Mama-Na's Tale

Mama-na! Mama-na!! He will call me.

I can never forget that deep baritone voice of his approaching our compound’s perimeter-walled fence made from dried millet stalks.

You could not mistake the excitement in his voice; another calf, the third within a week. This meant we had extra calabash full of fresh dairy milk.

More than enough for my Baba and I, and for that naughty friend of mine – Halima. She could have a cup, just one, when she comes to make her hair later in the afternoon that’s if she comes with my favorite gorrriba fruit, I know the one in their house has some ripe ones already; but definitely not Tanko, my cousin. If he wants some, he would have to go to the farm where the cows are and milk some for himself.

Not even the lure of beautiful big houses, fancy cars and colourful hanging lamps lined on their streets could make me leave the calmness of Kateri my village. We were told in the village square that you could walk for long stretches and your feet will not get dirty, because it was covered by a black wrapper that was so thick, thicker than my woven mat bed, a gift from my late grandpa.

Halima and I wondered how long it took their women to wash that black wrapper and how big the stream could be, compared to Kunstwa; our village stream down the valley as you exit Kateri.

Life was beautiful and growing up in the village was even sweeter! From the rising of the sun very early that gave me an even darker skin tone and smoothened it like Halima’s long hair; to the dusty winds my father claimed were our ancestors in the Sahara coming to visit us. We were contented, but most of all we were happy.

Suddenly, the room became bright…the lamps came back to life. This was swiftly accompanied by shouts of joy by children playing outside the yard. Only then did I realise I was in the rehabilitation camp in the city capital. I had been day-dreaming all along. I stood up and leaned back on the wall, my hands resting on my chin. I stared straight to the full moon outside the window up in the skies and my thoughts flashed back to that fateful day.

Even though he called me like he usually does, his voice was not as reassuring as it used to be. He seemed downcast; the look on his face did not help either as it was furlong, apprehensive and tense. He tried smiling but I could tell it was not genuine, same smile he had when he told me years back that grandpa had gone to be with our ancestors in heaven. It just was not his thing to lie to me.

He had been selected amongst the local coalition of vigilante villages to fight the bad people the Waziri talked about in the village square a night before.

I realised he had a bigger sack with him this time compared to when he goes to weekly market in Zango village. He told me he was going to be away for a couple of days but will be back before my supplies ran out.

By midday, he bade me farewell and warned me not to go anywhere especially at night even if Halima asked me to. I was sad and cried as I watched him ride his bicycle away with his gun dangling on his back.

For the first time, I was alone and lonely. And so it was for a whole week, the days seemed so long and unending as I waited for him to return. The atmosphere around the village got really tense; fear gripped those of us left behind, of what may have become of our loved ones. The many rumours flying round the village, did nothing more but worsen the situation. The uncertainty was killing me.

Finally, my supplies finished and I could barely leave my hut all day. My prayers intensified for my father’s safe return. But then, that same night…

Kaboom! Kaboom!! The loud bang was deafening and it seemed as though an unknown object from the sky had hit the land.

Half an hour later, I could barely hear any sound

The room was half lite as only the first ray of dawn filtered through.

My lamp had run out hours earlier, even though I could see shadows of people running across the door and window. I laid there trembling, my heart racing and thudding, almost jumping out of my body. I could only manage a few words of prayer for my life,

Seriously hoping that no one else will realize I was inside.

In a flash, I recalled Tanko, warning me of rumours filtering the village.

We were next to being attacked!! Could this be it?

The next sensible thing I thought to do was to run! Run as fast as I could! But the five hundred kilometer walk to Maradi village across the Sahara desert is in itself a death sentence. The insurgents had raided the surrounding villages days before, leaving a gory sight of maimed bodies and burnt houses.

My father who volunteered to join the local vigilante didn’t survive the first attack on Zango village. Here I was, already an orphan as I had lost my mother during childbirth hence my name “Mama-na”.

We had hoped that government forces would heed the call to relocate their base to our village before the instruments of terror got here.

At least, that would have kept us safe before the evacuation team reached out to us, or so we thought.

All those hopes quickly faded away when that first grenade exploded just behind my hut. Fragments of the brick wall and sections of the thatched roof fell on me. Even though it itched so badly, aided by the thick sweat running down my body, I was hoping it will cover and hide me so that no one else will know I was there as they conducted their door to door search.

As the echoing sound in my ears started to ease out,

I could hear cries of women and children all over the place.

Men shouting as bullets pierced through their bodies, the smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air. The symphony of the automatic riffles piercing through the air. I could tell the difference because the sound was different from the dane gun my father had. I just laid there hoping for a miracle.

Even though I knew I was seconds away from death, a fifteen year old all by herself in what seemed to be a war zone! Really? It was difficult to even comprehend it, I had to swallow the ball that had formed in my throat, and then, My worst fears were confirmed.

A ferocious kick in one swoop brought down my wooden door. Armed with a military lamp that made the room so bright like noon; he quickly spotted me where I laid. I was too scared so I was shaking uncontrollably. We exchanged short quick glances and what I saw was a figure replica of Rimi, the village wrestling champion who was tall, well-built muscular frame. He stood there just watching me from across the tiny mud room.

I could hear the rest of the gang members calling out to him “Mun gama! Mu je! Mu tafi” We are done, let’s go!! How I wished he obliged immediately, he bent over, laid down his gun and lamp

and he forcefully violated me. I could barely offer any resistance since

I had not eaten in two days and was very weak.

The last thing I ate were two pieces of unripe gorriba fruit Tanko brought for me. I was there motionless till midday, when the evacuation team finally arrived, bruised and bleeding out with a complimentary black eye to show for my lame resistance! One of the team members told me: ‘You are lucky to be alive, my friend.” I wasn’t sure if I agreed or disagreed with him. But the mutilated remains of men, women and children all over the place made his argument convincing of some sort.

But, that was a year ago. Today I have a three month old son, a product of that near death experience. I was advised to abort the pregnancy when they found out I was pregnant but I remembered my father had told me some time ago: “Mana-na, abortion is the same as murder!”

“A child is a gift from God” he always reiterated

And so I opted and determined to keep the baby. I promptly named him after my father. The society today call him a bastard, a product of wickedness and evil, but I love him, still.

He is the only family I have! Tanko was killed that day.

And Halima was abducted. I pray she comes back home someday-alive!