The street of Kato

Monday, July 21, 2020. 8 o'clock pm.

I'm walking along the street of Kato, in Kano State, Nigeria. I decided to come at night to flee from the peering eyes and inquisitive looks of my once-upon-a-time playmates and street buddies who would've been trying to guess who I was, if I had come during the day. It is dark. The street is dark; there is no power supply at the moment -no thanks to the epileptic power supply that is characteristic of Nigeria. Giant of Africa my foot! Cameroon and Ghana enjoy steady light (power supply), while poor Nigerians are left to their own devices, to struggle to buy fuel to power their generators.

As I walk by, some houses are lighted, interior and exterior, their generators making such a din that I have to close my ears. And passing in front of other houses, there is quiet and darkness -and most times, poverty. A thick blackness hangs high up in the sky, there is neither moon nor stars. The air is cool, that is why I put on a pair of shorts -so I can feel the cold breeze on my legs- and a sweater to cover my chest.

I had parked my car two streets before the untarred, sandy street where I grew up, to enable me feel the nostalgia and lose myself in retrospective contemplation. I remember when I used to walk the streets barefooted when I was a kid. I didn't need a pair of slippers and the sole of my feet had already adapted to the texture and contours of the ground. When I hit my foot on a rock lying on the ground and it started bleeding, I rushed to pour sand on the wound, and that was it -a natural cicatrix.

I hardly fell sick. Once, on a hot afternoon, I saw a stray donkey walking along the street. I ran up to it with a whip and started beating it until it gave me a terrible kick with one of its hind legs. The kick landed on my chest and pushed me aback a little. I looked around and found that nobody saw what had transpired. I dropped the whip and went home like a good boy. 

I pass in front of the house of the Mai-ungwar of the street when we lived there. The Mai-ungwar is the head of the area, and the office of the Mai-ungwar is at the bottom of the rung of the hierarchical structure of the Kano Emirate. His house used to be the smallest house, and I was wondering whether poverty was a qualification to be a Mai-ungwar because the Mai-ungwar before him was very poor (this didn't stop him from marrying more than two wives).

This is Hausa land. The Hausas who are almost always Muslims, are the landowners and landlords, and Christians here are mostly tenants. It is strongly advised never to build a house in volatile areas of Kano, like Kato, because there were periodical religious crises and riots where Christians are massacred and butchered like chickens. The crisis of 2004 comes immediately to my mind. Pregnant mothers were dissected and their foetuses were removed, houses and properties of Christians were burned, places of worship (our parish for instance) were razed down, simply because someone wrote an insultive statement about the Prophet Muhammad on a wall. Nobody knew who wrote it. Once seen, it was presumed to be done by a Christian. 

I stare at the Mai-ungwar's house for a moment. Nothing much has changed after nine years. It still looks small, the way it was. The door to the entrance is different; it looks more beautiful and stronger. Everyone is security conscious, these days. Throughout my stay in Kato, I never heard of any incident of robbery in the area. Maybe this was due to the fact that there was a police station at the far end of the street. I have encountered a lot of disgraceful police officers who set road blocks to collect fifty naira from commercial cab-drivers; I have encountered many police officers who are trigger-hungry and who love to exert their force on innocent civilians. I have seen many officers who see every young boy driving a car as a criminal, any kid wearing a tattoo as a gangster and any young man with dreadlocks as a cocaine peddlar. I have encountered all these calibre of dirty cops, but the police in Kato were excellent. They made frequent patrols day and night and, once, during a riot, the police station was a place of refuge for many persons. We felt safe.

Still looking at the black metal door, my mind recaptures the Mai-ungwar storming out of his house to seize and rip our football apart. We loved playing football in the street, and many adults were against it. My parents, too, were against it. They all would wish their kids were Ronaldo, Messi or Mbappé, yet they stopped us from playing in the streets. 

"When I get home, I'll ask dad 'why'," I muttered as I fiddled with my keys.

Oh, those days of street football! The sandy, untarred street was our turf, two stones arranged at each end of the 'turf' were our goal posts; the tiny, dirty and smelly gutters bordering both sides of the street were our throw in lines. It was perfect!

As for the selection, the owner of the ball was to be well-treated, because the longevity of the game depended on his level of satisfaction: the owner of the ball must be selected (whether he could play well or not) and he was was not to be hard-tackled. I once owned a ball, and scored five goals in a game. 

The Muslim kids in the street were quite unruly because they believed they were the kids of the landowners: hence, they owned the streets. When we, the Christian kids, would be so absorbed in a game, they'd come up and say, 

"You either choose us or end the game!" removing the stones that served as our goal posts.

"You know we can't play in the same team with you guys", they continue, pointing at us like we were leprous, " we want to play a match against you". 

The response was an automatic yes, unless we didn't want to continue the game. Matches against them were always heated. They could play well, they really could. But they couldn't just win fairly. The referee was always on their side, or else he'd be changed during the match. There was an unwritten rule engraved in our minds: they must win. When we were not ready to let them win, we knew what to do. We would signal our little siblings to run inside our various houses, and, as the referee signalled the end of the game, we would make a run for it while the Muslim kids threw stones at us. Some days, when we mustered much courage, we stoned back. And this escalated into a 'stone-war'. At night, we were reprimanded by our parents, and warned against playing with those uncultured kids. 

"They started it", we protested vainly, "we were playing on our own..."

Blah, blah, blah. Our parents were not interested. The following day, we all would pretend as if nothing ever happened the previous day. Those days!

I turn to the one-storey-building opposite the Mai-ungwar's house. It looks totally different, like it has been entirely renovated. Despite the huge changes, I can still recognise it, just as a mother still recognises her daughter who's grown into a woman. This is the house I grew up in; the house where I had my fondest memories. We lived in the ground floor, a young couple and their daughter lived upstairs, and some little rooms made up the boys quarters, which were occupied first, by some Yoruba men and women, and later by some people of the Igala tribe. We are Igbo and the couple upstairs were Tiv. We lived in perfect harmony, except when Uncle Tope had a quarrel with his wife who was bigger and looked stronger than him. When the shouting match was showing signs of violent escalation, we all rushed to hold the woman first, before blockading Uncle Tope. We believed he wouldn't survive a blow from his wife. 

There was a time mom had to reproach the Yoruba neighbours because they made life almost unbearable for my little brother and I. They would send us on countless errands and at odd hours like, in the afternoon under the scorching sun and at night.

This is Africa, quite alright, where the kids belong to the community. But it has it's limits. They, sometimes, made us leave the house to go on some of their errands when mom must've sternly told us not to go out. After the reprimand, the neighbours didn't bother us for some days. However, when they resumed their errand-sending habit, they would ask, first of all, if mom was in. 

Our bathroom was dark and there was no constant electricity, and as a normal 7 year old, I was scared of going to the toilet without lighting a kerosene lamp. So, I thought of a genius plan. I defecated inside a polythene bag, tied it and tossed it high up into the air, over several compounds and wished the compound where it would land good luck. I did it successfully for a few times. 

It was a sunny afternoon, the weather was about 34° C. There were only a few trees in the entire street, and there would be fewer in the coming years. Mr. Ade spread his mat under a makeshift shade in his compound to receive a bit of fresh air. He removed his shirt, arranged it beside him, stretched himself on the mat and inhaled deeply before closing his eyes. In a split second, a black nylon bag landed some metres beside him and bursted its contents around; some particles touched his face.

What was that smell? It's shhiiitttt! He called upon his co-tenants to come and bear witness to yet another gift from above.

After I threw it, I told Chima (my little brother) not go immediately to check who the recepient of the package we'd sent was. He didn't listen. No sooner had it landed than he sped off to trace the delivery destination of our fresh package. On other days, he had done a perfect job of telling me where it landed, and how the recipient had received the shitty package.

I was waiting for him, when I heard voices, many angry voices coming towards the gate of our compound. I knew what it meant. Chima had been caught, and he was leading them to me. I turned myself in like a criminal with no where to go. The angry crowd took me to my mother's shop two streets away, and reported it all to her. 

"Your son has been sending us fresh, fresh shit", he concluded.

Mom didn't say a word. I was terrified. What will she do to me? What will she tell dad? What will dad do? Dear God, not the twisted cable, I prefer his belt. I was thinking of the many possible ways dad was going to flog me to set my brain straight. Mom's silence killed me. Chima betrayed me!

I didn't take supper that night. I couldn't eat. How could I? Dad was going to skin me alive. I was so afraid. Mom is a very great narrator. She can make an angel look like a demon, and a saint like a lying politician. She handed cases to dad, just as she'd done when she overheard us using the F-word. 

Dad came back, and I was ready to go to the gallows. He showered, and, after eating his supper, mom began her tale. Dad was laughing, he was laughing so hard that I thought his belly must've ached. He called me up and I came from my room, trembling. 

"You really did that?" he said between his laughter. I nodded. He laughed and told me to go to bed. 

"I really did things", I chuckle to myself as I walk past my former house to a one-storey building two blocks away. Hassan and Abdul used to live here. They were given Muslim names to enable them gain admission into any of the tertiary institutions in the northern part of Nigeria with considerable ease. Very early in the morning, every day, their voices could be heard from ten blocks away, during their family's morning devotion. Holy Ghost fire! Amen!! Blood of Jesus!!! Enemies shall die by fire!!!! The devil's eardrums must've been ruptured by such a great din. Their mother wasn't just a "demon bulldozer" she was also renowned for her strictness and the severity of the punishment she meted on her boys. Some few moments after their morning devotion, she'd hurl verbal abuses on her kids, which I feel depleted their self-esteem.

I lived alone with dad for three years. Mom and Chima had relocated to Abuja, and I was to join them after secondary school. This meant that I was usually home alone during the day. The house was a second-home to my friends, and there was always something for them to eat. Hassan came in while I was still trying to figure out what to cook for lunch. He suggested noodles and I left him in the parlour while I went into the kitchen to prepare lunch. Some of my buddies, who were younger than me in age, came in and we ate together -some ate the slices of bread which remained from breakfast. 

At night dad told me he had a surprise for me. He called me into his room. He opened his closet and rummaged the compartment. He gasped, shocked.

"Were you alone by yourself in the house today?" He breathed, his eyes peering into mine. I had to incline my head in a effort to avoid his gaze.

"No. Some of my frien--"

"Who are they?" He interrupted.

"Babangida and his little brother; Jonathan and Michael..."

"Was Hassan in this house today?" He blurted. 

I nodded yes. Damn. How did he know? This man should've been a detective. His inductive reasoning was so on point. He was sure that it was Hassan who had slipped into his room, and picked up the new handset he'd bought for me. The kids I had mentioned were still innocent: they respected their parents' rooms that they couldn't even conceive the thought of sneaking into their friend's father's room.

The next day, as early as 6 o'clock in the morning, dad paid Hassan's parents a visit. He must've interrupted their morning devotion. He told them to tell their kid to return the phone he'd stolen. His parents called him and he swore to all the gods and deities in his village that he didn't steal the phone. Dad explained to his parents the logical method he had used to arrive at the conclusion that Hassan was the pilferer. The other kids were too small and fearful to steal a phone. Hassan was the most exposed kid in our house that day. 

In the afternoon, Hassan came to me with teary eyes, asking me to vindicate me. He swore to many holy books of the bible, and many prophets and apostles. I wasn't moved. I remembered leaving him in the parlour, and while I was in the kitchen, he must've slipped out and made it back in unnoticed before the noodles were set. What a smart guy! Babangida (one of the kids in the house that day) told me he only came into the house because he saw Hassan rushing inside our compound, and he guessed that something good was about to happen -the lunch.

The following morning I woke up and went to dad's room to summarise my sleep on his bed, and to say our morning prayer afterwards. I came into my room to pick my toothbrush. Rose, the housekeeper had already made the bed. I saw a white polythene bag on the bed and I thought it belonged to Rose. After a second thought, I opened it and saw a small carton bearing the image and insignia of Nokia XpressMusic. I was overjoyed. I ran to dad's room and showed him what I found. He was happy too. Later that morning, dad (accompanied by me) let Hassan's parents know that the phone had been found and thanked them greatly. They heaved a sign of relief. They knew it was their son. We all knew.

Later that morning, a neighbour told me she looked through her window and saw Hassan giving a white polythene bag to a street beggar to throw into my room through the window. I also learned that Hassan's mother had woken him up at midnight and given him the flogging of his life, and promised to continue to do so until the phone was found.

Pheew! Hassan gave me social distance for over a month, and when he was tired of it all, he showed up at our house. We welcomed him like nothing ever happened. I kept a close eye on him; my other buddies did too. He had betrayed our trust. We'd forgiven but would never forget and lose guard, lest it happens again.

"Oh my God!" I started, "The reunion!!"

My class in secondary school (the 2011 set) is having a reunion at 10 o'clock pm. And it's 9:40 pm. I hope I'll make it in time. I miss those guys. I will be back here during the day tomorrow. This time I will try to see if someone from my childhood still lives here. There must be someone. I remember I parked my car some streets before this one.

Tempus fugit! I jog for it.