RAKE

"Hassan." A calm, measured voice drifted in from the corridor. A moment later, the soft click of heels followed as Gimbiya Ramlatu stepped into the private living room, a soft yet almost absent smile resting on her lips. 

She came to a stop only a few feet away from Hassan and Asma'u. Her gaze lingered on the man standing beside the empty Ghana-Must-Go bag before quietly shifting to her daughter. 

Gimbiya Ramlatu said nothing. She simply observed Asma'u's demeanour, her expression calm but unreadable. A slight furrow settled between her brows as she picked up on the strange tension lingering between her daughter and the man who tailored her clothes. She let the silence sit for only a brief moment before Hassan turned his full attention to the queen.

"Inna wuni, Gimbiya." He spared Asma'u one last glance before crouching before the queen in greeting, a quiet show of respect.

| A pleasant afternoon, Gimbiya

"Lafiya, Hassan. An tashi lafiya?" Gimbiya asked, her calm, motherly voice carrying its usual quiet authority. Her eyes held a glimmer of admiration at the young man's genuine show of respect.

"Alhamdulillah, Gimbiya." Hassan rose to his feet, keeping a respectful distance between them. "Na kawo kayan dinki." He gestured towards the clothes now neatly arranged across the sofas. "I met Rayyana, and she informed me you were asleep." A faint, apologetic smile settled on his lips. "I intended to greet you, but I didn't want to disturb your peace," he explained.

| I brought the clothes

"It's okay. All the clothes are here, I assume?" she asked, making her way towards the sofa. Her fingers glided over the neatly folded fabrics. "You did well, Hassan. As always." Her eyes remained on the garments as she spoke.

"You're too kind, Gimbiya." He acknowledged with a soft smile.

"I say what needs to be said." She turned to face him once more. "How's your Eid going?" One brow lifted in question, her hands folding neatly before her.

"Alhamdulillah." Hassan responded with a single nod.

"I'll forward the payment to your account," she said before informing him of an event that would be held in two weeks' time. "My sister is getting her third daughter married," she explained. "It'll be a good opportunity for you to meet new people and expand your business."

"Your invitation is very generous, Gimbiya, and I don't mean any disrespect, but such gatherings aren't meant for me," Hassan replied.

"Don't be silly, Hassan." A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I've spoken so much about my tailor that if you don't show up, they'll begin to suspect I've been exaggerating."

"I highly doubt anyone would be foolish enough to question your words, Gimbiya," Hassan said.

"So show up. It's time I introduce you to my people," she said.

Gimbiya Ramlatu then called for a few of the cooks and instructed them to bring a warm cooler filled with food for Hassan. He thanked her kindly but declined, explaining that he still had a few places to be.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Gimbiya Ramlatu handed him an invitation card along with the venue details for the wedding. It wasn't until she dismissed him that Hassan realised a certain sharp-tongued woman had been absent throughout the entire conversation.

His eyes drifted to the spot where Asma'u had been standing. The faint memory of her scent lingered in his mind, but even more intriguing were the bold beliefs she carried so fearlessly. He clicked his tongue and shook his head in quiet distaste before gathering his belongings and walking out of the fada.

Hassan walked a fair distance from the fada until he reached one of Kano's busy main roads. The quiet behind him gave way to the sounds of passing vehicles and rumbling keke napeps. He lifted his gaze to the sky. Dark clouds still hung overhead, though not a single drop had fallen. 

As expected, the air was warm and humid, almost as though the city itself was waiting for the rain. But from the look of things, he suspected it would still be a few more hours before the first drizzle touched the anguwannin Kano.

He raised a hand, and by the second wave, a tricycle pulled up in front of him.

"Ina zuwa, Alhaji?" the driver asked.

|  Where are you headed, Alhaji?

"Anguwan Dorayi," Hassan replied, his tone clipped.

Hassan climbed into the back, and moments later the tricycle pulled away, weaving into the steady flow of traffic.

The tricycle hummed steadily through the streets of Kano, weaving past impatient vehicles and other tricycles. Though the city passed before his eyes, his thoughts remained fixed on one person.

Not on the hawkers lining the streets with clear nylon bags of awara, kollisowa and tuwon madara. Not the fruit stalls bursting with colour. Not the AA RANO and Conoil filling stations that dotted the roads. Not even the bustling shopping malls that stood proudly across Kano.

All he could hear were her words.

'You men ruin everything—'

'How many charities have you funded?—'

'They'll question your eyes before they question my hair—'

'I have sat at tables with men whose names carry weight—'

'It is Hajia Asma'u to you—'

Hassan didn't know why in particular, but he found himself deeply unsettled by the fact that someone with so much education and knowledge could speak with such arrogance and, in his eyes, so little awareness. Not once did he think her argument was entirely invalid, but the fact that she couldn't see both sides of an issue or weigh what was right and wrong, especially as a Muslim woman, concerned him.

Growing up, all Hassan had known were obedient women. Not once had he seen his mother talk back to his father. Not once had he witnessed either of his younger sisters raise their voices. In fact, the only times he had ever heard women speak so loudly were in the privacy of their own gatherings, surrounded by one another. So the fact that Asma'u Galadima had done so in front of him left him unsure of what to make of her.

"Mallam, mun iso," the driver announced.

Hassan gave a small shake of his head, pushing thoughts of her almond-shaped eyes and dark features to the back of his mind. Reaching into the pocket of his babbar riga, he pulled out a few folded naira notes and handed them to the man.

The call to prayer echoed through the anguwa, and only then did Hassan realise it was time for Maghrib. For the first time that day, he hadn't noticed how quickly the hours had slipped by. The few clothes he still had left to deliver could wait until after the prayer.

He made his way towards the mosque, filled his kettle with water, then settled onto a low cement platform beside the ablution area. Rolling up the sleeves of his babbar riga, he quietly murmured, "Bismillah," before beginning his ablution.

He was rinsing his mouth when a familiar shadow fell over him.

Lawal said nothing. He adjusted the hem of his kaftan before lowering himself onto the empty space beside Hassan, a kettle of water resting comfortably in his hand. With a brief nod of acknowledgment, he quietly began his own ablution.

Neither of them spoke. The only sounds between them were the steady trickle of water, the rustle of clothes, and the occasional murmur of worshippers preparing themselves for prayer.

Once they were both done, they rose to their feet and entered the mosque side by side. The congregation had already formed. Row upon row of men stood shoulder to shoulder, their feet aligned as they waited in silence. At the front stood the imam, his gaze lowered, hands folded over his chest.

"Allahu Akbar."

The mosque fell into complete stillness.

****

Once the salah ended, the men exchanged salams and greeted one another with warm handshakes before settling back into their places, the soft clicks of chasbi (prayer beads) filled the mosque as quiet murmurs of remembrance lingered in the air.

Hassan joined his hands together and raised them in supplication, his head slightly bowed. He prayed for his mother's health, for Allah to grant him a peaceful grave, and for righteous companionship while he remained in this world.

More than thirty minutes passed before Hassan finally rose to his feet. After bidding Lawal farewell, he gathered the remaining clothes he still had to deliver and made his way out of the masjid.

****

"Ta ce ta gode," a little girl said from behind the black iron gate as she collected the last piece of fabric Hassan had to deliver.

| She extends her gratitude 

After hours of knocking from gate to gate, it was already late. The sound of crickets filled the night, while lonely street lamps cast soft pools of light across the quiet roads. The smoky aroma of roasted barbecue drifted from the mai soya stalls scattered along the street.

Hassan acknowledged the little girl with a nod before returning her salam and taking his leave.

He was on his way home when he decided to stop by Mai Shayi's stand. Several men were already gathered there, some chatting amongst themselves while others quietly enjoyed their food. The owner moved from one customer to another, filling plastic cups with steaming hot tea before plating hot Indomie and boiled eggs onto waiting trays.

"Mallam Hassan, me ya kawo ka?" the owner asked, a broad smile spreading across his face. The glow from the single bulb hanging above the shop lit up his features, the lingering joy of Eid still evident in his expression.

| What brings you here?

"I'll take two loaves of bread and tea leaves," Hassan replied, his tone just as warm. 

Steam curled from the cups as conversations drifted through the cool night air. As the shop owner disappeared to prepare his order, Hassan's thoughts drifted back to his mother. The aroma of frying eggs in the air made his stomach responded with a low rumble. Only then did he realise he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Kai, ka ji abin da ke faruwa kuwa?" a man seated on a wooden bench called out to his friend.

| Have you heard of the trending news?

As usual, Hassan paid it no mind. Loud conversations between men gathered at roadside shops late into the night were nothing new. If anything, they had become almost ritualistic. Men gathered after the day's work to debate football, politics, religion, and whatever else happened to capture their interest.

So, as usual, Hassan was prepared to tune them out.

Until he heard the response.

"Yes. It's very unfortunate, the country we live in." The man in the blue shirt let out a weary sigh. "As though the corruption we deal with isn't enough, we're now seeing more and more cases of insecurity spreading across the country."

"Thirty students were abducted pah, Alhaji Haruna. Is this how we want our children to be educated? In fear?" The first man shook his head, despair and anger weighing heavily on his voice. "What's the point of sending them to school if we can't even have peace of mind knowing they're safe?"

"Wallahi, Alhaji Shehu." The other man sighed. "All this keeps happening, yet the government continues to insist the country is safe, all this happens while the rich becomes more rich and arrogant while the poor remains poor." He tsked

Someone muttered, "Allah ya kiyaye," beneath his breath.

"I'm starting to suspect they have a hand in all this..." Alhaji Shehu said, shaking his head.

Hassan didn't stay to hear the rest of their conversation. The shop owner finally returned with his order, handing him two loaves of bread along with the Milo and milk sachets tucked inside a black nylon bag.

Hassan thanked him, paid for the items, then crossed the street and made his way home.

***

"Assalamu alaikum," Hassan muttered beneath his breath as he drew back the curtain separating his mother's room from the rest of the house.

The lantern had long since gone out, leaving the room swallowed in darkness save for the faint strips of evening light creeping through the window. The first thing that reached him was a smell.

Rotting flesh. The unmistakable stench of an infected wound.

His heart sank the moment the scent reached him, but what truly weakened his knees was the realisation that it was coming from the woman lying on her side, her back turned towards him, facing the scraped wall.

"Hajia?"

Hassan closed the distance between them in hurried strides before dropping into a crouch beside the thin mattress. His fingers trembled as the black nylon bag slipped from his grasp, the bread, Milo, and milk sachets landing softly on the floor beside him.

"Subhanallah..." His voice trembled as he reached for her wrist, searching for a pulse.

It was there.

A quiet sigh of relief escaped him before he carefully slipped one arm beneath her shoulders and gently turned her onto her back.

Her frail body trembled uncontrollably. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and each breath came in short, shallow gasps.

Wasting no time, Hassan hurried to the old brown wooden cabinet and retrieved her medication. He then lifted the lid off the paint bucket where water was stored before quickly returning to her side.

Gently helping her into a more comfortable position, he held the tablets in one hand and the cup of water in the other.

"Sannu, Hajia." His voice shook despite his efforts to steady it. Regret settled heavily in his chest. He should have stayed. He shouldn't have left her alone. Not like this.

"Hassan?" a weak, trembling voice called out.

"Yes, Hajia." Hassan immediately leaned closer. "I'm here now, okay? I'll take care of you. You'll be fine."

"It... it's t-too much p-pain, Hassan." She struggled to get the words out, each one barely above a whisper.

"I know." Hassan's voice trembled. "But you'll be fine." He swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He had to be strong. For her. "Come on, Hajia. Take your pills. In sha Allah, you'll feel better," he said, his voice soft and soothing.

He gently urged her head forward and helped her swallow the tablets. After a few moments, her shivering gradually subsided.

Reaching for the small handkerchief tucked into his pocket, Hassan carefully wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead before leaning down to press a gentle kiss against it. "Allah ya ba ki lafiya, Hajia," he whispered.

| May God restore your health

Almost as if on cue, the first drop of rain struck the rusted zinc roof.

Then another.

And another.

Within moments, the heavens opened, and a steady downpour drummed against the roof above them.

Hassan stood and walked over to the single window in the room, securing the loose latch before drawing it shut. He then lit the lantern, its warm glow slowly pushing back the darkness.

He then laid a small prayer mat beside Hajia's bed, and made his way to the stove tucked into the corner of the room.

Taking a small stainless pot, he filled it with water and added the tea leaves. Once the water had steeped, he turned off the stove and poured himself a hot cup of tea. He had intended for both him and his mother to eat, but seeing the state she was in, he knew she wouldn't be able to keep anything down.

He forced the hot tea down, barely tasting it. After rinsing his mouth, he walked over to where he had laid his prayer mat. "Allahu Akbar." He raised both hands beside his ears and began his Isha prayer.

Once he completed his salah, he leaned back against the wall beside Hajia's bed and began reciting the Holy Qur'an softly, his fingers intertwined with hers. Even as the verses rolled gently off his tongue, thoughts of the hospital bill weighed heavily on his mind.

****

It was around three in the morning by the time the rain had completely subsided. Hassan made his way to his usual spot beneath the mango tree. He set his small wooden stool against the rough bark before taking a seat. The leaves swayed gently overhead, and the night air still carried the rain's lingering chill.

A heavy sigh escaped him.

The neighbourhood that had been alive only hours earlier now lay wrapped in silence, broken only by the occasional chirp of crickets and the distant bark of a stray dog.

He had tried to sleep after completing his prayers, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. All he could think about was his mother. Her worsening condition. The growing hospital bills. Whether the money he earned from tailoring would be enough to cover everything before it was too late.

Hassan released another sigh as he lifted his gaze to the moon. It hung high above him, full and bright, untouched by the worries that weighed so heavily on the earth below. For a brief moment, he simply stared at it.

Then, for reasons he couldn't quite understand, his thoughts wandered to...her.

Graceful steps.

Sharp tongue.

'Mallam.'

'Almond.' He had said it so matter-of-factly. 'You have almond eyes.' Hassan shook his head at the memory, yet the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

"Asma'u Galadima." Her name rolled off his tongue with an unfamiliar ease, as though he were tasting it for the very first time.

"What keeps you awake at this hour, my friend?" Lawal's voice drifted through the quiet as his approaching figure came into view.

He said nothing more. Setting his wooden stool beside Hassan's, he quietly lowered himself onto it.

"I could ask you the same," Hassan replied, his gaze never leaving the moon.

They both fell quiet, simply enjoying the cool night breeze and the sound of crickets filling the air. After a while, Lawal stretched out his hand towards Hassan, a strip of peeled sugarcane resting in his palm.

Hassan's gaze dropped to what was being offered before lifting back to his friend. "What's that?" he asked, one brow arching in question.

"Rake." Lawal gestured with his head, urging Hassan to take it.

| Sugar cane

"Rake at this hour, Lawal?" Hassan's voice came out in a low rumble.

"It'll sweeten your wounds, Hassan," Lawal said, his arm still outstretched, his eyes fixed on Hassan as though making it clear he wasn't taking no for an answer.

Hassan let out a quiet sigh before reaching for the sugarcane.

"Bismillah."

He bit into it, the sweetness slowly spreading across his tongue. Beside him, Lawal did the same. For a little while, neither of them spoke. They simply chewed in comfortable silence, allowing themselves to forget, if only for a moment, the world waiting beyond the shade of the mango tree.

"I've known you for a long time, Hassan." Lawal's voice was calm, carrying the same quiet certainty it always had. "Whatever is weighing on your heart, in sha Allah, you'll get through it. Allah has never once left your side, my friend. And if that worried look on your face is because of Hajia's condition, then keep praying. For indeed, Allah is All-Hearing."

Hassan said nothing. He simply lowered his gaze, quietly chewing on the last piece of sugarcane in his mouth. Gratitude settled warmly in his chest. They were exactly the words he had needed to hear before the night came to an end.