Husufin Farin Ciki: The Radical Way of Doing Hausa Writing

Husufin Farin Ciki is a collection of 21 short stories, infused with elements of tradition and modernity. The cllection sits between radical thoughts, rebellion and conformity. However, there is tension and complementarity between opposite ideals one wonders where the writer stands.

The stories come as fresh air; they do not follow the tired pattern of popular Hausa fiction writing. Stories in the collection do not aspire for a simple denouement or end on a predictable note. This sets Ado Bala apart from other Hausa writers. And as a genre, Hausa short story writing is relatively new and experimental form. Ado is contributing to this body of growing form. 

Bala’s work is a serious work, devoid of comical melodrama, adrenaline shock and awe as well as sensationalism that characterized contemporary Hausa writing.  “Nijeriya, Yammacin Afirka”, for instance, raises important questions about progress, tradition, conservatism and modernity. The protagonist, Bala, does the unthinkable against the overwhelming wishes of his society. He chooses Western education over the age-old, revered farming occupation. This tension highlights not only the importance tradition holds in Hausa society but also offers a moment to reflect on the society’s approach to issues in life. 

Farming occupies an important place in the hearts and minds of the populace. Obviously, Western education lifts much more people out of poverty and offers easier path to prosperity and upward social mobility than farming. But farming is too important to ignore. The society does need it. Practices in agriculture however remain traditional and pre-modern. What Bala’s society should do? Bala shows the way. His action is his way of thinking out of the box at the level of his own small village. Everyone believes that farming is better than Western education and so when Bala deviates from the norm, the whole village rises against him, not only the people but the elements and the entire universe as well! Nonetheless, he dared to fail in non-conventional way.

As a writer, Bala is an acute observer of the tiny details of life. He can let a reader on a terrible secret. He can bring to the surface what the society buries. He can transport the past to the present. He can also be neutral to a disapproved behavior or practice.  This is because Bala’s work is realist in its orientation, which is why we are jolted by its shocking revelations. We are able to recognize ourselves in the stories. We see ourselves truthfully and be able to see the reality of our own dark secrets and desires. This is true in “Tangaraho”, the love story of Ramatu and Imran, a loving couple separated by death. Imran died; only once Ramatu engaged in an affair with another man. We do not blame her; the writer does not paint her negatively nor incites reader’s harsh judgment. He invites us to show empathy, instead of blame, for her action. We are sad, though, guided by our sense of Hausa cultural norms and Islamic morals. However, humans cannot stop being humans. Bala is not there to pacify nor consider reader’s emotions. His work is realist, brutal and tragic. His stories carry a touch of sadness or melancholia. 

It is difficult sometimes to discern the position of the writer towards certain behavior or action. Bala goes against the predominant and acceptable, though of course, he at times appears moralist and preaches traditional middle-class values. Is he for modernity and its new ways like the individualistic lifestyle of Ya Gumsu and Alhaji Njidda, the people in the eponymous story, or is he for tradition and conservatism like we encountered in Nijeriya, Yammacin Afirka? Sometimes I suspect it is my cultural sensibility lurking in the shadow, imposing my own interpretations on the writer. 

Bala is writing within a larger literary tradition. His narrative can be distinctly local, but his inspiration and style are not narrowed. He brings into Hausa writing concepts scarcely utilized in contemporary Hausa writing. Within these philosophical concepts we encounter solitude and aloneness, introversion, sexuality, the self and its consciousness, concepts that were not traditionally embraced in Hausa cultural norms. They do not hold much significance in larger social setting. They are denied their secularist elements and social functions and are majorly discussed in the context of spiritual realms. Religious moralism aside, Bala allows his character to fully explore the facility of life and its social function.

“Keken Ɗinki” is about the friendship of women, the social function of gossip, the place of individual against the societal collectivism. Aunty Yarinye is one of those women who runs with the wolves. Her life is revealed to the reader through her association with Sa’adatu. Sa’adatu comes on a visit and tells Yarinye her imminent marriage. Yarinye dampens her enthusiasm. A career woman, Yarinye chooses her sewing machine over marriage because men in her society are terrible. The society is limiting, people are not defined as individuals by their own merits but as an extension of their family and traditions. This is why we encounter so much conflict and resistance from Hamman when his sister Jummai decides to marry Usman Shehu Abdullahi, a man from Christian background. In the same vein there is a hierarchy between men and women. What Anti Yarinye cannot get way with, her ex-husband Salisu is allowed to go off scot-free on account of his family pedigree.

Interestingly, NYSC narrative finds its way into the collection, a modestly large but unheeded writing genre, laying bare the distrust and suspicion of the North against the South. Very few prospective corps members are willing to venture to the South for fear of the unknown. A Northerner in the South is sure to face unique, difficult life situations and strange experiences. Prospective corps members and their families seek dubious ways to avoid being posted to distant lands. Corruption comes in handy, for “yadda za ai” that Alhaji Njidda suggested to his son means a privileged way of redeploying Abdul’aziz to a Northern state via undue advantage and favoritism. Husufin Farin Ciki is a searing critique of NYSC’s inability to ensure safety of corps members. Bad roads and insecurity expose the lives of Nigerians to great dangers, insecurity and death. 

Husufin Farin Ciki is true to its words. It delivers on its promise, supplying stories of disease, sickness and death, which we are constantly confronted with, directly or just few degrees away.  Abdul’aziz died on his way to the national service. His parents are thrown into grief and lamentation, questioning the future of their life and its purpose. In this, Bala nudges at the concept of death and genealogy. Alhaji Njidda “…na jin tausayin mutanen da ba su haihu ba, domin ya taɓa ɗanɗanar ɗacin rashin haihuwa, yana jin tausayin mutanen da basa haihuwa, waɗanda tsokar jikinsu ba ta bar wata tsokar ba, waɗanda mutuwarsu ta ke zama tabbatacciyar mutuwa ta din-din-din. Har abada” (84). 

Another interesting story is “Akwatin Gidan Waya”. We meet a curious child who ponders about basic concepts of how things work in everyday life. Walking with his aunt, the 10-year-old repeats after Anti A’i “Menene ɗaga ƙafa kuma?” This reminds me of my own experience, asking the women in my family “menene idon matambayi”? Through experiences, trials and tribulations the boy comes to understand the basics of things. The boy gets to learn and uses letter writing obsessively. Epistolary practices were very fun in the 90s, the era in which the story is set, used by family and friends across cities and towns and across boarding schools among siblings and lovers. 

We followed the young Auwal Idris Sadauki from his struggle with and awe of simple technology like the workings of post office to the advent of more sophisticated system like mobile phone when he enrolled in Ahmadu Bello University Zaria for university education – obviously Ado Bala himself. Each new technology appears first as a wonder and renders the previous one obsolete. “Na cika da mamakin wannan fasahar zamani. Allah ya kawo mu zamanin da za ka aika da wasiƙa kana kwance, ba tare da ka je gidan waya ba, ko ka sayi kan sarki ka liƙa ba…” (119).

For Ado Bala, not only marriage and other social malaises can be valid material for fiction writing. Light issues as obsession and fascination with post office technology and mystery of childhood is a subject of fiction writing, which is great considering these are the things many Hausa writers ignored. In this, his writing gains a lot in aesthetic values and depths.

Bala writes about the Kano City with considerable spatial sensitivity and awareness. As a Kano man, you can have a vivid mental picture of the settings, whether it is Yakasai Masallacin Jalli or Durumin Iya or Dandalin Turawa or the time in which the events are set. These evoke fond memories for anyone living in Kano City in the 90s, calling up the picture of the Post Office in Jakara and the stamp buying experience. 

Bala is fond of the disappeared practices of the era, like kids on errands weaving different hairstyle with corn silk and husks. Or singing the old Hausa songs. Bala uses the surrounding landscape to support the narrative. Dates seller and a random sweet vendor get featured in the story. Further, his treatment of the setting reveals the inter-relationships between the many Northern cities and towns and neighboring places like Cameroon not only in terms of shared values but also how marriage, trade and civil service brought these communities together. In Northen states and the Sahel, so it seems, everybody is related to everybody.  

Bala’s work retains elements of African oral tradition, tapping into the golden age and the age of creation. “Labarin Wasu Yan Biyu” for instance follows the opening pattern of oral storytelling. So also the story of Yusuf Ɗansambo in “Abin da Baka da Maganinsa”, the man who is rumored to be the richest young man ever in the history of Kano. In the olden days, words of mouth are the most potent news dispatcher, hence the spread of rumor and hearsay about the unmatched fortune of Ɗansambo. 

Bala proves to be a master of his craft, bringing modernity and tradition side by side. However, it is not everything that is under his total control. The story of Laila and Bashir in “Kiran Jama’a” is too good to be real. It is a telling fantasy, a mere propaganda campaign. This is one of the lapses of the collection, in addition to the absence of clinical, water-tight proofreading and publishing standards. 

Cornrows

  

My gaze traveled to the back of the room and landed on a beautiful girl. It was spring semester. There were at least three such girls in the class that were cute and adorable. “Women with fine features”, I named them in my head. I nursed a wishful thinking in them even though from my math there was no hope in the future. 

One of them grabbed my attention. She was fair and beautiful, a bunch of black hair sitting atop an oval face. She made brilliant contributions for the class discussion. She made another submission on the day she came to class with cornrows. I watched her in admiration from afar. Situations like this abound where I preferred to watch someone adorable from afar. 

 

If I really like you and there is no future, I ignore you. Just like certain somebody we know.

 

If I don’t like you, which means there is no future, I can go ahead and indulge you. Like another certain somebody we know. 

 

These were my feelings towards the girl with the cornrows. The Indian girl came to class wearing the typical African hair style. I planned to talk to her after class. But she was gone. I was unable to meet her. I was unable to meet her because I was caught up in a side talk with the professor after the lecture. I shrugged; I was indifferent. I wished I had met her, but since that didn’t happen I was also not bothered. 

 

I stored her name in my head. She was active in class so her name was not difficult to know.  The following week, after class, the girl came to pass by my side. The professor was celebrating her birthday and brought cakes to the class for the students. The Indian girl with the cornrows walked forth and helped herself and her friends from the cakes. I spoke to her on her way back. 

“Give me some minutes”, she said, “I will be back”. 

 

She delivered the cake to her friends and came back. She sat in the chair opposite me. I told her what I wanted to talk to her about last week before she spirited away was about her cornrows. “Do you also have cornrows in India?”

 

“No, my neighbor is a Ghanaian”, she said, “she did it for me”. She then spoke about her race and nationality and revealed that she was not Indian.

 

Surprised, I asked, “Did someone ever tell you that you look like Indian?”  

 

“Yes,” she said. She lived in Chicago in a predominantly Indian neighborhood. She was Ethiopian, but because of her facial looks the Hindus in the street often mistook her for their own. We laughed at the amusing incidents and how the Hindus attitude quickly changed after realizing her identity. We proceeded to talk about college. Small talk extended longer than we thought until we suddenly realized we were the only souls left in the class. We exchanged contacts and walked downstairs to catch the bus. 

 

I tarried at least two days after the conversation before I sent her a message. We continued to exchange pleasantries via text messages over the coming days, talking about classes she took and her life. Classes were fun, she said, and was doing Art and Religious Studies for her other classes. “That’s cool. You’re a smart girl,” I said. In the coming days, the girl and I would be having a date. But it was not really a kind of romantic date even though it was. I sent her a message asking her out when I got back home. It was already dark. I talked to her only briefly in class because I had to catch up with the professor. The thing I wanted to say was I was wondering if I could see her over the weekend, but then she said she would have been in Chicago by then. 

 

She replied after some hours, a pretense at being very busy. “Oh, I’ll be in Chicago next weekend, not this one,” she countered my assumption. “But I don’t mind getting a coffee and chatting about class and your experience in the city.” 

 

“That’s fine”, I texted back after careful consideration. I needed to parse what she meant. Was there some sort of misreading and misunderstanding? I sent her a message nonetheless, details about the date, the hour and the rendezvous. 

 

“Yes, that would work”, she sent in the message back immediately.  

 

Since then, I had been conflicted about the whole thing, asking myself questions about her intentions. Thoughts were twerking in my mind. Moreso was the fact that a dead silence reigned on both sides, no text messages or calls, which compounded my situation. It was difficult to tell what we really were. I could see her on Snapchat, her WhatsApp was active, unlike typical Americans, but I could not talk to her. She used WhatsApp for family, and as I assumed, for some purposes back in Ethiopia where she had a small memory of and tenuous relations with. The silence was awkward. I needed to have a sense of what she was thinking. I was torn between whether to go ahead with the date or not. I decided not to go ahead finally. I should let her hang in there when she arrived at the rendezvous. I would send no warning. She should go and not find me there. This was the perfect exit. I could ignore her and then apologize when next we meet. This would suck, so she wouldn’t be responsive and welcoming again. We could still be friends, nonetheless. I sent her a message instead to gauge her feeling. Anytime I felt like not going ahead with the date a strong voice would rise in me and warn against that. I sent her a message, a neutral message that gave her a total freedom to make her choice.

 

“Hello. Are you good today? See you soon”! 

A fast and positive response would mean we were going out. But she could also decide otherwise, or respond late, or respond to say something unexpected came up. I was open and welcoming to that. If her reply came late then it was a perfect alibi for me. I would refuse to show up and say I thought she was busy or something and therefore I got caught up into other things. I’d then request another date, which I knew would never happen because there wasn’t enough time for the semester. I’d travel to Nigeria afterwards; she would go to Chicago. Out of sight, out of mind. On the possible scenario of no response at all I would read that as lack of interest, which I hated, but I also looked forward to. 

 

I had my bath and put everything on standby. I sat in anticipation, waiting, lounging on the sofa, phone in hand, the TV turned off in the living room. I was anxious for her reply, checking my phone every time but no reply had come in yet. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and went about my business, reading a book and scrolling social media feeds. It was almost top of the hour for the date to begin. Once I was sure it was over, too late for us to meet, I removed the DND. Just as I did that a message dropped in. It was sent fifteen minutes earlier. She sent the message to say that she was at the venue and found a table at the hallway of the second floor.

 

I donned my clothes really quick and hopped into the next bus. Not seeing her message on time, and my divided intention, affected my scheduling and timing. Coupled with bus arrival and scheduling, I was running over fifteen minutes late. Half through the journey, in the bus, an other of her message arrived. I didn’t reply. I would soon arrive in a few minutes so no need to reply. She was getting agitated. She gave me a short call, which made me pull up my phone to send her a word to calm her down. I typed and sent, “Alright, give me a minute. On my way”.  

 

Shortly afterwards I arrived at the venue. I walked upstairs. She was seated in the chair at the hallway of the second floor. The date was slated for an hour long. I came twenty-minutes late. All along, I was unsure if this was a date or something because she had already mapped out its contours and trajectory. Her demand for the date to be on “class and personal experience in the city” gave the meeting a professional touch. Part of me wanted to say no and decline outright. Even though my initial message said that meeting was about nothing serious, it actually was. “I am meeting you because I wanted to know more about you. I wanted to know more about you because I find you attractive”.  She should disregard that message. Can’t she see? 

 

I let her have her way. I could only push back for a relationship I foresaw a potential in. I shrugged and gave in to her request. Afterall, the simple act of meeting her won’t hurt, even if this meant the last and final encounter. 

 

I sat in the chair, put my phone on the table and looked at her face. I could tell a fake emotion, hers was genuine. We smiled at each other. One hour meeting lasted to one and a half hour, talking about everything, including her childhood in Ethiopia, her family, and what she wanted to do with her life in the future. She wanted to be travelling and switching jobs, maybe work in gallery and museum and crown her career with an NGO job in Ethiopia to give back to her motherland. America had triumphed over Ethiopia. There was no mention of resettlement over there. She didn’t have deep-rooted attachment in Ethiopia. 

 

Amharic and Hausa languages have some similar words with common roots in Arabic. In Nigeria folk say Habesha to mean Ethiopia. So, what is Habesha? She is Habesha. There are lots of mosques in Ethiopia, she said, did I go to Saudi Arabia? No, I replied, but was planning to go someday for the pilgrimage. “We can go together”, I proposed. She declined my offer, saying she could go with her Muslim friend, an Indian lady in Chicago. 

 

Does she like cooking? She did because from her experience America didn’t have great food compared to Ethiopia or Nigeria. And what sorts of food do they have in Ethiopia? We should try this someday at an Ethiopian restaurant in town. “Maybe someday after Ramadan because now it is Ramadan”. This suddenly caught her attention. 

 

“What religion are you”? she asked. This was our first meeting. It was not merely superficial performative question, the sort of interest on display when people were meeting people for the first time. Of course, you asked important questions if you’re thinking long-term with keen and genuine interest.  I too wanted to ask her her religion right at the start of the conversation. I would do that in a cleverly way, not frontal way that she did. I'd say “Did you go to church today”? since it was Sunday, to get to know if she was practicing Christian. Relationship outside the culture would be a serious problem to my conservative parents, but it was a problem they could tolerate. I could work with them and lobby for their acceptance. Most of my plans came to my parents as announcements, not necessarily for seeking their permission or approval. This was the established norm of respecting their authority since there was always drama in the family over generational conflicts; my parents always looking back and deferring to tradition; me always looking forward to progress and adventure. There were instances of intense wranglings. Once at the time I was going to university. The other about national service. On both occasions my parents insisted I shouldn’t be far away from home. Zaria for them was far compared to another school in Kano. It was incomprehensible for my mother when I brought the issue of going to the South for the national service. It was fierce clash on the two occasions in which parents lost on both counts. Peaceful coexistence with my parents bore me.  I looked forward to my mother’s objection to my plans. “Sha-sha-sha kawai”, she said, livid with anger and exasperation when I used James Baldwin to make a point. She gave in in the end, which contradicted the string of lies I told other girls about the unbending nature of my parents.

 

I asked the Habesha girl in return what religion she was before giving my answer. I would prefer someone coming from another faith for a relationship to be totally irreligious, an atheist for instance, so there would be no need for her walking away from her faith or the need to worry about that. She was Christian. Obviously, we could not run this on Muslim-Muslim ticket. It was a perfect reason for me not to feel hurt if things didn’t eventually take off from here. I bet the same thoughts were running on her mind. 

 

To be honest, I liked this girl so much. She was smart and brilliant. For her, though, for her alone for the first time in a long while, I felt ready to make some adjustments and personal sacrifices. I could get rid of my sense of nativity and Northern conservatism. The whole thing, however, presented cultural and religious complications. 

 

It was nice talking to her. She was sweet and wonderful. I sent her a message to thank her. Being this very nice usually meant no future. Her reply came two days later. My spirit told me she was deliberately ignoring me. You can’t forget someone and suddenly remember to send them a message in the middle of the night. Her message came in the middle of the night. To ignore someone deliberately, consciously, is to be fighting a powerful urge from within you. You’re trying so hard not to give into something even though you wanted to. True forgetting is something you do effortlessly and seamlessly. 

 

If I pushed further and harder I was hopeful a positive thing would come out of the relationship. As things stood, I was now a realistic candidate for international, inter-ethnic, inter-religious marriage. It’s my turn to make a difference, to have those little cuties that everyone admired. But again, theory ran into reality, and I realized the sacrifice was just too much. “Good things should not start from me”, I declared, like one president we know. Afterall, a friend once said, “Everyone should marry the person from their own town”. Leave the girls for the boys in their hometown. Leave the boys for the girls in their hometown. 

Madison, WI

 

 

 

The Kano Emir’s Palace, Places and Non-Places

 

I have recently been thinking through cityscape, city life and design in a beautiful combination of the art, literature, and landscape architecture. Marc Auge’s book Non-Places provides the basis for my thinking about the Kano Emir’s Palace as an anthropological place and its standing as well as other places of modernity in the city. 

It is hard to think of another place in Kano aside the Emir’s Palace that can serve as a public square and cultural center, a place where people can go and reconnect with the essence and spirit of the city in moments of pain or laughter. I understand the sentiment to think of other places like Gidan Makama and Gidan Ɗan Hausa as cultural centers, but they are different from the Emir’s Palace. Gidan Makama can be considered as the wider Emir’s Palace, it however does not meet the definition of a free public square.  

Both Gidan Makama and Gidan Ɗan Hausa are cultural centers. They serve different but related functions to the Emir’s Palace. They are symbols of tradition; they are places of cultural value; they are tourist attractions and house artifacts. One problem is they maintain elements of super-modernity. They impose restrictions for entry based on fees and ticketing and the demand for proof of innocence. Hotels, bars, cafés, restaurants, museums, and amusement parks – places of super-modernity or non-places – require proof of innocence at the entrance and leaving. They cannot therefore qualify as open spaces that embrace public life on spontaneity. It is public place vs exclusive place. On occasion, Gidan Makama and Gidan Ɗan Hausa host public events, but those events are on different character and purpose. Often, the events are organized and require entrance fees. They can’t host large, city-wide gathering with briskness and spontaneous burst of life. Emir’s Palace, for one, is where people go to commemorate and share. 

Emir's Palace, Kano 2024
Credit: High Click Media

Someone suggested that even Emir’s Palace is not completely accessible to the public except you know someone on the inside who can facilitate your access. The idea of public space is not uncommon in Kano, but the idea of cultural center as public square is not easily fathomable even though the people have been practicing this culture as a habitual pattern of life since time immemorial. Emir’s Palace is a public monument. It is a place that pre-existed any living person and would survive them. You are left in awe and respect of the place because of the history it carries. It is the tangible expression of permanence for everyone to experience.

All roads lead to the town center. Ancient cities maintain a town center. Traditionally the seat of royalty or a site of revolution or political establishment, town center provides active social life for the residents. It overlooks an open space. Around the center are other cultural buildings like the town hall, the court, the mosque and other buildings of civil and cultural authority. Raise your vision from the gate of the Emir’s Palace to the south, in the horizon you can see Municipal Council building, Gidan Makama museum and the court. On the other side to the north stands the Kano Central Mosque and Gidan Shettima. You cannot have bars, cafes and restaurants lining up the street of the Emir’s Palace. It is a cultural thing. In ancient times travelers to the city relied on the hospitality of their hosts through their duration of stay rather than on commercial services of hospitality industry and the people had their own way of hanging out with friends. 

The area of the Emir’s Palace is a swathe of giant museum of tangible and intangible heritage that harks back to memory and nostalgia. The Emir’s Palace area has administrative mood, festive and trading activities around it. Friday is a big mini event. The day has a rhythmic revelry in which residents deck out in their finest. It provides a chance to meet and greet. It is a day of warmth and spontaneity. Happy moments are commemorated on Friday, including causal visits as well as lovers’ meeting late evening at the town square. Town center is traditionally where the market square is held. Traces of that can be seen on Friday around the edges of the Kano Central Mosque.

Kano Central Mosque, 2024
Credit: High Click Media

In the morning you would see the emir’s subjects milling about the Palace, going in to pay homepage to their ruler. It is a chance for people to catch up, where exchanges between friends happen. Once it is noon people have already begun to converge for Jumma’at prayer. Children would save through the week to have money to pay for bike ride and play games at the square of the Central Mosque. Old women would proceed to visit patients, pay condolences to friends, and see their relatives. Ƙofar Fada is where itineraries intersect and mingle. 

These were the rhythms of everyday life around Gidan Sarki in the olden days. This is why Friday cannot be a fully working day in Kano. Older people prefer to pray Jumma’at prayer in the Central Mosque than anywhere else even though Jumma’at mosques sprung up almost every inch of the city. They would rather brave distance and any form of discomfort than commit the sacrilege of praying Jumma’at elsewhere. Some would stay behind and go back home only after Asr prayer.

My friend Baffa and I walked through the downtown of the ancient city as secondary schoolers, carefree and unburdened, troubled only by our equestrian zest. After school, Baffa would come pick me up from my house. From his horse stable at Ƙofar Wambai, the famous shamakin Ƙofar Wambai, we traversed the ancient city, Dukawa through Yola to Soron Ɗinki to Gwangwazo via Gidan Sarki and back, crisscrossing the alleys and backstreets. Those were our daily destinations driven by our interest in horses, checking up on friends and their horses, exchanging the latest and hottest information about equestrian activities: durbar, the new feeding techniques and adventure, the latest and most expensive horse in town and everything else. Walking around the surrounding areas gave us a chance to experience the city. 

This layout and flow of life is replicated across villages and districts. The house of the district head is overlooking an expanse, near the central mosque, the civil office or town hall, and the court. Kano city sprawls out without carrying these traditions along. Beyond the ancient city, the town becomes endless giant chaotic quarters where residential buildings, shops and businesses compete for every inch of space in a way that makes the ambiguous sense of place acute and incoherent. The middle-income neighborhoods are just there erected without the guidance of planning theory while the low-income areas are terrible eyesores. With no effort to preservation, the ancient quarters continue to suffer gentrification. Poor residents are being driven out to the outskirts into the densely populated neighborhoods.  

Madison, WI

 

The Stock of Your Life

 I

End of year gives you a chance to take stock of your life, what happens and what does not. December is always a low-energy month. It gets you into shifting allegiance between yourself and your choices.  Slow paced, you find yourself liquid with emotion, mashed into a wet inertia. I joked to my housemate that we are running the house part time. One day you wake up and ask yourself, "what do you want"? For now, stability, anonymity, and immobility. 

Life is hard, it is really hard. Always something, always something, navigating difficulties and complexities and making trade-offs between something for something. Last year, between December 2022 through to May 2023 I listened to no song at all, shut down my main WhatsApp, listened to Qur’an 24/7, in the bus, walking to and from classes, working, cooking, shopping, everything and everywhere until I travelled back to Nigeria in May. I want to go back to Nigeria and live with my family. Suddenly, I am engulfed by a serious craving for travel to West African cities or North Africa and Mediterranean cities, not settle there but to visit different city every vacation year. 

Really, this life is crazy if you know what I mean, but this is how I wormed my way through the semester:

Open Door for refugees (ODFR), a non-profit in the City of Madison, has a tradition of organizing events for the displaced who moved to the city, including an annual Thanksgiving Dinner that started pre-COVID era. The event was held this year as well. I volunteered for the organization and led a team of volunteers for meat supply. I was happy and satisfied for the job-well-done. You get a sort of experience on how to get sponsorship and manage logistics. 

The Thanksgiving Dinner is organized for the refugee families in Madison. The families were drawn from countries across the Middle East, Asia, Africa, Ukraine and some other places that I cannot easily remember. I did a migration study class this fall. I read a lot about migration and displacement. By default, I must have a deep personal empathy with the immigrants and the displaced. Given the context of ongoing West-backed, Israeli-led genocide in Gaza, some people refused to participate in organizing the Thanksgiving event in solidarity with the Palestinians because of Thanksgiving's genocidal origin.

I feel the need to extend my solidarity to the displaced, symbolically tell the refugees that they are not alone and can find community in our shared humanity. As the migrants were mainly Arabs and some handful of Blacks from the Congo, another site of genocide, I believed that my presence will be important to them. Besides, I have a shared experience with the displaced people.  Although there are differences in our circumstances, there are also similarities that bind us. I am by myself here, no family no nothing so I know what it means to live uprooted from your culture, to be the person out of place. I can tell what it means to leave century-old traditions and transplant elsewhere. Mine is voluntary, theirs is forced displacement. 

L-R: Me, Muhammad's family (M) and Egyptian couple (R)

I met new families at the event. One from Syria. The other from Egypt. I need to make things clear here. The Egyptian family is not refugee. They are immigrants. The husband is an engineer while his wife is a homemaker. They have lived in the US for about twenty years, with two children -- a son and a daughter -- living somewhere in the US with their own families.

When I feel comfortable, I naturally engage folks in deep, fun and meaningful conversation. A little introduction here and there, I got into talks with the Syrian family. They have a son called Muhammad. His English isn’t perfect, as he is just few months in the US. Muhammad and his family spent about 10 years in Egypt. They fled their home when the war in Syria broke. Probably when Muhammad was an infant. Muhammad grew up in Egypt, schooled there for his elementary education. When they moved here, his sister completed high school. We should call this sister Fatima. 

There is some magnetic force between me and kids, an intrigue about their psychology. I am interested in their development and always wanted to leave a positive mark in their lives. I bonded quickly with Muhammad, thanks to a shared interest in soccer and my basic Arabic language. I asked Muhammad about his friends and childhood in Syria, in English where Arabic failed. But Muhammad told me he does not have friends in Syria. He has only an imagined and mythologized memory of the homeland. He was infant when they fled the country. Probably only stories of aunties and uncles. All he knew about his childhood are memories in Egypt. He played soccer with the neighborhood kids. Muhammad is at least two degrees away from his culture when his family moved to the US. This launched me into sympathy for Muhammad. Muhammad is forever different from regular kids who grow up in their original culture. I wonder if Muhammad would grow up with the same idea of the pain of migration like adult migrants. In Egypt, he was just getting to know the place when they had to move again...

Muhammad and I

Muhammad loves soccer. He loves Cristiano Ronaldo. This deepened our connection. I made an assessment that Muhammad’s English is coming on gradually. As we spoke, he corrected my Arabic; I helped him with English. Muhammad told me about a special English language program in his school that kids like him were enrolled. This might be the reason for his quick English progress. I can’t shake off a sense of uneasiness about his socializing with the kids in school.

Given his background, I wanted to know what Muhammad wanted to be in his life. I asked him in my fledgling Arabic while the rest of the crowd at the table got immersed in their own world, giving attention to us only when needed, sporadically when Muhammad wanted to confirm something from his mother for a question I asked about. Muhammad wanted to be a space driver. He said this in Arabic, which is basically an astronaut. I asked if he knew what he needed to do right from elementary school to be able to be an astronaut in the future. 

Muhammed retains much of his Arabic tradition. His favorite subjects are Chemiyya, Biologiyya, and Physiyya. This reminds me of the foundational contributions of Islamic intellectuals in the development of what is now called modern science.

Muhammed’s sister, Fatima, finished high school and is preparing for college. She wants to study computer. But computer is just a broad term. I pressed further for specifics, offering suggestions and insights. Fatima said she wants to study IT. Their mum and dad can’t speak English. I spoke to them in Arabic and translation assistance from Muhammed and the Egyptian family when my Arabic failed.

II

I have had an interesting session with my students. I taught two sections in Introduction to African Cultural Expressions. Basically, what we do in this class is explore broadly the research portfolios of the faculty in our department. It is always a pleasure discussing stuff about Africa with the young American students. Smug in their content with America as the center of the world, they exude a demeanor that shows they are ready to learn, but the knowledge should always come second to whatever is American equivalent.  

Section 001

Section 003

As usual, students will get to like the course for various reasons and to various degrees. Some students like the course because of the instructor.  You can tell by their eagerness and investment in the course, always looking forward to the next meeting, no absence, no funny attitude or excuse. They take care of everything and make sure they do not request for any excuses. 

Walking on campus also brings back memories of my college days. You can see lovebirds, serious students, the social, and those in-between. You can also, actually, see the lonely students and those who don’t really give a damn! They are indifferent. They are everywhere if you look closely.

Lastly, I went to the theatre for the screening of The Color Purple, organized by The Black Cultural Excellence. I met a lady. A soulful woman, jet black, calm, and beautiful. We sat together. I asked her story. From the start I sensed she wasn’t telling the truth, but I came to realize that her words, like herself, were authentic and original. You can tell when someone is telling the truth. You can tell when someone is genuinely interested in the conversation.

She is first year business major (the course I agreed, but the year I did not). Her family was originally from Ethiopia. She was born here and regularly visits the place of her ancestry. A heavy silence would ensue between mouthfuls of popcorn, only to be broken by one more question. 

Why are you not eating your popcorn?

I had already eaten it up.

How did you like your hair? 

Natural, black and original. 

Did you hope to move back to Africa someday? 

Yes, some time in the future, not to settle but to be shuttling between the continents. 

What brought you to the screening?

I have an essay in my African American class. I wanted to see how the movie could help.

Did you read the novel?

No, not really. 

On and on and on…until the end credits. Then, we stood up to go. She said, "I already have a boyfriend"! 

Madison, WI

Out of the dark night

My life is a complete irony. The last two years had been a roller-coaster of emotional pain, a mosaic of emotions. Pain and pleasure in the same body, I never expected America could be so painful. Tola said things would get better. 

For a sustained period, I lived with a constant pain in my chest, lack of sleep, excess sleep, lack of appetite, feeling of sadness and lack of interest. It was a complete mental breakdown.  I could no longer hold it. I booked an appointment with a doctor. 

The doctor asked questions about suicidal thoughts, appetite, and insomnia. As a Muslim and working class, suicide was the last thing to cross my mind, though time and again I pondered going back to Nigeria. Preliminary examination in an online chat was extended to a physical meeting. The doctor made his diagnosis. Like a malfunctioning gadget, tubes and wires were fastened to my chest. The ECG machine displayed the flashing movement of my system. Afterwards, I was booked for a two-week therapy session subject to renewal.

I was in a dark place, and it showed in my work. Keen observers – among students and professors – noticed a change in me, which affected the quality of work and teaching outputs. The final assessment from my students and the grades from my professors were unmistakable about that.  I ignited resilience and managed to get As in all my classes though! 

I experienced the worst of winter. I experienced loneliness and isolation in their darkest form. There was a time that I spent two days without speaking to human soul because there was no one to talk to. People here travel in winter break. Nobody in Nigeria called and I decided to give everyone a space until they first reached out. America has so much space without people. Abundance is a commonplace without the people to rip it off.

I was separated from my family. I was going through ordeal: emotional pain, unmet desire, cruel separation, push and pull of migration. Worse was that I knew the term for each of my feeling. I had a voice for my condition, so I knew exactly what was going on. I interrogated my decision to come to America, whether the pain is worth it. 

But what was pleasantly surprising was that I was toeing a line walked by several other immigrants before me. My experience is a private collective. As I spoke to people and read books by immigrants, I realized I was the new arrival to the league. Two years ago when I came to the US I found out I was black. Everything I experienced had been experienced by someone else. From winter blues to isolation and loneliness and going back to Africa to feel the tangible deteriorations in your living standards. It is a common knowledge among immigrants that one month in the home-country can quickly wipe out the gain of ten months. This starts the process of your naturalization, the foreign land snatching you from your homeland. You become a visitor to your native land. You need to be somewhat stupendously rich to be able to maintain in Nigeria the basic comfort you have in the US. On some days, for instance, I can live without spending a dime, which is totally impossible in Nigeria for the same amount of comfort. 

Each visit to Nigeria gives me clarity. I am trying to make America and Wisconsin home. I particularly like our city, a small, quiet university town in the Midwest. The people are warm, willing to help, and especially welcoming to immigrants. 

But I somehow feel I do not belong. The thought of winter makes me shudder. Everything comes to me differently the way I see them and relate to them in Nigeria. Here, a home is just a place to sleep. There is no deep and intimate connection between history and memory, something you can remember from childhood, an uncle or neighbor who used to sit under the tree in-front of the house. There is no chatter of the children outside. There is a total absence of elements that constitute a home, roots that run deep into eons of legends and myths. 

My perception of things back in Nigeria is different from my relationship with things here in the US. And this proves more real during a visit to Nigeria. Living in two time zones, I worry and dwell over things in Nigeria, always picturing my people, what they are doing at a particular moment, where they are sitting and what they are saying. Quite unlike how I dwell much about events in Nigeria when I am in the US, I don’t think about events and life in the US with similar passion and intensity while in Nigeria. 

Home is no more than a place to live, in which I can move houses at a drop of a hat. My existence is a collection of papers, two pieces of luggage and a backpack. This excludes neighbors, fond childhood memories, the neighborhood kids, the majlis, the small small Islamic cultures and everything that builds one’s formative experience, which jumpstarts me into the world of instability of belonging. 

In one of our numerous discussions about the challenges of diaspora living I have at least identified two things: on one hand, there is one group of us juggling infrequent stability, those who have belonging in one place through marriage but are separated physically because of residency and distance. On the other hand are those of us suffering from acute instability of belonging. We are so rootless, with nor marriage or kids in either country. Any which way, we suffer the double bind of cultural and personal displacement. 

Such a difficult process. In our journey across geographies, every stayover or layover adds to your pleasure and trauma. Moreso if you are a Muslim. Take for instance the ritual of daily praying or fasting and the memories in it.

Our life is intimately linked to our devices. As you move across times zones, so does the change in time follow you. The time change competes and tries to override your sense of timing and ritual in your point of origin. The experience is inscribed into your memory, which then tries to destroy or bastardize your sense of stability.

Instability of belonging means you are in a continuous state of transition, never able to put down roots, even if it means you are travelling back somewhere in an unspecified distant future. In the end, majority of people I spoke with have a plan of going back to where they come from. Wherever you move, you are starting all over again. For your intermittent or infrequent visits, the latent awareness of “going” sits in your subconscious. Arriving and going requires logistics and preparing. I have to buy new stuff to start over my life anytime I visit Nigeria, which I then have to get rid of when travelling back to the US. This continuous state of change and transition entails incredible amount of flexibility and minimalism. 

My life is screwed up, but this is my choice. And like Tola said things will get better. Things get better with each visit to Nigeria. I went to Nigeria and cut off the wires that caused the sparks. Sadly, in all of this, people think I am enjoying. Everyone thinks I am printing money in the US!