MUTANIN DORAYI

DORAYI

The rhythmic hum of a hand-operated tailoring machine filled the cement walls of Hassan's small shop. Pieces of different fabrics lay scattered across the floor, bringing colour to the otherwise plain space. A few finished outfits hung neatly from hooks along the wall, while a measuring tape, tailor's chalk and a pair of heavy scissors rested on the wooden table beside him.

Hassan's feet worked the machine's pedals in a steady rhythm, the black thread moving with every turn as the needle stitched through the fabric beneath his hands.

It was around ten o'clock in the morning. The sun had yet to grow harsh, but the sandy streets outside were already alive with passersby. Some carried yellow jerrycans to fetch water, others sat reciting verses of the Qur'an from their allo, while a few simply made their way to work. All in all, the street buzzed with life.

Hassan had barely lifted his feet off the pedal when—

"Toh uhu! Yau dai Allah ya hada ni da kai, Mallam Hassan." A woman, seemingly in her late forties, stood outside his shop, with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Na zo jiya, ba ka nan. The day before, absent. The week before, absent." She flattened out her hands for emphasis, then paused, her chest rising and falling with anger. "Me kake dauka ni? Eh Hassan? I gave you my clothes to sew two months ago! Sabi da Allah. Two months, haba! And every time I come for them, you're either not around or they're never ready. Toh wallahi, yau sai ka ba ni kayana." She said hitting her chest, anger radiating off her in slow waves.

Hassan let out a weary sigh. He could feel the headache before it even came, the circles under his eyes had only gotten darker due to lack of sleep the night before.

"Haba, Hajia Saudah. Sai ki fara da sallama, ko?" he said, setting aside the piece he had been working on. "I wouldn't purposely avoid you. You know how business has been. The demands increase every day, kuma kin san halin da Mama take ciki." He sighed again. "Things have genuinely been difficult on my side, but please, give me two more days. God willing, your clothes will be ready." His hands moved to the Hula resting on his head as he removed it, keeping it aside

"Kai, dallah! Ka yi min shiru." She snapped, eyeing him with open distaste. "Wallahi, you tailors are all the same. What's my clothes' business with your mother's health, eh?" Her face contorted with irritation, her voice rising enough to draw the attention of passersby. "Kai, kar ka mayar da ni mahaukaciya mana." She pointed her fingers at him. "Give me back my clothes kawai, Mallam Hassan. Otherwise, this whole street will hear us, Wallahi." she said, her voice deadly serious, her chest still rising and falling with anger.

"Kiyi hakuri." Hassan's voice was gentle as he tried to reason with her. "I completely understand where you're—"

"Kai, Mallam! Give me my clothes! Haba!" she cut him off. "Your love for money has completely covered your eyes, ko? That's why you always sew their clothes before ours. You've forgotten that before the people in GRA recognised you, it was us! Us who made you what you are today!" She screamed, her hands flailing towards the streets

Hajia Sauda cared little for any more excuses. She had already endured the embarrassment of being the only person at her sister's wedding without an anko, all while hearing from around the neighbourhood that Hassan had been delivering clothes to the royal palace. She had little to no patience left. With each news her anger only increased.

"Wallahi, Hajia, I'm genuinely sorry. I understand I've disappointed you, but if you give me time, your clothes will be ready tomorrow, in sha Allah. I'll sew it tonight"

Hassan cared little for the money she would have given him had he sewn the clothes. What bothered him was the bond between them, especially as neighbours, he didn't want it fraying over an issue he knew he could have handled better.

Between trying to pay for his mother's medical bills and delivering clothes every day to different places, he had lost track of time. And now, he didn't want to look back and regret it.

"Rufe mini baki! Dan iska!"

"Subhanallah," Hassan muttered.

"Kai ne zaka min dinki! Pathetic fool. If you could have done it in a night, why didn't you do so over two months? Kai, kana ji na? Bring out my fabric this instant if you know what's best for you." Sauda hissed, her eyes sweeping over the shop in scrutiny. "Shagon ma duk wari," she barked.

Hassan sighed, shaking his head. Looking at her one last time, he understood it was best to not push her. Disappointed, he stood from his seat and walked towards the section where he had neatly folded and kept her fabric. Rummaging through the pile of lace, atampa, and silk, he noticed the orange gown he had started working on was missing.

His brows drew together slightly, his fingers freezing momentarily.

"Kawo min kayana kawai!" Saudah's voice came from somewhere behind him.

Hassan's fingers quivered. He swallowed nervously, the lump in his throat feeling like a stone. His hands rummaged through the pile of clothing again, checking from stack to stack, rack to rack, yet he couldn't find the burnt-orange dress.

"Mallam, what's taking so long? I have somewhere to be" she asked, annoyed, this time stepping  away from the street and further into the shop.

Hassan checked the floor, Hassan checked the rack, Hassan checked mini drawer, he checked and checked and checked.

Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.

How could this have happened?

He had never mixed up clothing, never misplaced a fabric, never handed the wrong design to a customer.

So what could he possibly have been doing that distracted him enough to make such a dire mistake?

He remembered the places he'd been to over the past few days, the houses, the deliveries, the different fabrics he'd carried from one place to another.

"Hajia Sauda." He started, turning around, unsure how he was going to break the news to a woman who was already enraged. His voice was careful. "I checked, and it's not here." He hastened to continue his words when he noticed her face contouring in anger. "I must have kept it somewhere at home. If I retrace my steps, I know I'll be able to—"

"Okayyyyy," she said, the word coming out impossibly slow. "So that's why you kept stalling, abi? Kai, Mallam Hassan! You dare tell me such words?! Ni Hassan?" she said, disbelief and bafflement coating every word. "Toh wallahi Za'ka Gani."

Without another word, she slipped off her shoes and ran out of the shop. "Wayyo, jama'a! Barawo! Barawo! Ya dauke min kaya! Mutanen Dorayi! I gave this man my clothes for two months pah. Two! Barawo! Barawo!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, forced tears streaming down her cheeks as her breaths came out in ragged bursts. "Wai Ni Allah Na."

The word barawo travelled faster than Hassan could process.

In less than a minute, about six people gathered around the screaming woman, some carrying cutlasses and other sharp objects.

"Hajia Saudah, mai ya faru?!" a youthful man questioned, the small slit in his brow adding to the rugged look on his face.

"Inna ya ke? Where is the thief? A Dorayi?! Barawo!" another man questioned, a baffled look on his face as though his ears couldn't process the news being told to him. "Today, we'll slit whoever has been stealing from us!" another screamed from the back.

"My wife has been complaining about how our maize keeps going missing! Toh yau! Whoever it is, we will end him! Ko ba haka ba?" a man screamed, adrenaline coursing through his voice.

"Haka ne!" the others answered in chorus.

"Kiyi magana, Hajia!" a man urged.

Dorayi had always been known for its peaceful way of living among the towns in Kano, a small community of people with high taqwa who co-existed peacefully. But recently, they had been dealing with a growing problem of missing belongings, with things disappearing from one household after another.

"Wayyo Allah na." Hajia Sauda sobbed, using the sleeve of her hijab to wipe the snort now running down her face. Her tears looked real enough to fool even the most skeptical man. The men around her kept urging her to show them the thief before he made his escape, and slowly but surely, she raised her quivering finger and pointed towards the small tailoring shop behind her. "Mallam Hassan ne! Shine barawon." She broke down in tears.

For a minute, everywhere went silent.

Everyone went quiet. Some loosened their grips on their weapons, confusion masking the faces of all those present, as they tried understanding if the woman before them knew what she was speaking of.

"Hajia Saudah. Karki raina mana hankali mana!" The man who seemed to be the leader of the group spoke. "Mallam Hassan din?" he asked, looking at the woman as though she had lost all her brain cells.

"It is him! I swear it! I swear it! Ask him! Ask him what he did!" she cried, her voice growing louder when she saw that people had failed to react to her story. Fear almost clutched her chest at the thought of looking like a fool.

"Are we really talking about the same Hassan, Hajia Saudah? Hassan? Your own neighbour?" A man shook his head. "The same man who has done nothing but serve the people of Dorayi ever since he stepped foot here?" another man asked, coming to Hassan's defence.

"Wallahi, it's him! He stole my clothes!" she screamed, almost reaching forward to tug at the sleeve of the man who had spoken.

"Kuyi hakuri." A calm, measured voice finally spoke, breaking the tense air. Hassan slowly stepped out of his shop after standing there for a while, watching the drama unfold before him in disbelief.

"Mallam Hassan, what's going on? Why is Hajia Sauda making such claims against you?" A man moved forward, the look on his face wary and cautious.

Hassan took a deep breath. "Haka ne." His words slowly shocking the people more than they already were. "Mallama Sauda has every right to feel the way she does," he admitted. "You know how tailoring work is. She had given me her clothes to sew, but between juggling my mother's health and trying to pay the bills..." He swallowed. It took every ounce of his dignity to admit his situation, to utter those words in front of such a crowd. "She gave me her clothes, and I failed to sew them. Kiyi hakuri, Mallama Saudah," he said, turning to the woman, absolute sincerity in his voice. He then turned to the crowd. "Kuyi hakuri. I have disrupted your morning peace." He apologised.

"Haba, Mallam Hassan, why should you apologise? We all understand how stressful work has been. Your mother has been nothing but kind to this community throughout the years. May Allah strengthen her health." A man from the back spoke after a moment of silence. "Taking care of her isn't something you should apologise for," he added, and the others hummed in agreement.

Hassan lowered his gaze, the weight in his chest easing slightly.

"We understand that what you did was wrong," another man spoke. "But we know the kind of man you are, and we have no doubt it was an honest mistake on your part." Someone else spoke, his voice kind and gentle. He then shifted his eyes to Hajia Sauda, the woman now taking small quivering steps backwards.

"Haba, Mallama! Why should you cause such chaos over an issue like this? This is something you could have discussed with him as adults, Hajia Saudah." He shook his head. "At your big age, you're screaming like a mad woman over such an issue?" He shook his head once more.

Hassan did his best to rein in the situation, he apologised again, and surely the crowd slowly began to dissipate around them. Hajia Sauda still couldn't take the insults and continued shouting, but eventually, a man was able to talk some sense into her and calm her down after Hassan promised to pay for her clothes.

Someone else came forward and took her away, while Hassan once more apologised to the crowd.