That particular Sallah morning at Bagwai was the coldest I had ever experienced. The chill of the harmattan wind made it feel like something, or someone was being avenged upon us. The previous night’s temperature had dropped to its lowest ever, making even adults dread performing ablution with cold water. Everywhere we looked, brown leaves from the neem tree we had in our compound fluttered down and littered the ground my sister and I had just spent time sweeping the evening before.
The sight of the compound’s mess made me queasy and I knew I’d have to do a re-sweep by myself since my sister had gone off to style her hair. As I was considering what to do next, Abdul and Habu raced up to me as if they were chased by a hungry dog.
“What’s wrong? Why are you people running?” I asked, sounding terrified.
“Dan Safiya (Safiya’s son. Safiya is my aunt and it was reported that she loved me so much that people began to address me as her son when she was a teen),” Abdul cut in, “we are going to Ramin Tsamiya to wash our bodies before the prayer time.” He added excitedly.
“Are you for real? How many are you?” I asked, my face brimming with excitement.
“We are five. The rest are out there waiting for us.” Answered Habu.
“All right. Let us go, but be careful lest Umma hears and spoils everything!” I warned while melting away.
“Dan Safiya,” began Habu after all but I had stripped off at the grass-covered bank of Ramin Tsamiya stream, “throw water at me and I’ll throw at you.”
That was one unique way to take a bite of the cold water.
“I don’t think I can swim, I am catching a cold. You can play with Abdul, the swimmer.” I suggested, pointing at the latter.
Abdul accepted, and they stepped into the water as if they had been asked to dip blistered feet into a bowl of iodine.
They began with flinging at each other as many drops of water as one finger could carry, then two fingers and soon one palm. In a short while, each was splashing water on the other with two hands. The initial shock gave way to an exhilarating experience.
I watched in awe as I stood a safe distance up the embankment, arms tightly clasped on my chest, teeth clattering involuntarily, and white smoke exuding from my mouth and nostrils as if I were smoking an invisible cigarette. I was envious of my friends who gave the impression that they were enjoying every drop of water they threw at each other.
Kabiru, who was already at the stream when we arrived, stood there beside his plastic bucket, and watching in awe too. He then removed his clothes and walked nonchalantly to the stream, holding a small bowl for scooping up water.
Standing on the edge of the stream, he bent over, filled the bucket with cold water, spun around, took a few decisive steps behind me and, in a flash, emptied the contents of the bucket on my head, wetting my clothes and all.
“You coward! Catch me if you can!” Kabiru laughed before rushing into the stream and splashing water all over his body before anyone could.
I stood there frozen. Shivering. I regret that had I stayed to sweep our compound, I would not have accompanied my playmates on such an early morning trip to the stream, and Kabiru would not have poured cold water on my body.
A cruel, wounded expression was in my eyes. I felt a hot throbbing in my chest. Instinctively, with a taste of panic, I reached down, afraid that my toes would be missing; but they were there – benumbed.
A wave of anger surged through my body when Kabiru jeered at me, sticking out his tongue and pulling down his two lower eyelids at me. I felt like jumping into the water to dip his head down until he breathed his last, but I was not as brave. They had more guts than me. So I quietly melted away with their clothes.
I was on my way home when I got drawn to the children running around an Iroko tree, enjoying the fun of attempting to catch the yellow leaves shaken off the tree by the harmattan wind before they touched the ground, and threading them together to drag home. While others were decorating their ¹dokin-kara with pieces of fabrics they gathered from tailors.
Three boys, apparently not older than me, were walking majestically, showing off their new English wear complete with the manufacturers’ trademarks. I decided to join them to see how many leaves I could catch, keeping my playmates’ clothes under the tree.
I discovered that I had not yet recovered from the cold water experience, so I could not run well. With more steps, a little more accomplished like a leper in shoes, I made my way to the foot of the Iroko tree to enjoy the crunchy noise the shrivelled brown leaves make when you trample on them and to rest and wait for my friends’ arrival, whose clothes I had taken with me.
No sooner I sat than I saw them trudging shyly, hiding their tiny genitals with their palms. As soon as they saw me, they all ran furiously towards me asking for their clothes. And, they, the clothes, like a flash, were nowhere to be found!
