The Secret of the Niger (2): The Riot and the Visitor
By: Peregrino Brimah
2014-07-14 12:10
Whenever Sule woke early in the morning, he heard Daddy reciting
the Quran in a most beautiful sing-song tone. Daddy had a golden
voice. Was Daddy up all night? What time did daddy get up to start
this recital? Sule always wondered, but no matter how early he
woke before the sun was up, daddy was already there, on the mat,
left shoulder propping him, eyes closed, reciting the Quran in
such a melancholy, melodious tone, with pitches and falls that
sounded like a naturally changing climate. Dad would open his
eyes; see Sule and smile, while beckoning to him to come close;
wrap his arm around him while never losing his rhythm. It was a
feeling like those warm rainy nights when he could hear mom
calling his name; only if mom was here.
Dad had built an unshakeable fascination with religion in Sule. His
stories were simply amazing. Once he told Sule that he could
perform magic. Sule’s eyes were wide open. “Any Muslim can
perform magic,” Dad had said. “I can move this table here.” “Move
it, move it,” Sule had demanded. “No, why do so?” Dad
responded. “I only use my powers when I absolutely need to. You
see so many Muslims have used their powers in the past to do
wonderful things, but you do not want to waste the power. Today
many use their powers for very bad things.” Sule was left
dreaming of this magical power. He wanted to be just like his dad,
but he also dreamt of something else, something far off that he
couldn’t quite recognize. “You are dreaming again!” His dad jolted
him back to reality. “It’s time for makaranta!”
Makaranta
The thirty something boys were reciting at the tops of their voices.
Makaranta was a bunch of tattered rubber mats that were moved
around to catch the shade under a big tree at a corner of a large
compound. Malami sat in front and all the kids formed a half
circle around him, sitting on the hard, dusty, stony floor with
flattened and torn paper thin mats that barely separated bottom
from sand.
Malam trained the students to read in Arabic; they had to learn to
read the entire 6236 verses-long Quran. This part of their
education took the first two to three years. Then they learned
several books of ‘Fiqh’ (the understanding of the Quran and the
wisdom of Muslim conduct and societal structure and
jurisprudence). This part of the training took a few years and
could literally last a life time. There is a ceremony as soon as you
first complete reading the entire Quran in Arabic. Sule was excited;
he was graduating this stage next week. Hamza was lagging behind.
They both started together, but Hamza missed many weeks of
school whenever he ran away from home. That could not happen
to Sule, because he had the ‘best dad in the world.’
As they recited at the top of their voices, Sule picked a drone in
the background. He couldn’t quite make out what it was. Later the
other boys noticeably picked it up too. They started getting excited
and distracted as the rumble got louder and louder. ‘Thwack!’ was
the sound of Malam’s whip cracking on the ground in their midst.
“Read!” he commanded. “You want to feel my whip?” Then they
saw the first rioter run across the open gate; and then another and
several more. It was a riot. “Jihad, Jihad,” the boys running
outside were calling out. By now all the boys at makaranta were on
their feet. “Go straight home!” Malam ordered. The boys
scampered out of the yard. Someone said something about a
Christian teacher having touched a Quran or something. They
weren’t quite sure what it was about, but who really cared? Most of
the boys joined the rioters. “It’s the Jihad,” Sule thought. “The
world had come to an end. It’s time to fight for Allah.” Sule
remembered his last riot experience – it was quite fun.
They were running to the market place. Boys were setting fires.
Everyone picked up a branch. Sule too picked a branch. He wasn’t
quite sure what for but he did so. They were waving down cars. A
car almost hit a boy as it sped-by, refusing to stop. Shops were
ablaze in the central market. People were making away with market
wares. And then things started getting rough. A group of men
came to fight off the rioters. Someone fired a shot. Sule was not
sure whether he ran or tumbled more as he scuttled his way
home.
Alhaji was standing at the door with another tall dark man. There
was a grim look on Alhaji’s face. “Where were you, Sule?” he
barked. “Did you join the riots?” Sule looked down. “Come inside
now, do you want to kill your father! Haven’t I told you never to
join the riots?” After some more scolding and stern warnings from
his dad and the tall visitor who apparently was Sule’s uncle, Sule
was sent off to wash himself and join the two for dinner.
“The problem is who are we?” Sule’s uncle was saying. “What is a
nation? Where is our nation? What is a man today? I work every
day but barely make a living. I thank Allah for my life-- but where
is the hope? Where is the pride? Where is the hope for our
children? What does the future have for them-- are my children
going to be Okada riders like me?” Okada riders, was the name
given to motorcycle commercial transporters. “But you are making
a decent living in Abia, are you not?” Alhaji asked Uncle. “I think it
is better for you there than for us here.” “Here and there, there is
no future for our kind. The world has frowned on us. We come
from a wealthy Kano heritage, but today, we are cobblers, we are
garbage men, we are water carriers. We are no more than
‘amenities’ (in the society). Many are content with this life, but I
think we need to find who we are. We need to find our national
value.” “You think too much,” daddy told him. “Live on the earth
as though every day is your last, the noble Prophet taught us. Is
that not enough for us?” “But do we not pray to have in this life as
well as the next? I do not believe any people should lack
opportunity. Our name and even our religion is being soiled by
our attitude-- and all this violence. This is far from our great
history. This should never be so. Our generation has failed to find
our destiny; perhaps these younger ones will succeed and find
our true place, where we could not. We need to give them the
opening. Maybe they will discover the answer, the reason.”
Sule remembered Uncle. He always came to talk to dad about
politics and social matters till late into the night. Uncle smiled at
Sule. “How are your studies?” he asked. “Fine, uncle,” Sule
responded. “Why do you call us Kano people when we are
Kanuri?” Sule asked. It had always been on his mind. “We are
Kano,” uncle responded. “Your grand father was from Borno, but
we are Kano.” He continued. Sule knew not to pry any further.
“Perhaps he’ll understand these things later; he sure didn’t now.
“Have you told him?” Uncle asked dad. “What?” Sule interjected
eagerly. “Your uncle is taking you to Abia,” dad answered. “You are
sending me away! No daddy!” Sule ran to hug his dad. “I’m sorry
for joining the riots, I will never do it again, please do not send
me away, Alhaji.”
“I am not sending you away, my son. I will never send you away.
You are all I have left. Your uncle believes you will have better
opportunity in Abia. You will learn the English you always wished
to learn there. You may even get an education.” Something felt
tight in Sule’s chest. The tears started to swell up in his eyes. He
never knew his mom and now it felt like he was losing his dad
too-- and all his friends. He could see in dads resigned eyes that
the decision was already made. “After you graduate next week, we
will be travelling to Abia together.” His uncle finalized. “You will
like it there. You will help with the work and make new friends.
You are a man now.” As Sule packed the dishes to wash, it felt like
the saddest day of his life.
A little story, a little while, discover the Secret of the Niger.
Unedited, from a book in writing.
To be continued…