Yola Hill, Kano! Anguwace’s father is new to the area, and there aren’t many people around. Unfinished buildings under construction and new houses that have yet to be built dot the landscape.
The house I live in is painted a milky white color. When you look at our house, it’s adjacent to the family house. Our house has a spacious courtyard with a beautiful, large mango tree at its center. The house consists of two flats—the larger one is for the adults, and next to it, there’s a smaller flat for the boys’ quarters. The building is well-constructed, with a sturdy roof. In front of our house, you can see two cars parked—a beautiful milky-white bus and a sienna ash-colored car. The security guard is washing one of them meticulously while listening to a song playing on a small radio atop a plastic chair.
The door of the smaller flat adjacent to the larger one opens, revealing a thin young man in a brown jalaba. He holds the car keys, steps out, and descends the stairs, wearing his shoes. He heads into the larger flat.
Inside the spacious living room, a mature man sits on the couch, perhaps around 59 or 60 years old. He appears to be the head of the household and is engrossed in reading a newspaper. Seated next to him is a plump woman, Hajiya Balaraba, around 40 years old, offering tea in a cup. The children sit on the carpet, enjoying their breakfast—tea, bread, and eggs. There are three girls and two boys among them—Amal, 14 years old; Asiya, 13 years old; Aneela, 11 years old; Mazan and Muhammad, both 11 years old; and Mudasir, the youngest at 6 years old. They are all robust and have healthy appetites. They wear school uniforms, hinting that they’ll be dressed in Sunday clothes later.
The kitchen door opens, and a woman in her late 30s, a striking beauty with a dark complexion, emerges wearing an elegant, intricately designed long dress. She carries a tray filled with a variety of dishes. Catching the eye of the person who entered the room, she remarks, “These children will be late for your program, Hamad.” She calls him by name, and all the children turn their attention to him, greeting him with a chorus of “Good morning, Hamad.” He doesn’t respond and proceeds into the living room until he stands before Abba, indicating he intends to sit beside him. He says, “I’m sleepy, Abba,” and then turns to the woman beside Abba, saying, “I’m sleepy, Mum.” Simultaneously, the other woman approaches the coffee table in front of her husband and places a tray upon it, saying, “Your food is ready, Daddy Hamad.” The newspaper is folded at a specific page, and Abba hands her some money. Hamad inquires, “Are you going to pay their school fees?” Then, he turns to the woman beside him and asks, “What are these children up to? Shouldn’t they be going to school?” Dasauri replies, “Their school break started a while ago, Nanaa, Hawwa.” Two tall young women descend the stairs from upstairs, and one might mistake them for boys due to their resemblance. Babba, 26 years old, is in her final year at BUK, studying Mass Communication, while Hawwa, 24 years old, studies International Relations at Ado Bayero. Despite their education and accomplishments, neither of them answered the call to come to the house. Neither their father nor they talk much; their father chooses his words wisely.
As Hamad raised his head to gaze out the window, he opened the door and entered the room without acknowledging Mami. Slowly, Mami’s heart settled, although she avoided making eye contact with him, knowing her presence had stirred something.
Everyone sat on the floor, sipping water. The woman seated next to Abba said, “Alhaji, I’ve told you before; it’s time to start preparations for Nana’s celebration, which is three weeks after the Grand Prayer. It’s approaching quickly. I also noticed that we need to pay for the furniture; did you have a chance to pay for the kitchen equipment this week? And if you don’t find Zainab, go to the market today; we need to do some shopping.” Mami, who had been quietly listening, nodded and said, “Yes, Abban Hamad.” As she moved the water in her cup, it reached her lips. “Zainab won’t be able to come to the market; she’s busy cooking, and today is…”
