aFRica

The Attempted Killing
of Faruk
Richard Ali
The water mixed with the shattered glass and
started to spread around all alone. Like tears of
regret. Like blood.
Fancy a durbar being held on such a hot
day, Faruk thought, as he parked his car
in front of Maryam‘s house. A small child
with a rotund stomach caked in brown
Bolewa dust sat on a stool outside the
main gate, contentedly chewing a stick of
sugarcane thrice his length. The Bazza
house was built in the traditional Bolewa
fashion, like Hajia Hauwa‘s. It was a
fortress, save for two doors—a main gate
usually locked until each time Abdulkadir
Bazza drove through, and a smaller door
that led into a small waiting room that
led into the zaure which was the general
reception area. The main gate was open
and he saw the single story building on
the other side, where Abdulkadir Bazza
lived together with Maryam, his latest
wife, and their young children. The rooms
of other relatives formed a square around
the courtyard. Abdulkadir Bazza sat
watching over his car being washed—he
waved Faruk in.
―Greetings while you rest,‖ Faruk
greeted.
The older man had a newspaper
across his laps. ―Young prince, how are
you today? Please sit down,‖ Abdulkadir
Bazza said, making space on the wooden
bench.
―I am well, though the weather is
punishing.‖
―Yes, it gets that way sometimes.
The heat will ease up soon though, watch
and see.‖
―It‘s all alhamdlillah.‖
Maryam‘s father nodded. ―You have
come to take my daughter to the
durbar?‖
Saraba | Issue 13 | Africa 102