Hajiya Laila slowed down as she turned onto Zobe Street. The place was littered with beggars; the elderly, youngsters, and kids hardly out of their mothers’ wombs. She reached for her purse on the dashboard and brought out some change. Pulling over beside a ramshackle shed, she wound down the tinted window to toss the cash to the boy. But he was not there.
Perplexed, she adjusted her veil and lowered the window further, her eyes searching the familiar spot where he usually stood, apart from his fellow urchins. Every evening, when she closed from work, she would pass through the street to give him something. And he was always there, waiting for her gift. For weeks, their daily ritual had been unbroken. Where had he gone today?
Her gaze drifted to her watch. 7:13 pm. She was late. She usually drove by between 4 pm and 6 pm. Had he given up and left for the day? The streetlights flickered to life, casting long shadows, as if in response to her enquiry. Once again, she scanned the street, her eyes lingering on the beggars’ faces, but his was nowhere to be seen.
As the beggars closed in, their pleas swelling, she eased back into the traffic, driving on the slow lane. She glanced left and right, searching among the crowd by the road for a glimpse of her boy. But she could not find him. Where was he?
At the end of the street, she turned around and headed back, desperation whirling in her stomach, threatening to spill over. She stopped opposite the spot, scanning the shed once again. She saw a boy standing at the point, but on a closer observation she realised he was not the one. He beckoned to the boy. As he approached, she noticed he was about twelve, the same age as her missing boy. He hastily manoeuvred across the busy traffic, narrowly escaping vehicles.
‘Be careful how you cross the road,’ she said to him as he got to her. ‘Do you know where the boy who usually stands under that shed has gone?’
The boy’s gaze darted to the rusty corrugated iron shed. ‘You mean Haruna?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you want with him, Hajiya?’ he asked. She glared at him, considering the question rude. But his next statement dispelled her annoyance. ‘I can do whatever job you want done, Hajiya.’
‘No, it is not about a job,’ she said, her expression softened. ‘I just want to see him.’
The boy’s gaze narrowed. ‘Do you know him…?’ he began, then he recognised her. He used to see her give him alms.
‘He is my son,’ she said.
His eyes shifted from her plump face to her luxurious car. ‘Your son?’
‘If you don’t know where he has gone just go away and let me ask someone else,’ she said impatiently.
‘Sorry, Hajiya, I didn’t mean to offend,’ he said. ‘It’s just that… I find it hard to believe…’ She hissed and made to call a nearby beggar, but the boy quickly said, ‘I know where he is!’
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Let me into the car,’ he said quietly, with a hint of urgency.
‘To take me to him?’ she asked and, without waiting for his response, swung the door open for him.
His gaze swept the surrounding area before entering. After settling down beside her, he said, ‘Find a quiet spot away from here and park. I’ll tell you everything. Including the man who did it.’
Her heart jumped. ‘Everything about what?’
‘Including the man who did it,’ he repeated with a vengeance.
‘The man who did what?’ Her hands clenched, her painted nails digging into her palms.
‘Let’s go, Hajiya, I will tell you.’
Silently, she drove off, her hands turning clammy on the steering wheel as she navigated the darkening streets. What had happened to her son? Her mind raced with thoughts of her plans for him. She had envisioned a bright future for him – enrolled in school and nurtured to reach his full potential. But she kept procrastinating over the decision. Had she delayed too long?
She swerved off the road, parking beneath a solitary tree.
‘Did you say Haruna is your son?’ the boy asked.
‘Just tell me what’s going on,’ she said anxiously.
The boy’s eyes dropped. ‘Sorry, Hajiya,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘But he’s dead.’
The words hung in the air like a sword. Her vision blurred, and her breath caught in her throat. She felt the blade slicing through her world.
‘Inna lillahi…!’ she stammered. ‘What do you mean, dead? I saw him yesterday…!’
‘He was knocked down by a car yesterday evening.’
‘Yesterday evening?’ she echoed, the timing striking a chilling chord. He had died mere hours after their meeting – shortly after she told him about the plan for his future. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
‘The driver escaped, but I know him,’ the boy went on. ‘I can show him to you…’
His words blurred into the background as her tears flowed uncontrollably, her head rested on the steering wheel.
‘Where is he buried?’ she asked at last.
‘Unguwar Bayi burial ground. They buried him after looking for his relatives in vain. Some people said he came from Zaria, others said from Kano. And no one knows his Malam here in Kaduna… I can take you to the killer.’
Her tears resumed, but she steadied herself. ‘Take me to his grave,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I want to see him.’
The boy hesitated. ‘In the grave?’
‘Take me there.’
They arrived at the graveyard as dusk gave way to darkness. The car’s headlights cut through the shadows, lighting the entrance – a rusty gate nestled among overgrown mango trees. The atmosphere was heavy with the smell of decay and death. Owls and other nocturnal birds filled the air with haunting calls.
She killed the engine, and the darkness seemed to coalesce around them, solid and oppressive. She quickly reignited the engine, switching the light back on. She flipped on the inside lamp, rummaged through the glove compartment, and produced a compact torch. Steeling herself, she opened the door, and they stepped out.
The boy led the way, his footsteps quiet on the bushy path, while she lit the route with the torch’s unsteady beam. Shadows seemed to shift around them.
He pushed the gate open, and the rusty hinges groaned eerily. Beyond the gate, they walked down a winding track. Soon the graves materialised before them, an endless expanse of mounds stretching into the darkness; some fresh, some old, others overgrown.
‘This way,’ the boy whispered, veering left. Just then, a voice pierced the night air.
‘Who’s there?’
They froze, momentarily paralysed, before turning to face the figure approaching. Gangly and wearing only a singlet, he looked like a ghost. The boy recognised him as the grave digger he saw yesterday.
‘Who are you?’ the man called out again, louder, beaming his torchlight on their faces.
‘Sorry, I came to see my son,’ Hajiya Laila said, her voice breaking with fright.
He glanced at the boy, then back at her. ‘To see your son?’
‘To see the grave,’ the boy said. ‘He was buried here yesterday.
‘At this ungodly hour?’
‘Please, I need to see him,’ she pleaded.
The man scrutinised her further. Fifteen years in the grave-digging business had exposed him to countless manifestations of grief. Just last week, a woman had refused to leave her daughter’s graveside, insisting on spending the night beside it. Relatives had to drag her away.
‘Not this night. Come in the morning,’ he said firmly.
Hajiya Laila’s desperation boiled over. ‘Please, I’ll pay any amount to see him,’ she said, her hands raised heavenwards in a passionate plea.
‘Please, kindly let her see the grave,’ the boy begged.
The grave digger hesitated, weighing the risks. What if she went haywire at the sight of the grave? Could he manage her alone? He stood in silence for a while, sizing her up. Then he said, ‘Okay, follow me.’
At the section of fresh graves, he asked the boy, ‘Which one?’
The boy scanned the mounds, uncertainty etched on his face. ‘I… I’m not sure… His was the last on this side.’
The grave digger’s eyes narrowed. ‘When did you say he was buried?’
‘Yesterday evening,’ the boy replied.
A knowing smile spread across the grave digger’s face. ‘His can’t be the last grave on this side. More than ten people have been buried here since then.’
‘So, which one is my son’s own?’ Hajiya Laila asked dumbly.
‘That’s the question,’ the man said hopelessly.
She hesitated, then sank to her knees before the graves. Her voice trembled as she prayed, begging Allah to grant her son peace. From force of habit, the grave digger knelt down too. And the boy joined them. She also prayed for the occupants of the other graves. And the living.
‘May Allah forgive us our sins,’ she concluded and rose, tears streaming down her face. From her skirt pocket, she extracted a wad of cash and extended it to the grave digger. ‘Take this,’ she said.
‘May his soul rest in peace,’ he said, bowing his head as he collected the money.
Long after they got back into the car, she sat still, the thought of her son rushing through her mind. She had killed her son again! She had killed him again through neglect. If she had enrolled him in school immediately the idea occurred to her, he would have probably been alive now.
With a heavy sigh, she opened the glove compartment and retrieved a worn photograph. Her eyes mist over as she gazed at her son’s smiling face. Her tears fell onto the photograph. She wiped it and handed it to the boy.
‘This is him,’ she said, her voice laced with nostalgia.
One glanced at the picture and the boy could see it was not Haruna. There was a bit of facial resemblance, but Haruna was older and darker.
‘But this is not Haruna,’ he said.
‘That is Ahmed,’ she said. ‘My Ahmed, killed ten years ago because of me… I sent him on an errand, and a car… a car took him from me.’
‘Ahmed?’ The boy was confused.
‘Can’t you see? They are the same. Look at the face, the eyes… Haruna’s eyes are Ahmed’s eyes…’ Her voice shattered, and she broke down in tears.
Despite his confusion, the boy reached for the carton of serviettes on the dashboard and pulled out some.
‘Wipe your tears, Hajiya,’ he said, gently lifting her shoulder.
She raised her head, eyes brimming with tears, and met his concerned gaze. As he offered the serviettes, her eyes lingered on him, a glimmer of determination forming. She dabbed at her tears, composing herself. Then she asked:
‘Would you like to go to school?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, his eyes widening.
‘I will see your parents right away.’
‘This night…? They are in Zaria.’
‘This night,’ she said firmly, turning the ignition.
(THE END)
