Poem

Khadija Maijama’a Adamu

A year ago, on a Friday, anticipating school resumption on Monday, returning to the then soulless home; without mom, atmosphere gloomy that screamed mourning and loss was little me. 

SEC was the perfect escape for me, albeit, home will always be home. Waiting for my new friends on that fateful day seemed like it would take forever; I was anxious to get home, if only I knew. Dad had given me a new N500 bill on the Wednesday before, that I tried to keep with me at all cost (mainly because of the new naira bill scent); had I known better. 

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Stopping at the Danbushiya bridge, I had to bid adieu to my scenty bill, but that wasn’t the only hiccup, the taxi driver had no change. The driver who was equally in a rush to get to the mosque started blasting me for not telling him before hand. Causing attention on us was the last string he pulled on me, annoyed to the core by his behaviour, I offered him my last card which was the N500 bill; even though I still needed at least N70 to get home. My gesture made him feel insulted I guess, which was why he rejected it and decided to blackmail me spiritually, going ‘kije kya gani’ on me. Isn’t that a curse? Why will he curse me for no fault of mine? That too for money? N150 for that matter. I urged him to make a u-turn with me to get the change but he refused, trying to cross the street, I heard a thud sound. If I wasn’t rolling down the street the next second, I wouldn’t have believed that sound was from me. 

The quick flash of a red motorbike speeding away escaped my vision and that was it. A red motorbike, is all I can say about the careless driver. The sensation of pain I felt in my whole body brought me back from my reverie. Much to my dismay, it was true, I was truly lying there; though conscious. Adding to my anxiety was the smell of cigarettes that I found surrounding me. Coming to my rescue were a few female hawkers with their oddly appeasing made-up faces. All attempts to reach to my dad were futile because it was time for Jumma’at prayer. Moments later, police officers arrived and all I heard was ‘put her in the car’. With the then ongoing ENDSARS protests, I knew better than to sit there helplessly. I wanted to cry but my tears betrayed me. So, I begged them to convey me home. One of the hawkers around (May Allah bless her abundantly) helped me get home. From the pain I felt, I knew that my whole body was bruised but my forehead and legs were for sure doubled in sizes. 

My neighbour, another angel, Mommy wiped me up. Her scolding was what it took to stop my screaming. A Hausa man would say ‘dama ya lafiyan kura bare ta haukace?’ (I can’t translate this). Yes, I’m a scaredy-cat. An hour later, I couldn’t lift a limb, it was getting worse by the minute. Dad came home and knowing me, said I was exaggerating. Yes, I was, but my forehead was bruised and swollen, and my foot? Don’t get me to that.

Getting to the emergency ward, a male doctor attended to me. My sister was with me so Dad excused himself and the doctor’s question left me both shocked and fuming. ‘Are you pregnant?’ he asked examining my swollen foot, and all I could mutter out was “I’m fifteen”. He chuckled and I wondered what was funny. Normalcy and professionalism returned when Dad walked in and I was very glad he did. Sore limbs and bruises in unwanted places I couldn’t voice out because of the pervert in a scrub (more reasons we need ladies in the field). I had an X-ray which luckily showed that I had no broken bones, Alhamdulillah, just a swollen foot. 

Looking through my memory, I realised that the taxi driver I went to get change for, drove off seeing me lying there. The motorbike was speeding on the pedestrian’s lane. But the same youths smoking cigarettes on the bridge recovered every single item that was with me on the scene while one with the noble profession I so much adore and respect disrespected me as a woman. Truly, I learned never to judge a book by its cover. 

If sore limbs, bruises and swollen foot was all the accident left me with, I would’ve been glad. But the emotional trauma that came with it is something I can’t forget even if I wish to. Till date, whenever I try to cross the road, memories come flashing back, and everyone judging me going ‘you can’t cross a road at your age?’ aren’t helping. The world today can be so judgemental. We all have our untold stories behind our scars. If we can’t help, we mustn’t go around adding salt to peoples’ wounds.

The world is ugly, the world is dirty, but the ultimate question is: What are you doing to make it better? I think it’s time we reflect. 

 Deeejagarh writes from Kaduna.