FreeFreeDescription
Translation in English
The one who lived in my words even before I wrote, the one who existed between every line of this story. My dear Brother Muhammad Inuwa Ahmad, whom Allah tested with the disability of deafness, not because He does not love him. You’ll always remain an irreplaceable treasure in our lives, a beloved person in our hearts.
01... It was a time when the sun was casting its bright rays across the vast sky. Around one-forty in the afternoon.
The heat was so intense that those blessed by Allah with air conditioning in their cars turned them on, rolling up their car windows for relief. However, those inside commercial tricycles (Keke NAPEP), motorcycles, and bicycles caught in the heavy traffic had to press their palms against their sweaty skin to wipe away the profuse sweat brought on by the long wait under the scorching sun.
The commotion of people calling out to clear the road failed to register in her mind because her heart was already heavy with worry. Her eyes were fixed on some children who had just been dismissed from school. She watched them chatting with their peers in joyful spirits and good health.
Only when they disappeared from her sight did she shift her gaze to a little boy wearing a new school uniform and holding a brand-new blue lunch box, jumping around at the entrance of their school. A smile escaped her lips without her realizing it, and she softly murmured, "Just like my Muftee." She was certain he couldn't be more than three or four years old.
She clutched the envelope she was holding against her chest, continuing to watch the boy with admiration until a man walked toward him. Upon catching sight of him, the boy began to jump with joy, and from where she stood, she could hear the sound of his sweet little voice saying, "Yay, Abba!"
The man walked up, scooped him up, and tossed him into the air before catching him, pure joy evident on his face. He placed the boy in front of his motorcycle; the little boy waved to his schoolmates as his father started the bike and turned toward a traffic-free route leading home. They departed happily, untouched by the punishing heat melting in their hearts.
She felt the warmth of tears on her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe them, turning her attention back ahead to see how the traffic congestion was clearing. However, the shouting match between a large truck driver who had taken the wrong lane to unload goods in front of a major shop, and a motorcyclist who swerved to avoid him and ended up hitting a tricycle and tearing off its side mirror, showed no signs of an immediate peaceful resolution.
"Everything in this life requires patience. If they would just clear the way for people, we could all get to our urgent destinations," the woman sitting in the middle of the tricycle muttered.
"Hajjia, so will you pay for the damage if he doesn't stop to claim his rights?" the tricycle rider turned to face the elderly woman sitting between them, scratching his ear with a small scrap he had picked up off the floor.
"What do we have to do with this that our way should be blocked?" she retorted.
The young woman sitting on the other side of the elderly lady had her eyes glued to her phone, constantly clicking her tongue in annoyance. That is life—everyone has their own worries.
She shifted her gaze back to the envelope in her hand. If only they knew the magnitude of her urgency, that alone would have sufficed to sprinkle cold water on their hearts and clear the path. It wasn't that she could simply step down and walk the rest of the way, as she still had a long journey ahead. Moreover, she didn't have the extra money for another ride; she had even had to pool Khausar’s small change just to afford the fare to and fro.
Her greatest hope was that when she finally met the people she was going to see, they would grant her request. Doing so would save two lives, and she would spend the rest of her life thanking them.
On the other end, there was someone genuinely convinced that his own urgency—if combined with that of everyone intending to use that route—wouldn't even equal a tenth of his own. That was why, despite honking continuously and filling their ears until some drivers temporarily gave up their air-conditioned comfort to step out into the heat and voice their frustration, it didn't register with him. He wasn't listening because, just like them, his car windows were rolled up.
"If one could fly across, why didn't you attach wings to your car?" someone shouted, walking up to the side where he hoped to catch a glimpse of the driver, only to see a man wearing heavily tinted glasses.
In the brief interim, the brawlers were pacified and moved to the side, and the road began to clear. Those at the very front started their vehicles, ready to leave at the first opportunity. But for someone who felt every wasted second widened the chasm between him and sewing back together the thread of his life—preventing it from tearing apart completely at a moment he felt his secrets were fully exposed and the world had left him bare—such a person manufactures their own path, even when everyone tells them it is impossible.
Through a narrow gap wide enough only for motorcycles and children's bicycles, he spotted the clearance through which his Highlander could squeeze through. Without consulting anyone, he floored the gas pedal and blasted his horn. As he zoomed past, the people in the middle of the traffic jam felt the rush of wind against their faces, their chests pounding in panic as they thanked God he didn't run right over them. Even those on the roadside stared open-mouthed at the dust trail left behind by his car as he swiftly vanished from view.
"Look at that fool!" "What a senseless idiot!"
Those were just a few of the abusive words echoing from people's mouths before the dust settled. Yet, those who couldn't afford to waste time followed his lead on foot, pushing through the path he had forced open to resume their daily lives after the delay.
By the time they reached the location she had described—after dropping off the young woman in front of a beauty shop—the tricycle rider didn't stop grumbling about the car that had zoomed past them earlier. In every line of his rant, he cursed the wealthy and their arrogance. If she had been in her right frame of mind, she would have told him that without some of those wealthy people, many individuals whom Allah had not provided alternative solutions for would not survive. People like Muftee.
She stepped down, paid her fare, and walked toward the security guards stationed according to the directions she had been given, struggling to pull the document from the envelope she had been guarding.
"Good day, officer," she greeted them respectfully.
They all chorused their replies and gave her their full attention to listen to what she had to say. She stepped closer to the nearest one, handing over one of the documents while saying, "I am looking for Hajjia Surayyah Kagarko. She told me to come and meet her here."
He carefully examined the paper. It was a hospital document detailing the medical history of a four-year-old patient named Ibrahim Hashimu Baniza. She bit her lower lip, waiting for his response and wondering if he would figure out she was lying. Her neighbor in the children's ward—whose daughter occupied the bed next to theirs—had advised her to claim she was invited rather than begging for a favor, and had even given her the name of the woman who visited the hospital. Coincidentally, that was the same day she had taken Muftee home to bathe him and rest before his doctor arrived in the evening, since there was no one else with him and his IV drip had been removed.
Whenever they were asked to include children in the list for medical sponsorship, the organization refused. Knowing local fraud tendencies, they strictly declined to use patient information without seeing the patient in person. By the time she was called back to the hospital, they had already left.
Ever since that day, she had been struggling to find a way for them to review her case because she desperately needed assistance. Only through their support could Muftee receive proper treatment and sustain long-term health. She had even scraped together some money to give to people who promised to connect her with the A&I Support Organization, but it all proved abortive—and distribution of the aid was rumored to start tomorrow.
"You know where to find her, right?"
His question surprised her because she had expected him to ask further questions before letting her in. Hence, while repeating silent prayers, she scrambled to gather words to convince whoever was necessary before reaching Hajjia Surayyah.
She found herself nodding as he handed the document back. She could not afford even a second of delay unless strictly necessary. She knew that no matter what, once she got inside and made her inquiry, it wouldn't be in vain.
He reached behind him and pushed open the gate wide, saying, "Go ahead, may Allah grant healing and relief."
As she replied with an "Ameen" and expressed her gratitude, she slipped halfway inside. She paused to survey the compound. It was moderately large, resembling a private school or hospital. Shifting her gaze from the line of parked cars to the exterior offices—each labeled with a nameplate on mostly closed doors—she finally fixed her eyes on the massive building standing straight ahead, as if waiting for her arrival. A bold sign was mounted across the top of the building: A&I SUPPORT ORGANIZATION.
"A&I," she whispered the two letters on her tongue just as the phone inside her small purse began to ring. She tucked the large envelope under her right armpit, opened her purse, pulled out a keypad Itel phone, and pressed the answer button after checking the caller ID.
"Hello, Khausar."
"Yes, Aunty Ilham." The connection wasn't private, so the response came through loud and clear.
"How did it go?"
"Did you make it there?" Khausar asked, stating the reason for her call.
"Yes, I just arrived. But I haven't seen her yet. How is Muftee's condition?"
"He's a bit better," Khausar replied, adding, "May Allah grant success and help you find what you're looking for."
"Ameen," Ilham answered, feeling comforted by the prayer. "Let me go inside. We'll talk later. Tell little Mimi that my son sends his greetings."
"He went back to sleep, but he'll hear it when he wakes up, Insha Allah."
"Thank you, Khausar. May Allah reward you with Jannah."
"Ameen, Aunty." With that, she disconnected the call, returned the phone to her purse, and headed toward a junction of her destiny that would pull the past and future together to seal them in a way no one—not even herself—could have anticipated.
She stopped at the reception desk and handed over her documents just as she had at the gate, repeating that Hajjia Surayyah Kagarko had told her to come. Not just her heart, but her very intestines churned while a phone call was made to summon Hajjia Surayyah.
"What is your name?" the receptionist asked, pulling the phone slightly away from his ear.
Quickly, she replied, "Amina Usman Jen, mother of Ibrahim Hashim Baniza."
He returned the phone to his ear, repeated everything she had said, and listened in silence for a few seconds before saying "Okay" and dropping the phone.
"She said you should wait, she has guests."
She muttered a silent praise to God, answered "Okay" out loud, thanked him, and headed toward one of the waiting chairs lined up in the reception area.
"Excuse me, ma'am, there are guests coming for an inspection today, please wait outside."
She didn't mind and nodded understandingly. Although she was beginning to enjoy the cool AC inside, getting her request fulfilled mattered more than wishful thinking.
She stepped outside, finding a shaded spot beneath a neem tree where she could watch people entering and exiting.
One hour, two hours, three... From standing up, she eventually found a spot right on the interlocking tiles and sat flat on the ground. When the afternoon prayer call reached her ears, she stood up and anxiously hurried back to the reception, worried she might have been blown off.
She intercepted the receptionist just as he was preparing to leave for the mosque, looking ready for ablution.
"Please, has she come out yet?" she asked, pressing her dry lips together.
He had completely forgotten she was waiting. "They are having a meeting, that's why. But since it's prayer time, I know they'll be coming out soon."
Lowering her voice further, she asked, "Please, where can I perform ablution and pray?"
"Let me give you a prayer mat. Go around the back from the outside, there are restrooms and a tap."
"Thank you so much." A smile appeared on a face worn out by the harsh sun and life's hardships.
"Oh, it's nothing," he replied, fetching the prayer mat. She thanked him repeatedly and followed his directions to observe her obligatory prayers.
When she finished, she remained seated on her prayer mat, continuing to pour out her heart to God, praising Him and pleading through His mercy to set things right.
She caught sight of a tall, fair-skinned, moderately built woman hurrying out with a phone pressed to her ear. She then spotted the same receptionist trailing behind her, eyes scanning the area to spot her.
Fortunately, his eyes landed on her where she sat. He gestured with his finger toward the woman heading for one of the parked cars, mouthing silently, "That's her."
Luckily, she understood. Springing up instantly, she rushed toward the woman before she could get into her car, knowing this was her absolute last chance.
"Hajjia, for the sake of Allah, please help my son," she pleaded, nearly dropping to her knees and clasping her hands together in supplication.
The woman, whose demeanor also suggested stress or anxiety, quickly lifted her up, saying, "My sister, please bear with me, an emergency has come up too. But come back tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. I promise to listen to whatever you have brought."
With that, she stepped into the driver's seat, keeping the phone to her ear without hanging up, and asked, "Which hospital was she admitted to?... Medi-plus?... I'm on my way." That was all Ilham heard before the woman pulled her car door shut.
MEDI-PLUS HOSPITAL, KADUNA.
"If after all my efforts this still happens, then what is the point?" He punctuated the sharpness of his question by waving a hand in the air, his eyes slowly sweeping over every living soul standing there, as if searching for an answer.
No one had the courage to talk back. Although some people there were old enough to be his parents, that didn't give them the confidence to speak, knowing he wouldn't listen anyway. He wouldn't heed them; he would act purely on what his raging heart dictated. No matter what excuses they brought forward, if it concerned Ikram, he wouldn't look at it.
Most of them offered a single silent prayer: that Allah would bring Surayyah quickly, because she was the only one who could sometimes manage him.
Given the intense anguish in his chest over Ikram's condition earlier before his eyes, nothing could soothe that fire right now unless the hands of a clock could turn backward to prevent the accident from happening in the first place. But seeing how they stood silently before him only further enraged him.
"If our upkeep is too much for you, just say so and I'll take my daughter and leave your house!"
"I swear, we would finally have peace from this trauma and mis..." The woman standing beside her clapped a hand over her mouth with a finger, making her abruptly swallow the rest of her sentence. She reached up to rub the spot where the heat had begun to sting her lips.
"Stop letting him see you or we're doomed, Huda," the woman whispered, covering her mouth with her palm just in case he glanced over and realized what she was saying.
Huda pouted and continued enduring the rant he was unleashing, having no other choice. Everyone knew that once things calmed down, if he realized someone wasn't present at that moment, he could easily blacklist them and cut off their funding. He strictly had no patience for anyone who didn't care about Ikram.
Their sighs of relief became visible when they spotted Surayyah approaching. God was witness that they were tired of an argument that dragged on endlessly like a blind fowl's egg-laying struggle.
She walked straight up to him, making sure he saw her before she took both his warm hands in hers. His skin was taut, veins bulging across his neck and bare head, which no longer had enough hair to conceal them.
Softly, her lips parted: "Calm down, Abdulhameed."
She knew that whenever she held his hands, he couldn't pull away, no matter what. Because back when he desperately needed someone to hold his hand, she had held on and never let go to this day.
"Aunty Surayyah, just one little girl, my only request. Yet nearly 20 people failed to look after a single child aged 3 years, 8 months, and 4 days. On top of the disability Allah placed on her, our carelessness added another. Have we done justice to her mother?"
Surayyah heard the heavy hiss someone among them let out, but she ignored it to prevent his attention from shifting there. Instead, she tightened her grip on his wrists, even though her long fingers couldn't wrap all the way around them.
"There was certainly negligence, but this is also the decree of the Almighty, Abdulhameed. Even if all of us had gathered around her at that moment, if Allah had already decreed that Kiki would fall and sprain her wrist, it would happen. Please bear with it."
She watched something move in his throat as he struggled to swallow his anger.
For the umpteenth time, she reminded herself that in this world, some people benefit from the kindness shown to others, and a truly noble person never forgets a good deed. Without saying anything further, she slowly released his hands back to his left and right sides. He simply turned and walked back toward the door of the room he had just left—the room where half his soul was admitted in a critical state. He turned the door handle, pushed it open gently, and closed it behind him upon entering, needing no company. But because Surayyah asked him to calm down, he had obeyed.
Following him with their eyes until he vanished from sight, Aunty Surayyah mused to herself that Soybean Milk was what bought her that privilege.
Soybean milk.
Summary
The narrative opens with a touching dedication to the author's brother, Muhammad Inuwa Ahmad, who lives with a hearing impairment.
The story shifts to a scorching afternoon in a bustling city choked with heavy traffic. Ilham, a struggling mother, sits inside a commercial tricycle carrying an envelope containing a medical file. Her mind is heavy with desperation as she watches schoolchildren and a joyful toddler with his father, drawing a mental parallel to her own sick young son, Muftee. Burdened by poverty and a looming hospital deadline, Ilham is on a mission to reach the A&I Support Organization to secure financial aid for Muftee's medical treatment.
After a frustrating journey through traffic and a long, grueling wait at the foundation's office, she manages a brief, desperate plea with Hajjia Surayyah Kagarko, who promises to grant her a hearing the next morning.
Meanwhile, the scene cuts to Medi-Plus Hospital, Kaduna, where an intensely grief-stricken and furious man named Abdulhameed is lashing out at medical staff and caregivers over a tragic accident involving a young disabled girl named Ikram. Amidst the tension and anger, Surayyah arrives and manages to calm Abdulhameed down through a quiet, steadfast bond. The chapter closes introducing the complex web of struggles, emotional burdens, and interconnected destinies tying these characters together.
Description
- Setting: A congested, sun-scorched Nigerian city street filled with vehicular traffic, transitioning to the offices of the A&I Support Organization and later to the high-end Medi-Plus Hospital in Kaduna.
- Atmosphere: Heavy, tense, empathetic, and desperate. The oppressive heat of the afternoon mirrors the emotional and financial pressure bearing down on the characters.
- Key Themes: Poverty versus wealth, maternal desperation, disability, emotional trauma, sacrifice, and the fragile intersection of human lives through unexpected circumstances.
Analytics
- Narrative Structure: Dual-perspective storytelling (following Ilham's desperate struggle for her son's medical aid on one end, and Abdulhameed's grief-fueled anger over Ikram's accident at a hospital on the other).
- Character Archetypes:
- Ilham: The resilient, impoverished, and exhausted mother fighting against all odds for her child's survival.
- Abdulhameed: A fiercely protective, wealthy yet deeply traumatized figure whose world revolves around a vulnerable child.
- Surayyah: The calming, diplomatic mediator who holds influence over volatile situations.
- Pacing: Slow and atmospheric, utilizing descriptive sensory details (the scorching heat, traffic gridlock, physical exhaustion) to build high emotional stakes before converging toward a dramatic intersection of fates.
