Chapter 2: Musa

Northern Nigeria — July 2024

The bus dropped him at the junction. Nothing was there except dust and a dead goat.

Musa stood with his bag on his shoulder, watching the bus cough and shudder back onto the road, its taillights disappearing into a haze of red earth. The sun was brutal. It pressed down on the top of his head like a hand, and the dust was everywhere—in his nostrils, his throat, the creases of his clothes. He had forgotten how much dust there was up here. The Southwest had been green, wet, the air thick with humidity and exhaust fumes. This was different. This was a dry heat that cracked the skin and made the eyes ache.

He started walking. The road was unpaved, filled with potholes and stones. His sandals were new, bought in Lagos for the journey, and already the dust was coating them brown. The village was two kilometers from the junction. He knew every turn, every baobab tree, every cluster of thatched roofs. He had walked this road a thousand times as a child, running ahead of his mother with a bucket of water on his head, chasing goats, laughing. Now he walked alone.

A motorcycle passed him, kicking up more dust. The rider didn't stop. Musa coughed and waved the air from his face.

He thought about the Southwest—the traffic, the noise, the endless honking of cars. Lagos had been a shock. The year of National Youth Service had felt like a lifetime. He'd been posted to a secondary school in Ogun State, teaching government and economics to students who didn't want to learn. The school had been underfunded, the classrooms overcrowded, the students rowdy. But he had adapted. He had learned to survive. And now, after twelve months of city life, he was back.

The village appeared slowly. First the mosque's minaret, pale against the blue sky. Then the cluster of houses, their mud walls baked hard by the sun. Then the smell—the familiar smell of cooking fires, livestock, and the dry earth that was always waiting for rain that never came.

Musa's heart beat faster. He was home.

---

His father was in the front yard, mending a broken hoe. He was sitting on a low stool, his back bent, his hands moving with practiced precision. When he looked up and saw Musa, he didn't get up. He just stared, his face unreadable.

"Baba," Musa said. He dropped his bag and walked toward his father.

His father was a small man, wiry and brown, with hands that had held the earth for more than sixty years. His face was lined, his beard streaked with grey. He looked at Musa for a long moment, and then he nodded.

"You're back."

"Yes, Baba."

"The journey was long?"

"Long. But I made it."

His father grunted. He stood slowly, his knees cracking, and extended his hand. They shook. His father's grip was strong, but his hand was thin, the bones prominent beneath the skin. He let go and looked Musa up and down.

"You're thin. The food in the South is not good?"

"The food is fine. I was just busy."

"Busy. Always busy." His father shook his head. "Go inside. Your mother has been waiting."

Musa picked up his bag and walked toward the house. The compound was familiar: the three mud rooms arranged in a square, the cooking shed in the corner, the goats tethered to a tree. Nothing had changed. He felt the years drop away, the city life, the stress, the loneliness. He was just a boy again, coming home from the farm.

The door to the main room was open. He stepped inside, and the darkness after the glare of the sun made him blink. The room smelled of smoke and herbs. His mother was lying on a mat in the corner, a thin blanket over her legs.

"Mummy," he said.

She opened her eyes. They were yellowed, tired. She tried to smile, and her lips cracked.

"Musa. My son."

He knelt beside her and took her hand. It was hot and dry. He could feel the bones, the papery skin.

"Mummy, you're sick."

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Tired? You look—"

"I'm fine." She squeezed his hand. "Don't start worrying. You just got here. How was the South? Did you see Lagos? I always wanted to see Lagos."

"Lagos is too crowded. You wouldn't like it."

"Maybe not. But I wanted to see it. Just once."

Musa looked at her. She had been sick when he left for the NYSC, but not like this. Now she was thin, gaunt, her cheeks hollow. The sickness had taken hold.

"Where's Aminu?" he asked. "And Fatima? Ibrahim?"

"Your brothers are at the farm. Fatima is fetching water." His mother closed her eyes. "They missed you, Musa. They talked about you every day. I told them you would come back."

"I came back."

"You came back." She opened her eyes again. "You look tired. Sit down. Rest."

He sat beside her. The room was quiet except for the sound of the goats outside and the distant hum of a generator from a neighbor's compound.

"Tell me about the South," his mother said.

"It's green. It rains a lot. The people are different."

"Different how?"

"They talk faster. They always seem to be in a hurry. But they're kind. I made friends."

"Good. That's good. I was worried about you. Alone in a strange place."

"Mummy, I was fine. I'm a man now."

His mother laughed, a dry, rasping sound that turned into a cough. "A man," she repeated. "You will always be my baby."

Musa didn't argue. He held her hand and felt the heat radiating from her skin.

---

His brothers came back in the evening.

Musa heard them before he saw them—the shouting, the laughter, the stampeding feet. Aminu burst through the door first, Ibrahim behind him. They were both taller than when Musa had left. Aminu was seventeen now, lean and strong, his face starting to show the beginnings of a beard. Ibrahim was thirteen, still a boy, but growing fast.

"Musa!" Aminu grabbed him, hugged him hard. "You're back! You're back!"

Ibrahim was shouting, too, his voice cracking with excitement. "Did you bring us anything? Did you?"

"Let him breathe," Musa said, laughing. "You'll suffocate me."

Aminu pulled back, grinning. "You look the same. Just a little fatter. The South fed you well."

"I'm not fatter. I'm exactly the same."

"Ibrahim, doesn't he look fatter?"

"A little," Ibrahim said, nodding seriously. "In the face."

Musa grabbed his younger brother and roughed his hair. "How are you two? Have you been behaving?"

"Behaving?" Aminu scoffed. "I'm a man now. I work on the farm. I take care of Baba."

"Who takes care of Mummy?"

Aminu's smile faded. He looked away. "We're trying. But she doesn't want to see a doctor. She says it's just weakness."

"It's not weakness. She needs medicine."

"We know," Ibrahim said quietly. "But there's no money for medicine."

Musa opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn't come. He had sent money home whenever he could, but it was never enough. The salary from teaching had been small, and he had needed to pay rent, eat, survive. He had saved what he could. Now he wished he'd saved more.

Fatima appeared in the doorway, balancing a jerrycan of water on her head. She was fifteen, with her mother's eyes and her father's quietness. She set the jerrycan down carefully and walked toward Musa.

"Musa," she said.

"Fatima." He hugged her. She was thin, too thin, her arms like twigs. "How are you?"

"Fine." She pulled away and looked at him. "Is it true what Aminu says? That you have a plan to help the village?"

"I have ideas," Musa said. "Nothing concrete yet."

"Tell us," Aminu said. "Tell us the plan."

Musa hesitated. The plan was still forming in his mind, a rough shape of something he'd been dreaming about for months. A cooperative. A way for farmers to pool their resources, buy better seeds, access better markets. Cut out the middlemen who cheated everyone. It was a good idea. It was the only idea he had.

"Later," he said. "I'll explain later. Right now, I want to see Baba."

His father was still in the yard, the broken hoe now mended. He was sharpening a cutlass, the sound of stone on metal rhythmically scraping in the quiet evening.

Musa sat beside him. "Baba."

His father grunted without looking up. "You've seen your mother."

"Baba, she's very sick. She needs a doctor."

"A doctor costs money. I have no money."

"We can find a way—"

"Musa." His father stopped sharpening and looked at him. "You think I don't know my wife is sick? You think I don't see her getting worse every day? I know. I know everything. But knowing doesn't put food on the table. Knowing doesn't buy medicine."

"Then what can we do?"

"We pray. We survive. That's what we do."

Musa wanted to argue. He wanted to shout, to make his father see that prayer wasn't enough. But he held his tongue. His father was old, tired, and doing the best he could.

"Baba, I have some savings. Not much. But I can use it for Mummy's treatment. I can take her to the clinic in the next town."

His father was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Do what you can, Musa. That's all any of us can do."

---

Later that evening, Musa walked to the edge of the village.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. The air was cooler now, almost pleasant. He walked past the mosque, past the primary school, past the well where women were gathering water and gossiping. The village was peaceful. It was always peaceful at dusk.

He saw Aliyu before Aliyu saw him.

Aliyu was sitting on a stone wall, cleaning a rifle. He was thinner than Musa remembered, and darker, his face worn by the sun and something else—something that had taken the youth from his eyes. He was twenty-two, the same age as Musa, but he looked forty.

"Musa." Aliyu looked up. A slow smile spread across his face. "I heard you were back."

"Who told you?"

"Everyone tells me things. I'm the one who keeps them safe."

Musa approached him. They shook hands, their palms meeting in a brief, hard clasp. "It's good to see you, Aliyu."

"You too." Aliyu gestured to the space beside him on the wall. "Sit."

Musa sat. The wall was warm from the day's heat. He looked at the rifle in Aliyu's hands.

"Since when do you carry a gun?"

"Since they started coming."

"Who?"

"The bandits." Aliyu's smile faded. "They attacked us last month. Took eight people. Killed three."

Musa felt the words hit him like a physical blow. "Here? In this village?"

"Not here. Five kilometers away. But close. Close enough."

Aliyu continued cleaning the rifle, his movements precise and practiced. "The government does nothing. The soldiers come once, twice, then leave. So we protect ourselves. The old men, the young men. Anyone who can fight."

Musa thought about Aminu, his brother, seventeen years old. He thought about his father, too old to fight. He thought about his mother, sick and helpless.

"Aminu?" he asked. "Is Aminu in the vigilantes?"

Aliyu didn't answer immediately. He finished cleaning a part of the gun and looked at Musa. "Not yet. But he wants to join. He's asked me twice."

"Don't let him. He's a boy."

"He's a man, Musa. He has to decide for himself."

"He's seventeen. He's my brother. Don't let him join."

Aliyu looked at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. "I won't let him join. For now." He paused. "But you can't protect him forever, Musa. The bandits are getting bolder. They come with guns, with numbers. Sooner or later, everyone will have to choose."

"Choose what?"

"Choose to fight. Or choose to die."

Musa sat in silence. The sky was darkening. A cool wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the baobab trees. In the distance, he heard a shout—someone calling a child home.

"What do you do?" Musa asked. "When they come?"

"We fight. We try to push them back." Aliyu's voice was flat, emotionless. "We're not trained. We don't have enough ammunition. Sometimes we die. Sometimes we win. But we always fight."

"Don't you want to leave? Go to the city, find a job, start a life?"

Aliyu laughed. It was a harsh, bitter sound. "Leave? This is my home. This is where I grew up. Where would I go? The cities are no better. At least here I know the land. I know the people. I know how to survive."

Musa shook his head. He didn't know what to say. The dream of the cooperative suddenly felt absurd. What good would better markets be if everyone was dead?

---

The next morning, Musa walked through the village.

He had not slept well. The night had been full of sounds—dogs barking, goats bleating, and once, a distant sound that might have been a gunshot or might have been a motorcycle backfiring. He had lain on his mat, staring at the thatched roof, thinking about Aliyu's words.

The village was waking up. Women were sweeping their compounds, children were running to school, and the smell of breakfast—porridge and fried dough—drifted through the air. It was ordinary. It was peaceful. And Musa couldn't shake the feeling that it was a lie.

He walked to the farm. The land was parched, the soil cracked and dry. His father was there, checking the sorghum, his thin body bent over the stalks.

"Baba, good morning."

"Musa." His father straightened, wincing. "Did you sleep?"

"Not much. I was thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

"About the village. About the bandits. I met Aliyu last night."

His father spat on the ground. "That boy. He's made a mistake. Joining the vigilantes—it's a death sentence. Those people are not soldiers. They're farmers with guns."

"They're protecting us, Baba."

"Are they? Or are they making things worse?" His father shook his head. "I've seen what happens when men with no training try to fight. They get angry. They make mistakes. Sometimes they hurt the wrong people. And then the bandits come back for revenge."

"So what do we do? Do nothing?"

"I don't know, Musa. I don't know." His father looked at the sorghum, at the cracked earth. "But I know that fighting is not the answer. We need rain. We need peace. We need the government to do its job."

"And if they don't?"

His father didn't answer. He turned back to the sorghum and resumed his work.

Musa stood there for a long moment. Then he walked back to the village.

---

In the afternoon, Musa went to see the village head.

The head was an old man, white-bearded, with a calm face and patient eyes. He sat under a tree in the center of the village, surrounded by his advisors. They were discussing something—a dispute between two families, Musa guessed.

"Musa," the head said when he saw him. "Welcome home. How was the South?"

"Uneventful, sir."

"The South is always eventful. Lagos, especially. I've heard the traffic is impossible."

"The traffic is impossible, sir."

The head laughed. "Sit. Tell me why you've come."

Musa sat on the ground, cross-legged. "I have an idea, sir. A way to help the farmers. A cooperative."

"Tell me."

Musa explained. The cooperative, the better seeds, the direct access to markets. It was a good plan, he said. It would bring money into the village. It would make people less desperate.

The head listened without interrupting. When Musa finished, he was silent for a long moment.

"A good idea," the head said finally. "But it will take time. And money. And peace."

"Peace, sir?"

"The bandits. They won't stop attacking just because we have better seeds. They attack because they're hungry. Because they're angry. Because the government has abandoned them too."

"Then what do we do?"

The head sighed. "We survive, Musa. We survive, and we pray that better days come." He looked at Musa with tired eyes. "Go. Talk to the farmers. See if they're interested. But be careful. Hope can be dangerous."

---

That evening, Musa sat with his family.

Aminu was talking about the vigilantes again. Ibrahim was listening, wide-eyed. Fatima was quiet. His mother had managed to sit up, her back against the wall.

"Musa, you should see them," Aminu said. "Aliyu and the others. They're not scared anymore. They've killed bandits. They've protected the village."

"They've also died," Musa said. "Aliyu told me. Three men lost last week."

"Three men lost, but the village is safe. We need to fight, Musa. We can't just hide."

"We're not hiding. We're surviving."

"Surviving is not living." Aminu's voice was heated. "I'm not a child. I can fight."

Musa looked at his brother. He saw the anger, the frustration, the need to be a man. He recognized it because he had felt it too. Not the anger, but the need. The need to prove himself, to protect his family, to make a difference.

"If you join the vigilantes," Musa said slowly, "I won't stop you. But promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll come home."

Aminu's eyes widened. He had expected resistance, not acceptance. "I promise, Musa. I promise."

His mother stirred. "Aminu—"

"Mummy, it's okay. Musa understands."

"I understand nothing," Musa said. "But I know I can't stop you. Just be careful. Please."

Aminu nodded. Ibrahim was staring at them both, his face uncertain. Fatima looked at Musa with something like fear.

The conversation ended there. No one spoke. The silence was heavy, weighted by everything unsaid.

---

That night, Musa couldn't sleep.

He listened to the sounds of the village—the crickets, the wind, the occasional bark of a dog. He thought about his mother, her yellowed eyes and brittle hands. He thought about the cooperative, the dream that now seemed so distant. He thought about Aliyu, his friend who had become a killer. He thought about Aminu, his brother, who wanted to join him.

The peace felt fragile. It felt like a lie, a thin skin stretched over chaos and violence. One wrong move, one attack too many, and it would break.

He closed his eyes and tried to pray, but the words wouldn't come.

Instead, he listened. He listened for the sound of motorcycles, of gunfire, of screaming. He listened for the end of the peace.

All he heard was the wind.

He lay there, waiting, the fear a cold stone in his chest. He didn't know if the bandits would come tonight. He didn't know if he would survive tomorrow. He didn't know anything except that he was back home, and home was no longer safe.

He waited for sleep. It didn't come.

--

Author's Note:

Hi, everyone! 👋🏾

Welcome to Musa's story.

This chapter takes us to a different part of Nigeria—the dry heat of the North, where the dust never settles and the threat of bandits is always present. Musa is home after a year away, but nothing is the same. His mother is sick, his brother wants to fight, and the peace he remembers is crumbling.

I wanted to explore what it means to return home when home is no longer safe. The contrast between Musa's time in the South and the reality of his village felt important—the way hope and fear can exist in the same breath.

Let me know what you think of Musa's family, especially Aminu and his mother. How do you feel about Aliyu and the vigilantes? Your comments and votes mean everything. 🙏🏾