy. I saw him in the afternoon wandering about the street with those ludicrous coteries and now with a gamepad instead of a book!” Yaaya exclaimed. 

Ammi sighed as if she could not utter a word.

I know she could, for she has been trying her best. Anis would only pick his book to study when Ammi sounds emphatic. Not sure if it’s hearty, for he would start to sleep shortly after he starts reading, and that will be the end. 

Yaaya broke the silence in the silent room with a query. “What exactly do you want?”

Mentorship! I answered the question for Anis quiescently.

 He continued, “Unless you straighten up and fly right, our efforts will be fruitless.”

Anis is blessed with a quick cognitive capacity but is prone to play.

 “I’ll try my best and make sure he get his acts together, but he’s listless now. Tomorrow will be a better day,” I said to myself. 

The Next Day

I stealthily entered Anis’s room and met him ironing his sport wears. 

 “This is supposed to be done before today, my friend,” I said teasingly.

 He replied amusingly, “I heard you, but not well. However, I may hear you well when you go out and say Assalaamu Alaikum.”

Deep down, I know he’s trying to requite, for this is always what I say whenever he bangs into my room without saying the Salaam. 

I went out, said the Salaam and entered. 

I soothingly asked about his preparation(s) for the forthcoming exams.

 “Which preparation?” He asked. “Y’all should know that this JAMB is just luck,” he added. 

“So you wrote the exams before, wow! What was your score? “I uttered innocuously. 

“Look, Anis, can you please give me a listening ear?” This time around, it’s more of motherly. 

He switched off the iron and turned his attention to me. 

“Last year, when I did my JAMB examination, were you not proud of my score? Were you not the one that added that to your status with ‘can ur sis be brilliant like this’ as the caption? Do you remember how that result trended? Why? It’s all because of the score, Anis. I wasn’t the only one that wrote JAMB that same year, but mine trended most.” Can you remember how I read hard? Why don’t you do that, Anis?”

The room was silent for a while.  

“There’s nothing like luck, except that in almost everything, there may be a refutation. Some candidates may prepare well, but fail, while others will pass without preparing, but this is a hen’s teeth. I want you to train hard and pray harder, please, dear. Will you do that? “ 

He astonishingly answered in the affirmation. 

“I remember how some students mocked us (me and my friends) just because we were preparing hard. How foolish? None of them scored more than 130. Karina was among them; she scored 98. I know you can still remember that. So, in case you come across those sets of people, get them the cold shoulder. But, eventually, we shall smile together,” I said. 

“It’s almost 7:30 am. Let me leave before your school bus arrives. Peace out, bro, I said and added “no procrastination please,” when exiting out of the room. 

“Anis!! I shall celebrate with you as well, “I said this when I saw him reading voraciously after coming back from Islamiya in the evening. 

I could see happiness in Ammi’s and Yaaya’s faces. 

It’s time for the Maghrib prayers, so the young boy must keep everything and pray. 

He stood up while uttering, “So help us, God.” I wasn’t the only one that said “Ameen.”

Yaaya was at the parlour, ready to move on to the mosque, while Ammi was there to pick the phone she left at the dining table. I, Yaaya and Ammi said that Ameen happily.  

The young boy moved on to the restroom to perform his ablution.

 He held Ammi and Yaaya in awe, they happily prayed for him, and they both left. 

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

By Uzair Adam Imam

Looking at her eyes, it was clear that the decision taken by her parents wasn’t favourable. Soon, a shiver began to run down my spine that I couldn’t help standing, but fell to my knees. My hands supported my head, and I quickly sank deeply into the thought of how our love led to the ruination.

Hot-felt tears had already begun racing down my innocent cheeks; I felt drunk with the world playing magic to me, turning around like a bicycle wheel peddled by a fast rider. However, I couldn’t tell about happenings around me.

I got started when her soft hands held both of mine tightly. She lifted me and drew me closer to her; then she whispered into my ears: “I can’t let you go, dear,” she said with her engrossing eyes which tore my heart out looking into mine, then continued “, All creatures have various can’t do-without things. Your love is to me as water is to a fish.”

“It’s indeed known to everyone that we love each other and no word can describe our relationship – it’s, without a doubt, incalculable and immeasurable,” I responded, paused, cleared my throat and continued, “this is our destiny, and we’ve no option but to accept it.”

“I have an idea,” she said.

“What can that be?” I quickly interrogated.

“We shouldn’t run away to save our love and get a secret marriage elsewhere,” she suggested.

“Certainly no! Love is a sacrifice, and now it’s my turn to pay you back, for I’m indebted to you beyond the settlement,” I said rather emotionally and added, “if you really love me, accept it.”

“I do for your sake. But a favour, please! Don’t forget me for whatsoever reason. For me, you’re undeletable; the blood that pumps by my heart and circulates in me.” She retorted hopefully with misty eyes.

“I won’t!” I said. “You’re indeed unforgettable. Even though the thought of losing you would have soon killed me, my life won’t be for nothing because I have very good news for my friends and relatives who have gotten their residence permit in the great beyond many years now – the story of our exemplary love,” I managed to say though in a shaky voice.

For the uncertainty on when our next meeting shall be again, we departed after getting our point across to each other. I stood to leave but only to feel forcefully halted; as I turned, it was her hand clutching the tail end of my kaftan. She smiled, then words flowed on her blessed lips, “we’re destined to each other. So I know we’ll reunite again.”

Her words created in me the reflection of the stream of affection we’ve passed through. No love tangle had ever existed in our voyage since we began crushing on each other. So that our relationship had always been quarrel-free, I found it difficult to reply to her words. Instead, I nodded and smiled warmly. But inside me, my mind grew heavier and my heartbeat at the rate of three times a second or so, I thought, making me doubt my chest’s ability to bear it.

I didn’t wait for a taxi or bus. Therefore, I made for home and arrived after a trek of more than an hour. I entered my dilapidated room, laid on my ramshackle and crumpled bed with my head conveniently placed atop a decaying pillow made of dirty old clothes, looking high up to the dusty and unworkable ceiling fan. I was, all this while, trying to discard the thought of my execrable situation with which I became like a conjoined-twin, but yet failed. My heart was enveloped with the flashback of my first encounter with Aisha, to mention her name.

After four years of silence, one blessed Monday on my way to call on my friend, I saw a pretty girl of about eighteen, the apparel of whom I instantly admired, the beauty of whom shouted for attention. I tried but failed to hide my surprise that was now all over my face, so she couldn’t notice.

As she came nearer, the pleasant scent of the Malaysian perfume, she wore struck my nostrils. She gave me an attractive, though tricky, smile.

The girl alluringly passed by without uttering a word. Her beauty is indeed beyond description. But, to my utmost surprise, seeing the girl for a brief moment, I suddenly began to feel a strange feeling descending on me. I couldn’t figure out the meaning of this peculiar feeling, but a few days later, I got to know what the feeling was all about. And I also came to know her name and her address.

She lives in a mansion and is fathered by a well-known rich man in Kano. My heart was full of fear of rejection. But interestingly enough, I was lucky! My proposal was accepted.

In the spot of our existence, we became the talk of the town, whereas our relationship travelled far on the lips of our contemporaries. Thus, she couldn’t deny me a gingering and auspicious text if she denied me her face, and so did I.

Nevertheless, no sooner had her parents stood on our path than we started calculating the ramification that led to the break-off of this journey. Love, from then, proved itself bitter, not better since it produced something short of sweet. Indeed we’re knifed apart as our dreams fell apart.

Uzair Adam Imam writes from Kano and can be reached through uzairadamimam@gmail.com.

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)

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 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 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