Sabo Gari, Kano State.
It is 4pm, a hazy evening, at about that time when the over ambitious northern Nigerian sun begins to give way to dusk. Muslims poured out in droves for their 4pm Salat prayer.
A thick mass of dust and carbon dioxide begins to form in the air, blending into a cocktail ready to be served in people's lungs.
Assalamualaikum!
She blurted, throwing up the words at no one in particular.
With the zest, she bludgeoned her way through the floating barricade of people comprising traders, petty thieves and pick-pockets with itchy fingers who also came to buy and sell; to exchange their skill and talent for whatever a victim is willing to, more out of recklessness, part with.
Against the sea of faces in the market, she pressed her way towards Musa's shop which was two blocks away from the market mosque.
Musa is one of her very few customers with whom she has an affinity borne, more out of her superior power of negotiation than anything else and she must hurry and catch up before Musa leaves for the evening Salat prayer
As the time for prayers inches closer, most shop owners took to the corner of their shops to perform ablutions while others are seen holding neatly folded scrolls of mat.
Iya Busola who just got to the market increases her pace so she can meet up with her customer before he leaves for prayer
It was already 4:15pm and as the thoughts of the last market invaded her mind, she adjusted her pace.
The market came to a screaming halt and deafening silence echoed throughout the market space.
Allahu Akbar!!
The creaky voice spurted out again, with a trace of command by a fierce master about to wrought evil on his army of slaves.
What was left of the chaotic market snowballed into turmoil as people scampered for safety.
She made a panic-stricken 180, and darted towards Musa's shop as the seven months old baby cocooned in her womb, moved, as though, making efforts to join in the race for safety.
In protest for the seemingly overbearing weight of mother and child, her legs were beginning to give way more out for lack of cooperation and betrayal.
Determined to make it to Musa's shop where she was certain would be a safe haven for her, she paused, drew a long breath, mustered the last of whatever strength her body was willing to spare. As she braced up for the last lap, she saw Musa was already within inches of her. Deep sighs.
Relieved, she pushed herself to get to him as fast as she can…
“abin da ke faruwa”? she asked Musa, with the assurances that comes with familiarity.
Just then, she felt a splotch of blood seeping down and smudging her face. The hazy atmosphere has become blurry as her senses and consciousness begin to wane and fizzle out, all she knew was that Musa, in a split second, drove a dagger into her head.
Allahu Akbar!!
She heard again, but this time, in a faint and dying voice that seems to have lost command unlike the earlier one. A second man rushed towards her and drove his dagger into her protruding stomach, leaving it deeply buried, and as she slumped, her face turned pale and the only visible sign of life left in her was her twitching legs. The legs twitch as if suddenly jolted back to life and are ready to run now. But she was cold-dead now.
