I wondered how she would feel if she knew that at Plateau Poly, where I was a student, I often bought fura da nono from the Fulani women who sat underneath the mango trees. Or that one of my best friends at school was called Abdul. But I knew that if I continued to ask questions, I would only piss her off so I kept quiet after that.
A kashe su arna
On Saturdays, I usually accompanied Mama for our weekly shopping at the Jos Main Market. There, we would get most of all that was needed in the house and things for her small provision shop. Carrying a black sack, I would trail closely behind her, somewhat pissed at how often she paused to greet her ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ in Igbo. When she wasn’t asking a series of questions, she listened to gossip and always had her unsolicited advice ready. We would not finish our shopping until afternoon when the sun had gotten very hot.
One day, after we had just returned home from the market, I complained to her that the items I bought from a Mallam a few months ago were cheaper than the ones she bought from her ‘umu nwanne’ but she waved it off like I was talking nonsense, and warned me never to buy anything from any Mallam again. Her words fell on deaf ears because I knew how much money I saved each time I bought things from the Hausa Muslim traders. I felt they were sincere with how much they bought their goods, and the rate at which they would sell them.
“But Mama, why shouldn’t I patronise them, and why do you insist on buying from Igbos even when they’re so expensive?”
“I have told you several times that I trust our people better. Why must you always ask so many unreasonable questions?”
“I just want to know because you would have saved some money if you weren’t being so discriminating and judgmental.”
“I don’t like those people; they seem friendly but their hearts are so wicked. They started a crisis in 2001 which led to the death of my twin sister and I don’t think I will ever do business with them again for any reason.”
“Mama, don’t say that. These ones are innocent and they don’t have a hand in what happened to Aunty. You shouldn’t judge them by the faults of some others simply because they are all Hausas.”
“I am not judging them.” She kept on arguing. “I am just telling you that they are not to be trusted. Even if what they sell is cheap, I will not patronise them. I will not consciously contribute my money so they can get more weapons to kill Christians with. Not in my lifetime, Amaka. I will not do it!”
“But, don’t you see how they greet us with warm smiles? We should all live in the moment, Mama. Journeying with the past at heart has never helped anybody.”
“You are very young, so I don’t blame you for talking this way but you will soon come to realize how right I am.”
I wondered how she would feel if she knew that at Plateau Poly, where I was a student, I often bought fura da nono from the Fulani women who sat underneath the mango trees. Or that one of my best friends at school was called Abdul. But I knew that if I continued to ask questions, I would only piss her off so I kept quiet after that.
Years ago, Mama used to run a restaurant at Main Market, but fear had driven her away. Once, while she was serving customers, the sound of screams and gunshots rent the air. Immediately, all her customers made a run for it, leaving their just dished food behind. Mama herself ran all the way home, the serving spoon still in her hand. Many people died in the pandemonium but no one was quite sure what had set it off. There was a rumour that it had been a religious crisis and the State Government responded by imposing a curfew for a few days. However, similar incidents kept recurring, which made Mama give up the restaurant in favour of opening a kiosk in front of our house to save herself from stress. However, she was unfriendly towards her Muslim customers to the extent that they stopped coming. She believed they were evil and blamed them for all the crises.
A few weeks later, I went to the market alone. Earlier in the morning, Mama had complained about having body aches however when I returned, she was feeling better. As I removed the items I bought from the shopping bag, she noticed an extra nylon bag that I set aside.
“What is that?”
On my way to the bus stop, I passed by a clothes vendor and noticed this beautiful skirt that was cut in the latest reigning style. Since I had patronised Hausa traders who gave me generous discounts, I had more than enough money left over so I bought it.
As soon as I said the word “Mallam,” Mama began to scream.
“This girl wants to kill me. She wants to kill me!”
She carried everything I had bought, my new skirt included, out to the backyard and set them ablaze. Shocked and angry at her overreaction, I stomped into my room and shut the door behind me. For three days, I didn’t come out or talk to anyone.
The next weekend while we were all seated in the living room watching the evening news, pictures of killings flooded the screen. There had been a Muslim-Christian conflict in a neighbouring state, with attacks and reprisal attacks on both sides. Papa shook his head and said it was all a political strategy. At the mention of the number of casualties, Mama sucked her teeth.
“They are always lying; the number of people killed are more than the number they have just reported.”
Watching as tears trailed down her cheeks, I had no words to say to her. I was still giving Mama the cold shoulder. I had not forgiven her for the previous week; not even when Papa had sat me down to plead with me to understand that Mama was battling with trauma and how it wasn’t fair that I made it much worse for her. I could not understand how her trauma was enough reason to do what she did. However, she surprised me by speaking to me directly.
“My love, I am sorry about the other day but you have heard what the news has to say. Please avoid taking narrow paths on your way back from school and make sure to not stop over at your friend’s after school hours. I nugo?”
My heart was softened by the way she addressed me as “my love” and I nodded my head in silence.
The following day, I had a stomach-ache so severe that I couldn’t stand upright. When Mama and Papa saw how hard it was for me to carry myself around, they bade me goodbye and left for church service. I hated to miss church services but I had no choice but to stay back. Hours past the closing time of our parish church, they still weren’t back. I figured my parents had gone to see a family friend but they hadn’t mentioned that, which was so unusual of them. They were always precise about their location per time. Feeling restless, I dialled Papa’s number which did not go at all. That too was unusual. Being a businessman, his phone was always on.
When I stood up, surprisingly the ache was nowhere to be found. God must have answered my prayers even before I said one. Outside the gate, the neighbourhood seemed deserted. The few people I saw walked too fast. I overheard a conversation about Christians being killed in town. Upon hearing that a Catholic church had been burned down, my whole body went cold. It was as if a bucket of ice had been dumped on me. I immediately knew something must have happened to my parents.
I went back into the house and prayed for the first time that morning. “Oh God, please let them come back home alive.” I hoped that they would not be among those who must have been killed. If anything would happen to them, I wished it would only be minimal injuries and nothing serious. But it was of no use. Mama and Papa had been in the church when it got burned down, and worst of all, I could not even reclaim their corpses.
A group of armed boys led by a cleric who had issues with the priest had surrounded the little parish, yelling “A kashe su arna”—kill the pagans. Someone had produced petrol, and that was the route they took. Those Christians who tried to escape the flames and fumes were dispatched by clubs or machetes.
I would never be able to bury my parents properly. There was nothing left of them but ash. That August day, I cried and cried, and would not let anyone console me.
Since that day, I have become suspicious of everyone who is not a Christian and I have stopped socialising with Muslims, even Abdul, whom I once considered one of my closest friends.
I fear my hatred for Muslims will become worse than Mama’s, but now I understand my mother’s bitterness. I used to think she was heartless but now I feel the same pain she used to feel. A pain that expands in my chest each time I look at Mama and Papa’s smiling portraits, knowing that I will never see them again.
- A kashe su arna || Joy Okwori - February 12, 2022
A really touching read. Well done Joy👏🏾
Thank you, dear.
Blessings!
Amazing
Thank you so much.
The story entails what an ordinary Nigerian experiences in ghettos and cities. The conclusion is true and similar to all victims of religio-ethnic crises in Nigeria and beyond. However, we must try to accept our complexity and stop all social hatred for a better future of our younger generation.
Thank you, that’s right.
That’s a nice write-up. Keep on with the stupendous work. But I wish it had a different ending. We need to curb this religious hatred which is rooted from religio-centrism.
Exactly so. Thanks a lot.
Sad ending 😭 but reality we live presently. 😞 I wished for a different ending with abated breath but….
Real read, Joy 👍🏾
Sadly so.
Thank you.