Zaria's Wind

My bowl remains glued to my hands as the wind rages—biting the heat from my ears and toes while I struggle with Kwansa, Ali, Fasal, and Bako, our bodies cramping in the blanket’s feeble covering. Kwansa’s chattering teeth challenge the deafening howls of the wind assault on the walls. Like every other night since harmattan began, we tussle with the wind, and the spoils of war are our bodies' warmth, lest we lose our vitality into the vast coffers of the floor’s chill. 

Mallam Isa’s Adhan interrupts our battle with the cold, breaking our slumber as we groggily rise. Heading to the mosque’s prayer grounds, the morning’s haze makes our procession a daunting task, stinging our eyes and stripping away the warmth we shared in our alcove. Zaria’s wind juggles the bowls on our necks—earnestly awaiting their turns to be filled—halfway and never full. 

Kwansa complains about his stomach, whimpering that he barely slept. Kwansa is the most vocal and smallest in stature, quick to ask for alms and wielding eyes so dark that they defy the night. His singing fervor is incessant—carrying the melody of his rumbling stomach.

Mallam Isa, our Qur’anic tutor, with a face housing a dry goatee that struggles for prominence with his nose, awaits our arrival. His words when Kwansa made his plight known, come to stand at attention in my mind. That day respawns in my memory because my belly rumbled till it could barely whisper, and I cursed my empty bowl. 

I will say there’s little I remember, not even the days with my family nor the face of my little sister. My mother, who looked away, afraid of her son’s eyes but terrified of her husband’s wrath, fails to elicit resonance in my memory. But I remember the days when hunger plagued us with unceasing fervor and the absence of the young women who were always quick to open their purses. 

I remember those days and Mallam Isa’s grimace as he said, “Ulcer kuma, Allah ya Baka lafiya.” Still, he turned away and promised an evening meal, which never materialized. 

Fajr ends, and we wait for the day to commence before executing our formation. Ali, quick to set out, takes Shuaibu Street, the first street that houses the mosque; Faisal, with his sweet tongue, takes Rufansi, the next street with bigger houses. Bako, the tallest with long limbs, opts for Lungu, the back alley, where beggars dwell, and competition is stiff, but he relishes the challenge and is ever so quick to grapple with other boys. Kwansa chooses the path where the women sell food, Habibu Avenue, and I am tasked with roaming Afegbua Street, where Bashigas lay aplenty. 

The sun emerges, yet the winds deter its notions of superiority—gathering dust as my lips and skin wither. I wander from door to door, singing with the entirety of my lungs. 

Wahidi, 

Sadaka Hajiya, 

Dan Allah taimoko, 

Wahidi, 

Wahidi Sadaka Hajiya,

Komai Sanyi yayi yawa, 

Dan manzon Allah,

Wahidi.

On the days when we’re bestowed with great luck, our bowls run full with spare change in our pockets, even finding chewable leftovers in bins at doors and gates. Yet there are days when our songs fall on deaf ears. Those days are akin to the month of Ramadan when we find succor at the end of the day’s fast.

Faisal, thin-limbed with a round face bearing honey-dew eyes, carries a voice that elicits pity, drawing the staunchest hearts to open purses and bless his bowl with spare change. Mallam Isa is always quick to sing his praises during our Quran recitation lessons, complimenting his voice, which will soothe hearts to gather in haste for prayers. For us, they soothe hearts for our meals, and my stomach appreciates his talents.

At noon, which fails to differ much from other days, I sing at a brown gate. A young man, who looks out of place in this vicinity and probably doesn’t know more than ten words in Hausa, drops a five-naira note in my bowl to stop my song’s assault on his ears. 

“Nagode Oga, Allah ya biya, Allah ya taimake ka!” I heartily proclaim and head over to the neighboring house to resume my song, disappointing his expectations that I would go out of his earshot. 

Unfortunately, my stomach races against my voice, and I unconsciously wager on which of them will be the first to give in. Will it be the exhaustion or the loss of my voice?

Exiting the street, I watch Faisal follow a man of ample proportions in a dust-colored kaftan to a large house. I want to run to them, but my sore legs threaten my curiosity. So, I sit under a tree, eating the twenty-naira dankali I purchased with my rewards from today’s operatic bout, while my mind rummages for a lie I have to tell Mallam Isa for coming back with only ten-naira. 

Soon, I am lost in the world of dreams, where I am fed till my stomach pleads for mercy, but I keep shoveling food down, finishing a large bottle of Fanta before Zuhr’s call to prayer yanks me to reality. I vaguely spot Kwansa heading to the mosque with Bako and Ali. Dragging my tired legs, I take after them, fearful of Mallam Isa’s painful beatings if I am late.

Faisal doesn’t join us, and we search for him, fearing the beatings he will face from Mallam Isa, while Ali seethes, grousing that Faisal’s enjoying a nice meal. 

“I will knock his head when I see him,” Bako grumbles as we poke from street to street. 

Ali briefly mutters about how much Faisal must have eaten before I recall the image of the rotund man in the dust-colored Kaftan holding Faisal's hand.

The boys and I run to the compound, Kwansa and I in fright; Ali and Bako muttering vague utterances about what Faisal must be eating without sharing. A black gate bars us, spanning to the sky almost as if it exclaims, “You cannot enter!”

An idea comes alight in my tinkering box, and I begin to sing, and soon the boys join in: Kwansa with his shrilly tone, Ali with his nasal cacophonous voice that has seen him chased from compounds, and Bako with the early vestiges of his sonorous vocals. 

Soon enough, my plan comes to fruition, and the gateman emerges, opening the unbreakable gate with a petulant stare that does injustice to his thin face and bald head while a stick lays in his hand. 

Pointing the stick at us, he commands us to leave, emitting profanities that will make children blush, but alas, profanities are merely rhymes to us.

“I am looking for my brother,” I tell him 

“Your brother is not here, and don’t come here to beg again. You little thieves.”

“But the man in the dust-coloured kaftan took him inside today,” I insist.

His eyes open in fright, and he adjusts with haste, taking closer steps as I huddle away. 

“If you repeat those words to anyone, you will die.” He threatens in a quiet tone while we watch with fear. 

Kwansa tugs at my worn shirt and shakes his head before muttering. “Let’s go.” I stare at the ugly gateman, wondering if I could succeed with darting past his legs, but what if Faisal is no longer here?

So, we walk away with bowed heads in defeat, without our brother, while Ali and Bako’s silence competes with the sound of our feet. 

The days pass while our hunger persists, and Faisal remains lost. His voice is one I start to forget while hunger eats away at the memory of him. In time, I will forget his face, and only his name will remain if hunger doesn’t devour that memory.

We reported Faisal’s disappearance to Mallam Isa and spoke of the man who took him. His eyes widened upon hearing about those events, but he swiftly hit my head with his stick, saying we’re quick to lie and bothering him with false tales. 

In time, Mallam Isa continued his life; Faisal is just one of the dozens he tutors.

“The wind took him,” Kwansa blurts on a whim with a defeated tone one cold evening, interrupting our musings about the meals we’d like to eat in our dreams. 

“Stop saying rubbish,” Ali replies.

I stare at Kwansa as he glares at the floor, ignoring Bako’s calls to come share our threadbare blanket. At that moment, I never pondered what his words would mean, but they were heavy in utterance, foreshadowing our fate.

A month later, Bako disappeared.

I do not know for certain my exact years in this world, but I know the feel of my bowl, the scratches and carvings I have made in expectation of food, the words of the Quran I have memorized, and the number of times I have fasted. Everyone fasts during Ramadan, and I have known frequent fasts where the prayers that leave my lips are only pleadings for Allah to send food. 

Yesterday, Ali didn’t show up in the evening. 

Kwansa waned upon hearing me relay the news. As we huddled close in our blanket that bore less weight but left us at war with the cold, Kwansa began speaking. 

“This afternoon, a fat man with a sparse stubble on his chin handed me a five-hundred note and insisted he had another five-hundred naira for me if I went along with him to his room and carried his dust bin.”

“I remembered your warning to look out for a heavyset man, but I was hungry and tired. Besides, I had been calling, ‘Akwai aiki’ asking for work around the street.”

I listened in silence as his voice filled the world surrounding us, bearing a weight I had never seen on him, even though he had always been the one to speak without hesitation.

“Of course, I followed him, overjoyed because my hands have never touched that amount of money, hearing only of what I could buy with that amount.”

Kwansa paused, his eyes closed, as he began trembling, but he continued.

“His room was dark and stuffy, with menacing walls like they seemed to squeeze you. He closed the door swiftly despite his size and put his arm on my mouth, warning me to keep quiet, and then I knew he was a bad man.”

“At the end, he gave me a thousand naira note and pushed me out. Each step I took saw pain greater than my stomach pangs, but I kept moving.”

I stared at his broken fingernails, and I couldn’t understand, but I knew he was hurt, his eyes puffy with vestiges of dried tears on his face. What happened to him? But I was afraid to ask, terrified to lose my brother.

“There is a place,” Kwansa begins speaking once more as he shivers. 

I hold him close and hope my body’s heat slows his shivering, but his touch startles me. With a dawning realization, I fear he has no strength left in him, yet he speaks.

“The wind takes you to a place where you no longer remember what it feels to be warm, cold, and hungry. Faisal is there, and so are Bako and Ali– ” 

“There is no such place!” I interrupt with my voice raised at him, hoping to save his strength, but his shivers have reduced, and I can hear his breathing—steady, unlike the howl of the wind. 

In the morning, Kwansa was gone, and I was left with the blanket. 

“The wind took him,” I accused with chattering teeth. 

Today, I am deaf to the rumblings of my stomach, deaf to the noise of the world, hearing only the wind as I heed its calling—a place where my brothers dwell. 

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