Skip to main content

NASIRA





Storried Nazira
 – By Kolawole
Trudging back home from work, the scorching sun and fatigue his companions, the only thought on Sanuth’s mind was how to get to his room. Everything else melted in the heat of the sun. First, he had to get something to eat for lunch, so he stopped by the Awara seller’s stall. He didn’t notice the woman, with her son, whom he met there.
He tried in vain to communicate with the seller in the local language. He could have asked the woman he met there, but for the fear of returning after the service year with summarized versions of his limbs for talking to another man’s wife, so he didn’t.
He didn’t need to ask. The woman intervened and mercifully put him out of his futility. She said something in Hausa, turned to him and said, “She said she doesn’t have N50 worth unless you are going to wait for her to make another one.” He caught himself just in time to give an appropriate reply.
Storried Nazira
She spoke English with such fluency that his soul had longed for since he got to this village. And if you have ever been to a rather remote part of Kano, you’d know that’s a rarity.
Sanuth turned slowly, smiling and noticing things he hadn’t earlier allowed himself to. She wasn’t a woman. But a lady. They got talking. She wasn’t married, the child was her brother. At that moment, that little fraction of the time, he realized she was the most beautiful creature he had seen in this new land. The sun above was no longer scorching, nay, it nestled him in its warmth, for her face had become the sun and was bright and fine. Everything was okay.
Her name was the most beautiful sound he had heard. Nazira. He knew not the translation of it, but to him it meant perfection. She was perfect.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

WHY DO TEARS FOREVER FLOW?

By Ola Vincent Omotade As I lay on my bed this morning, with sunlight streaming through the window, a gentle breeze blew the flimsy white curtain and I saw the sky turn blue.. OH! its a new day I said. Just as I took a step to go get my pink hard smoker's brush and a Dabur-herbal toothpaste to spray on my brush, I heard someone crying in terribleness. I was weak in my spirit and all I did was to rest on my cushion, threw the brush on my carved mahogany bench and these were words that interfered with my heart. I realized coming to this earth, newly birth nothing in my hand I bring. simply naked to the earth I come, looking for dress in tearsa Oh for us We came hale and hearty, But yet tears trooped out from our eyes, the little helpless baby. Looking for ways to support living, we sow in tears but at times reap in joy, not always every time though. Going through the nooks and crannies of pains in craft works, handiworks and education (disciplined with tear...
Post a Comment
Read more

SALEWA

By Jonathan Oladeji I don’t know how many people have met Salewa before, even if it is not the Salewa I am talking about. What can you say is common about every Salewa? It’s usually their room mates that can testify better. I met Salewa in my 200 level and she told me her name was Sally. I stared at her for hours before managing to pick a seat behind her in the then AUD 2 on the Great Ife campus. Salewa is the typical tall, slim, dark and beautiful (TSDB) girl. I approached with all caution because I wanted to make a good impression. Even though I am not much of a fashionista, I could see her wrist bracelet, earrings and neck-piece were a complete set out of an A-Class boutique. Salewa was not the bend-down select kind of girl. I wanted to break out of that circle too by all means. We talked awkwardly at first, then kicked off with a bit of more fashion related gist as I noticed that was all she wanted to talk about. I actually wanted to talk about drawing boards and painting c...
Post a Comment
Read more

ÌGBÀ ÈWE (CHILDHOOD DAYS)

By Teslim Opemipo Let our mothers come like harmattan haze and swear by the sacrality of ògún if the roof lying above their fathers' house has never been stoned by a boy in love to walk them out for an evening talk. Let our fathers come like a windy rain and swear by the simplicity of òsun if the path that leads to the village stream has never danced to serenades sang by their soles in chase of maidens with braids so long. Let the elders come like a mid-year harvest and swear by the tranquility of the moon if they've not once tasted the bliss of childhood fermented with the morals of moonlight tales. In our village, childhood is made of water; kinsmen, remember, water is brewed with life and life is the laughter moulded on our lips when we gambol from rivers to trees and to fields painted in the colours of hopping grasses. Brethren, if you hear an elder saying: growing up kills laughter and joy, do not giggle for they once like us tasted the bliss o...
Post a Comment
Read more