(The dangerous beginning)

Late in the afternoon of a windy evening, a female baby was

born into the family of the chief of a town. A delicate cry
echoed through the hut, announcing the coming of a new
member of the family. A proclamation of journey began—that
was me.
I was born some sixty years ago in Garuruwa, a village far away
from the perception of civilization but cradled with illiteracy
and concentrated barbarism. My birth came during an era
when the ears of parents itched at hearing the birth of a female
baby. The practice was widely acceptable for a parent to kill a
female baby at the moment the mother finished groaning
about the delivery. In those times, a father, upon learning that
his spouse had brought forth a girl child, would utter, "It occurs
again," signifying the birth of another devil by the hands of the
devil. In their belief, a female progeny heralded evil, a
harbinger of poverty and misfortune to the family.
Some fathers, influenced by these beliefs, resorted to burying
their daughters alive or offering them as sacrificial offerings to
the paramount god, whose shrine was on the outskirts of the
village, on the appointed day. Tradition sanctioned the sale of
daughters into slavery, and there were instances when fathers,
guided by the words of the priest, engaged in unspeakable
1
acts—sexual intercourse with their own ripe daughters—in the
misguided hope of siring male heirs.

During those times, a man's honor hinged solely on the

existence of male progenies—the more he had, the more the
villagers honored him.
Women were denied the right to inherit their fathers' or
husbands' wealth; instead, they became like chattels or
inheritances to be inherited by their male offspring. And if so
happens, a male heir could copulate his mother if she had a
womb for a male child, resulting in a boy giving birth to his
younger sibling—or his children, as you like to put it. When
important guests came to the village, parents would parade
their daughters for the guests to choose as a way of honoring
them, only to have a one-night stand with them. And in the
course of war with another kingdom, which was prevalent then,
women were used as shields, positioned at the forefront to
bear the brunt of enemy arrows.
Virgin daughters were sometimes offered to priests in the
sacred shrines and married off to men whom their fathers
despised. The prevailing belief, echoed by the clergy, asserts
that women are devils in human form. But the evil clergy would
always choose about ten girls to serve him in the shrine for the

2
next year; thereafter, they would be killed, and another
number would be selected year in and year out.

Though a household with a female child was deemed more

shameful than one without offspring, some daughters managed
to elude the pervasive mistreatment. Such was the period of
my birth. I emerged into the world as a scion of the royal house
in our village. My father, the village chief named Bantu, stood
as a formidable and valiant figure, a seasoned warrior whose
command led many troops to victory from his youth onward.
Compassion for humanity found no place in his heart, a trait
that contributed to his ascent as chief following his father's
demise. His brother, unable to claim the throne, succumbed to
despair and took his own life.

Following his accession, my father received two beautiful

sisters from a villager. For over five years, he lived with both
wives, yet no child graced their union. In their culture, if a
woman failed to conceive within five years, she faced
execution, and the husband would wed another.

After the demise of his wives, their blood was offered to the
family god, believed to bring fertility. My father was bestowed
3
on my mother by another villager. It was deemed an honor to
present one's beautiful daughter to the chief. Fortune smiled
upon my mother, and she birthed male twins the year she
entered my father's household. Sacrifices of sheep, goats, and
chickens were made to both the family god and the village
paramount god.
Regrettably, four months after the birth, one of the twins died
under mysterious circumstances. Questions lingered—was it
the displeasure of the family god or an attack by external foes?
My father grappled with uncertainty. For six years following the
child's death, my mother bore no more offspring, a cause for
concern that weighed heavily on my father. Consulting the
paramount village god in the shrine, he was informed that he
could have as many children as he desired if the other son was
sacrificed, and the family god, the Kurumbus, drank of his
blood. I was initially hesitant, but my father agreed to the
dictates of their deep-seated beliefs and killed the other son
and besmeared the blood on their family idol. The body was
buried amid a cry from my mother, but my father had shown
no sympathy.

4
 (The Dawn of My Existence)
One year after the sacrificial consumption of my brother's
blood, my mother got pregnant again. Countless animals met
their fate in the name of appeasing the family god, seeking
protection for the unborn, supposed male child of the village
chief.
The day of my birth arrived, and my father, brimming with
anticipation, entered the room. Inquiring about the newborn's
gender, he recoiled at the revelation that it was a female.
"Why?" he thundered. "I am disappointed in you," he declared,
pointing accusingly at the infant. "Kurumbus will drink the
blood of that evil on the day of the festival." He was
disappointed by my mother but was not disappointed by the
clergy, who told him to kill his son for the coming of the new
male children. They are very blinded by their belief that oracles
don’t make mistakes. Now he is accusing my mother of the
wrong done by the oracle.
My mother cried bitterly for giving birth to me, knowing all too
well that her children faced a dangerous fate unless she bore
the desired offspring—a male heir. Fear gripped her heart, not
only for her offspring but for her own life. It was obvious that
this time she was going to be killed with her daughter—me.
To determine whether to kill my mother or not, my father
brought a spiritualist to divine whether she would conceive a
5
baby boy again. The fortune teller, after casting cowries and
consulting a human skull, delivered an ominous message. "The
chief must leave. The oracle says you will hear the
interpretation from your wife." And with that, my father
departed.
The clairvoyant's words unfolded a prophecy of both hope and
despair. "You will give birth to many children, but they will
depart like messengers bearing the news of war. They shall not
outlive you." Her eyes welled with tears at this revelation, her
heart echoing the beat of a festival drum. She had never
fathomed the deceit woven into their lives; she had only
believed that a woman's existence was no more significant than
that of a mosquito.
Upon the clairvoyant's departure, my father returned, eager to
learn about the forecast. "Where is the medicine man?" he
inquired.
"He left," she replied.
"What did he say about the fate of your womb?"
Conflicted and fearful, she grappled with the dilemma. If she
spoke the truth, death awaited her; if she lied and claimed the
medicine man foresaw a male child, I was going to be killed.
Her mind raced until my father, growing impatient, addressed
her sternly. "Kande," he groaned. "It is you that I am talking to."

6
"Em... he... left."

"Yes, that was what you said earlier. But what did he say before
he left?" His tone shrieked like that of a master commanding a
slave, a stark reflection of the oppressive times. Even the
slaves, she mused, were spared the fate of death for infertility.
"He said male children would come in great numbers, but he
warned that this baby must not be killed," she lied.
"Okay, there is no problem," he said, nodding approvingly. "This
is very good news. I will call the medicine man and give him a
special gift."
As she pondered the self-serving nature of their people, her
husband's proclamation lingered in her thoughts. What if the
medicine man divulged the truth? Though it was believed they
did not repeat their prophecies, unrest filled her until news
reached her ears that he had perished a mere week after
visiting them.

7
 (The Arrival of My Younger Siblings)

At the tender age of nine, I began to grasp the insignificance

attached to the birth of a female child. Unburdened by the
complexities of paternity, it was my mother who attended to
my needs, showering me with love and care. In stark contrast,
my father harbored an intense disdain for me, repeatedly
urging me to relinquish my place in the world for my two
younger twin brothers, born two years after me.

Despite the prevailing preference for male children in our

village, my mother treated me with a tenderness surpassing
that bestowed upon my male siblings. She covered me, as if
moved by a sense of civility, hiding some parts of my body.
Although it was not considered taboo for a mature female child
to go unclothed, my mother refused to conform to such norms.

During those times, my understanding of worship and deities

was limited. It was believed that the gods shunned the sight of
females, except under rare circumstances.

8
A year following the birth of the twin males, my father's
animosity towards me intensified. My father used psychological
assaults in order to get around the medicine man's prohibition
against hurting me physically. He forbade me from eating until
my brothers were satiated, subjecting both me and my mother
to beatings if she dared to feed me before them. His
mistreatment, a cruel concoction of psychological torment, left
scars on my young psyche.

My father, a tyrant in his own right, roared at me like a

commander leading ten thousand soldiers. His footsteps alone
could induce unconsciousness, and his voice, akin to a
drumbeat in the dense forest, was an intimidating force even
for adults.

He frequently asserted that I was a mere tenant in his

household, convinced that my demise would result from his
relentless ill-treatment. Although he professed an unwillingness
to physically end my life, he declared, "I will kill you
psychologically." His words were emasculating, rendering even
the bravest souls vulnerable. The people accepted him as a
leader not for moral virtue but for his prowess with arrows and
his ability to defend against enemies in times of war.

9
Amidst the oppressive shadows of my father's dominance, I
found solace in the comforting embrace of my beloved mother.
My father's psychological assault wasn't able to penetrate me
because of her love. She shared tales of extraordinary women
in history, like Tawa and Queen Amina, who led their followers
with courage. In these stories, my mother envisioned a future
where women would be liberated from enslavement.

She spoke of King Kamaruzzaman, a valiant leader who fought

against the oppression of women. "I wish he would come here
and save us from slavery," my mother mused. "I heard that he
is powerful, sparing women, children, and those who resist
abasement wherever he wages war."

Excitement surged within me, and I exclaimed, "This is

marvelous!"

My mother continued, explaining that the mighty King

Kamaruzzaman hailed from Boronu. He sent his people to
challenge unjust leaders, establishing justice through his
appointed representatives. To my endless inquiries, she
patiently responded, offering insights into the power of this
10
remarkable man who, as the legend went, could topple gods
with a mere step onto foreign lands.
Chapter Four
(The Forsaken Child)

On my eleventh birthday, my father deemed me unfit for his

custody. In a chilling proclamation, he declared that I would
venture into the bush with his two slaves to gather firewood.

At the break of dawn, I embarked on this journey with the two

young and robust slaves. As we reached the outskirts of the
village, they instructed me to extend my hands. Naively
complying, they swiftly restrained me, shrouding my face with a
black mask. The reason for this remained a mystery.

We trekked relentlessly, covering a staggering hundred

kilometers away from Garuruwa, from dawn until the next
break of day. Having consumed only a meager amount of food
the night before, they offered me a small ration, ensuring I
could navigate to the intended destination—the place they
intended to discard me. They denied me water, intensifying the
torment of thirst, which surpassed hunger itself. The quantity

11
of food they allotted me was meager compared to the
abundance they consumed.

Even as they provided sustenance, I struggled to discern the

cardinal directions amidst my disorientation. When we reached
the chosen location, the slaves hesitated, contemplating the act
they were about to commit.

"Let us do it here and leave her," one of them suggested.

"Yes," concurred the other.

"Hey, lie down!" one commanded me.

Unaware that the order was directed at me, I hesitated. Before

I comprehended, one of them forcefully pushed me onto my
sore hands, exacerbating the pain of the bracelet my mother
had gifted me. Struggling against the restraints, I pleaded,
"Wait! Please, for the sake of our ancestors, for the paramount
god of Garuruwa, untie me, please!"

12
Their response was callous laughter. They callously removed
my only garment while I lay helpless on the grass, my hands
bound and my face concealed.
Lying on the cold ground, my face masked, naked, and wet with
the night dew, I endured their brutality in the wilderness. My
cries were dismissed and trivialized amidst the darkness of the
bush.
After their unspeakable acts, they abandoned me. Slowly, I rose
to my feet, disoriented and unsure of where to go. My very
core ached intensely, and I could feel the flow of blood from my
violated self, akin to the waters of the Nile. The entirety of my
body itched from the wet grass upon which they laid me, yet I
couldn't alleviate the discomfort due to my bound hands.
I began wandering aimlessly, crying until my eyes were dry. I
stumbled into numerous pitfalls, the pain in my neck
intensifying with every step. Every ten to twenty strides
brought me into contact with roots or stones. Desperate, I
shouted, hoping dangerous creatures would emerge and end
my suffering. In my futile attempt to bring about my demise, I
suffered a stroke and fell into a deep ditch, unable to
comprehend how or when I descended to the bottom.

13
 Chapter Five
(Adapting to a New Culture)

Awakening from a profound coma, I found myself under the

watchful gaze of a young man I had never seen before.
Confused and disoriented, I closed my eyes, hoping to escape
this surreal encounter. Yet, the sounds from the courtyard
pulled me back into consciousness. As I reopened my eyes,
there he was—a young, handsome stranger, squatting beside
me with a warm smile.

An inner voice questioned the reality of this encounter. Was it a

dream, or had something gone amiss in my mind before sleep?
Determined to confirm my wakefulness, I hesitated before
asking, "Who are you?"

With a long sigh, he reassured me, "Don't worry, just relax. You
will know me."

I closed my eyes in an effort to find comfort, but memories of

my father's slaves kept coming to mind. Fear gripped me, and I
instinctively pressed my hands against the ground, attempting
14
to rise. The young man gently pressed his palms on my
shoulders, easing me back onto the sheepskin carpet.

"Relax; you will be okay," he consoled.

Gradually, I realized these people had rescued me from my

previous predicament.

"Don't worry; you will be okay, right?" he urged.

He squatted by my side, cradling my hand with a gentleness

that extended beyond the physical, touching my soul and mind.
Despite the lingering pain, his presence brought a sense of calm
to my entire being. His warm smile caught my attention as soon
as his eyes met mine, leaving me speechless.

"I hope she is fine now?" inquired an old man approaching with
a calabash in hand. "Did she regain consciousness? Raise her up
to take this concoction."

15
"No, I think she should drink hot water and eat food before the
medicine," the young man suggested.

"Yes, that is right. Go and call Ladi to bring water with honey."

Ladi, a woman of thirty to thirty-five with a dark complexion,

arrived with honey and hot water in a bowl. After drinking the
hot water, I was provided with food and medicine.

The young man led me into a hut in accordance with his

father's instructions, where I succumbed to fear and fell asleep.

The next morning, the young man entered the room to find me
still asleep. As he turned to leave, I coughed, hoping to catch
his attention. He pivoted, greeted me with a cheerful "Good
Morning," and I struggled to respond, caught in the confusion
of the care bestowed upon me.

Were they luring me to harm me, or was their kindness

genuine? Questions swirled in my mind, and I pondered why

16
they didn't harm me at the place they initially found me.
Struggling with these thoughts, I managed to greet him.

With a gaze filled with compassion, he clarified, "I am not sir; I

am just a brother."

His words penetrated my soul, offering a comfort that

surpassed any physical sustenance. The affirmation resonated
within me, filling the void created by the absence of familial
warmth.

The old man joined us, inquiring about my well-being and

reassuring me that I would be taken back to my people when I
recovered. The term "daughter" fell from his lips—a word I had
never heard in my father's house. He urged me to feel at home
and assured me that I would be alright.
Later, the young man returned with breakfast, marking the
beginning of a month of recovery. As I regained strength, I
shared my past experiences, and to my surprise, they embraced
me, pledging not to return me to the place I had come from.
Life with the young man, Sha'aban, became a source of joy. His
father, Dardaa, and stepmother, Ladi, expressed genuine love,

17
with the exception of Ladi, whose resentment towards
Sha'aban stemmed from her inability to bear a child.
Sha'aban opened up about his mother, who had passed away
when he was six, nine years before my arrival. His charming
demeanor and captivating presence made him the subject of
admiration among many girls in the village, although he
rebuffed their advances.

Chapter Six
(Embracing Love)

After residing in Kukawa village for five years, I was no longer a

stranger to the household or the entire community. Dardaa
considered me a child born into the family, and Sha’aban
regarded me as a sister. Sha’aban, in particular, shared stories
about King Kamaruzzaman, emphasizing his fight against the
mistreatment of women, bloodshed, and gender
discrimination.

He spoke freely, his words invoking memories of my mother.

Whenever I faced anguish, he would console me, his guidance
almost overshadowing the pain of missing my mother.

18
One afternoon, we ventured to a stream named Kuntal, a mere
ten kilometers away from the village, as the sun approached its
destination. This stream, situated on the outskirts, was no more
than a kilometer from the village, creating one of the most
beautiful afternoons of my life.

We stood beneath a massive tree near the stream, its branches

extending about ten to fifteen feet in all directions. The rainy
season had rendered the grass lush green, and a gentle breeze
carried a moderate cold that embraced every soul. The whirling
grasses and gurgling water added to the serene atmosphere,
while birds melodiously sang from the branches.

I leaned against the tree, placing my right palm against its stem
and my left on akimbo, relishing in the beauty of nature. While
absorbed in this peaceful moment, I noticed a bird gracefully
gliding on the water's surface. Surprised, I turned to share my
discovery with Sha’aban, only to find him gazing at me.

Sensing he had something to say, I prompted him, "What is it?"

19
With a hesitant expression, he spoke, "I am... I want to tell you
something, and I fear how you will react to it."

As he spoke, nature itself seemed to pause; the birds silenced,

the grasses stilled, and the air hung in quiet anticipation. "I
don't want you to overreact to what I will say. Stay firm, even if
your heart reflects the contrary," he continued. "I want you to
know that I am a brother to you and can defend you whenever
you are in trouble. So, stay firm and understand me."

"What do you mean?" I interjected.

"I mean," he said, "if you don't love me, be calm and tell me,
and we will continue as brother and sister."

I was stunned; I couldn't find words. "Is this true?" I pondered.

If it were, what girl could resist such a man? Was I suitable for
him? Many affluent and royal young girls admired him. "What a
thrilling afternoon if this is true. But why would he fall in love
with a slave girl that his own father brought home? No, he is
just joking," I concluded. Yet, could he joke with me in such a
manner? "Why did he joke with me like this?"

20
"Minash!" Sha’aban said this after my silence. "You know when
I am joking. I just revealed what is in my heart, but I beg you
not to bother if you don't like it. But I am serious."

"Please… "I am at a loss for words to beg him to cease his

joking." "It is evident that you are not pleased with this. Please
forgive me," he pleaded.

My eyes remained fixed on his, my breathing deep. I wanted

him to reassure me that what he said was true. I urged him to
tell me the truth, and I could see the remorse in his eyes as he
shared his feelings.

"I am very sorry if I upset you," he apologized, gently shaking

his head. "I did not intend to offend you, but if I did, please
forgive me and forget it now."

I was stuck; my eyes were still locked onto him. This afforded
me the chance to appreciate his beautiful features. He was a
handsome man beyond description. He seemed worried
because he had confessed something I might not have wanted
21
to hear, yet my own worries were more significant because I
genuinely desired it.

At that moment, silence reigned. The birds remained hushed,

the grasses ceased their dance, and only the gurgling water
responded to nature's command. His deep sigh broke the
silence, and I expected him to continue, but he remained silent.
He was quiet for a while and then said, "Actually, love is a
burden that conquers the heart. If not expressed, the
emotional and psychological normalcy of the bearer will be
distorted. The only way a person can nourish their soul is not
through physical or financial energy but by winning a virtuous
lady, and you are one. The greatest part of every man's
happiness is to have a beautiful, virtuous, charming girl like you,
Minash."

"No, no, no, please!" I protested. "I am not good for you. I am
just a slave girl, and if not for the care you have shown me, you
would want to send me out of your father's shelter. I thought
my journey had ended, but I was wrong." I turned my back to
him and continued, "The girls who show interest in you are
better than me. They come from rich and royal families, but
now you offer yourself to an orphan. Are you teasing me,
right?"
22
"Love is not vanity. Love does not care about kinship, family
background, or tribe. It only cares about the person you love.
The legacy of tribalism, racism, or gender segregation may fade
in decades, but the legacy of love and universality lingers for
centuries, and that is what I am looking for," he continued.
"Love ceases when there is arrogance, selfishness, or malice.
The League of Nations falls because of the absence of love for
humanity. Love is not a matter of what you have but who you
are as a lover," he declared. "Minash, you can deny me and live
in my father's house, and no enmity will exist between us."

My throat was dry. My eyes filled with tears. My euphoria could

not be explained. A tear of joy fell from my left eye. I now fully
believed that he loved me. If I were to tell him that I loved him,
he would undoubtedly be excited.

My veins were quenched. My tongue was stuck. Just saying "I

love you" might not reciprocate. I then rushed at him like a
hungry lion, spotting a goat. I clasped onto him tightly, as if he
had announced he was leaving for a far-off country. I held onto
him for a while, and it was only the drizzle that moistened my
veins. Many tears streamed down my face, tears of joy and

23
love. My father had abandoned me, and now I was begging for
love.

"Dad may be worried about us. We have to go home now," he

advised.

In the cold and drizzle of the evening, we hurried home.

CHAPTER SEVEN
(Another Cultural Bias)

Life in Kukawa was both good and thrilling, yet I grappled with
the challenge of another cultural norm. According to the
customs in Kukawa, if a man married a deflowered woman, he
had two options: either to leave the village or face automatic
separation.

On the wedding night, the mother of the groom would prepare

the bed, placing a white cloth on it. She would stand at the
door until morning, then take the cloth to the chief's palace,
where the couple would be banished from the town.
24
Once, we visited the slave market, an annual event where
people from various places brought slaves for sale or exchange.
People from Garuruwa often sought male slaves for battle
assistance, offering multiple female slaves in exchange.

Accompanying Sha’aban, I attended the market for the first

time in six years. Amidst the bustling market, I unexpectedly
saw my father, accompanied by one of the slaves who had
harmed me. Hatred welled up in me as I observed them with
my uncle, along with many young girls from my past.

Overwhelmed, I remembered my mother and yearned to know

about her. Sha’aban noticed my distress and inquired about it. I
decided to speak to my uncle privately to learn more about my
mother's well-being.

Upon approaching my uncle, he didn't recognize me, perhaps

because I was adorned in gold. When I revealed my identity, he
was astonished. After narrating my story, he assured me of my
safety and expressed joy at my well-being.

25
I asked about my mother and younger brothers, learning that
they were fine. My mother had suffered in my absence, unsure
of my fate. I gave my uncle a bangle to deliver to her as a sign
of my survival.

Sha’aban joined in, giving my uncle bags of cowries for my

mother and himself. We requested secrecy, fearing the chief's
confiscation of the money.

As my uncle left, my eyes filled with tears, contrasting with the

joy in my heart upon hearing about my mother's well-being. I
vowed to set my eyes on her one day.

CHAPTER EIGHT
(My Marriage Preparation)

Time flowed swiftly, and at eighteen, I reflected on the seven

years spent in Kukawa. Father Darda’a often shared stories
during leisure moments to ease the emotional strain. One day,

26
he gathered Sha’aban, his wife, Ladi, and me for a crucial
conversation.

"Ladi, your children will soon get married. The essence of

happiness lies in love, and forgiveness is essential for love.
Consider this boy and accept him as your child, even if he
rejects your brother’s daughter. Allow them to enjoy their
lives," Father Darda’a urged.

Ladi responded harshly, denying any familial connection and

accusing him of manipulating the situation for personal gain.
Tensions escalated, with accusations of greed and hidden
motives. Despite the discord, Father Darda’a reassured me of
our marital security, promising to inform the chief for official
approval in two weeks.

Three days before the wedding, I was married according to

their customs. A counterfeit piece of cloth had been prepared,
and Ladi was warned to present it during the wedding or face
divorce.

27
On the night before the wedding, Ladi shared her conflicted
feelings. She acknowledged the pain in her heart, predicting
that some would sleep peacefully while others would rest in
eternal agony.

Focused on my work, I continued as if her words didn't reach

me. Sha’aban joined me, sharing stories and assisting with
chores—a routine that seemed to unsettle Ladi, prompting her
retreat to her room.

After finishing the cooking, I served the meals separately, as

Ladi took Father Darda’a's food to his room, adhering to
tradition.

That night, Ladi prepared our room while the town buzzed with
preparations for the wedding festivities. The next morning, as
the town crier announced the wedding, we were summoned to
the chief’s palace.

Escorted on a horse adorned with gold, we arrived to find

Father Darda’a absent. The chief, after receiving a message,
declared that the wedding would proceed without him. Ladi,

28
summoned to present the cloth, unfolded it to reveal a purely
white piece, devoid of any red stains.

The chief, in a moment of shock, declared our marriage invalid,

citing the customs of the land. The disappointment was
palpable, with Sha’aban completely disheartened. Our union,
intended to bring joy, had now been declared indecent.

Returning home brought an even greater shock: Father Darda’a

was dead. Ladi, the cause of my shattered happiness, had
poisoned him. Realizing I could not live in the village any longer,
I felt the weight of my destiny pressing upon me.

CHAPTER NINE
(The Tramp Exile)

After the mourning period for Father Darda’a, a campaign

against slave trading unfolded. Borno natives waged war
against chiefdoms still entangled in this inhumane practice.
Anticipating the impending campaign, Sha’aban freed his
father’s slaves, as women were deemed ineligible for the
inheritance of slaves. The European slave traders and some
29
rulers resisted this abolition, clandestinely exporting individuals
to countries like Brazil and Portugal.

Humanitarian efforts from Britain, Christian missionaries, and

European activists gave the fight against slave trading
momentum during this time. The once prevalent brutality of
hunting people like beasts for slavery was slowly receding.

Sha’aban, recognizing the gravity of our situation, reassured

me, “I will never let you go alone. I love you. I will be with you
on land or at sea. I am content leaving my homeland not for
theft or violence but for love.” He declared his intention to go
into exile for something more valuable than gold, more
beautiful than wealth, and stronger than his father's slaves.

As he spoke, Ladi lurked nearby, attempting to eavesdrop on

our conversation. Sha’aban, sensing her intrusion, exclaimed,
"By the gods of our ancestors, I feel stronger and more capable
being with you than in the midst of my father’s slaves. We will
set out without the company of any slaves."

30
The night before our departure from Kukawa, Sha’aban
informed me of our plan to leave in secrecy. We prepared
everything quietly, ensuring no one in the village was aware of
our impending journey.

Under the cover of the night during the rainy season, we

embarked on our uncertain journey. Sha’aban, adapting to the
cold, removed his gown, leaving his upper body exposed. He
wrapped a small cloth around his waist, leaving the remaining
fabric draping over his shoulder. I carried a small bag on my
head, following him closely like a lamp and its mother.
Sha’aban shouldered a heavy load, his stick supporting the
weight, held at the front edge with the middle resting on his
shoulder.

Passing through our farm, our footsteps shook off the night
dew from the premature beans, while the cassava leaves
seemed to wave a safe journey. Dewdrops drizzled upon us, as
if showering blessings on our departure. We journeyed until we
reached a spring named Ndak on the outskirts of a village called
Mban by early morning. Resting there, we waited for the sun to
commence its daily journey across the western skies.

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After a drink and breakfast from the dried provisions we
carried, we continued our journey westward, our destination
still unknown. By noon, we reached a small village, Kumsagal,
seeking accommodation but met rejection. Our journey
persisted, asking for shelter in various villages, but each one
turned us away. Food diminished, but the burden of our load
only increased.

Despite the hardships, Sha’aban, who could have easily

abandoned exile and returned home, constantly consoled me,
expressing empathy for the pregnancy I carried. His love
resonated in my veins, manifesting within me. A month into our
journey, it felt as if we had just begun.

CHAPTER TEN
(Lovers Apart)

Leaving Kumsagal behind, no villages or human settlements

were in sight as we aimlessly wandered barefoot in the bush,
devoid of food, strength, or a clear direction. Fearing Sha’aban
might abandon me, I pondered his selfless sacrifice, even if he
chose to part ways with me. On the 64th day of our exile, we
stumbled upon a place whose name I never learned—a treeless
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Sahara desert, scorching under the relentless midday sun. With
no food, water, or shelter, I contemplated urging Sha’aban to
return to his gold-laden home.

“Go back to your wealth and opulence,” I pleaded. “I will tell

the gods of your goodness and altruism. What miracle led a
man to leave his homeland for a woman whose existence
caused the death of his father?”

“Love is the greatest miracle, surpassing gold and wealth. Dying

with you is worth more than any material possession. Your
beauty and gaze wipe away my hunger and thirst in the face of
emaciation due to hunger. I want to be your hero.”

Seated on the bare sand, devoid of sustenance, water, or

companionship, we suffered from fatigue and headaches. This
harsh reality contradicted the excitement I felt whenever
Sha’aban professed his love.

As a group of people approached from the western direction, I

proposed seeking help. Sha’aban, recognizing them as slave

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kidnappers, advised running. We fled, but as the pursuers
closed in, Sha’aban unsheathed his sword.

“Go, go!” he urged, but I refused, unwilling to abandon him.

Kneeling in the sand, I implored him not to let me live without
him.

Sha’aban lifted me up, promising we would meet again, and

urged me to go. I witnessed him face the troop with unmatched
courage, a giant among strong men.

Running barefoot through the Sahara desert, my feet

alternated between drying and becoming wet from the fatty
liquid produced due to intense burning. After covering a
distance where Sha’aban and his pursuers were out of sight, my
stomach began to ache as if I had swallowed an iron oven. In
pain, with the sun scorching my body, I realized I was in labor.
Weak and fatigued, I collapsed on the hot sand, waiting for
death.

I sensed someone approaching as I lay on my back, unable to

turn. A group of people, mostly women, surrounded me, noting

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my pregnancy. They debated whether I could be profitable
after delivery, deciding to keep me until then. Unable to answer
questions, I was offered water, and they instructed male
servants to place me inside a covered horse cart.

In the cart, alongside four other pregnant young girls, I gave

birth. Two days later, we reached Sabon Gari, a place between
Nigeria and Chad near the lake. A hub for businessmen from
Tripoli, Mali, Egypt, etc., it served as a temporary camp before
their journeys into Nigeria, Niger, and Cameroon.

It became clear that our purpose there was captivity as sex

slaves. Our captors, acting as masters, facilitated transactions
where customers paid for services rendered to us. I lived under
this oppressive arrangement for one and a half years, working
for my second mistress, a food seller who treated me kindly.
She protected me from the degrading business, and I worked as
a servant rather than a slave. My child, Dardaa, born in Sabon
Gari, became my source of happiness. Although my future
appeared bleak, I found solace in sharing stories with him about
his father, his grandfather, and the hero he was named after.

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 CHAPTER ELEVEN
(in the Land of Garuruwa)

One pleasant evening, amidst our usual activities, a crowd

emerged from the eastern direction. Some rode on camels,
while others were on horseback, all dressed in white attire with
masked turbans adorning their heads. At approximately forty in
number, they reached the center of the camp. The assumed
leader instructed the gathering of everyone to the village
center and conveyed a message from the Emir of Borno,
Elekenem.

“The people of Sabon Gari, I am a messenger from the Emir of

Borno, the Elekenem. He declares the prohibition of slavery,
woman trafficking, and other inhumane activities. Anyone
caught engaging in such practices will face legal consequences
henceforth,” he announced. “Starting tomorrow, no one is
permitted to reside in Sabon Gari. We have come with carts
and escorts to transport everyone to their respective villages.
Those unaware of their villages will be under the custody of the
Elekenem. Necessary provisions have been provided for the
journey,” he assured.

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Several women disclosed their villages. My mistress revealed
she was from Garuruwa but expressed reluctance to return due
to the village's history of killing female children. The leader
assured her of a new chief and system, promoting peaceful
living for all.

Thoughts of my mother occupied my mind, pondering whether

she was alive or had passed away. The leader explained the
establishment of a religious center for the followers of various
faiths, signaling the end of the traditional religion's oppressive
system.

We arrived at a mountain named Bulanni, famous for its nearby

cave that the villagers of Garuruwa use as a shrine, after a nine-
day journey under the direction of our newfound leader. My
surprise was profound when I observed the mountain. Some
parts had been demolished, and the cave's location eluded my
memory. Doubt lingered if this was truly the holy cave of
Garuruwa, but other women confirmed its authenticity.

Viewing the village from the outskirts, the nostalgia hit my

heart and pounded like an August thunder, torn between the
love for my motherland and disdain for its inhabitants. Upon
37
reaching the village, we were directed to our camp.
Humanitarians had constructed a camp for those rescued from
slavery and trafficking. Many huts were prepared, each
assigned to two women.

In the absence of the chief upon our arrival, we anticipated a

new beginning in the land of Garuruwa.

38
 (I Meet My Mother and Husband)
Two days after our arrival, the chief returned from his travels
and visited our camp. Upon his arrival, his face concealed
beneath a turban, he sat atop a white horse. Silence lingered as
he gathered his escorts around him. "Assalamu Alaikum," he
greeted.
A few who knew how to respond replied, "Wa’a
laikumussalam." His words resonated deeply within me,
causing my heart to beat faster. He began, "We welcome all of
you to our land. Yes, the land we claim is not by inheritance but
by emancipation. We have liberated this land from a tyrant and
barbaric leader who treated women unfairly, selling his
beautiful young girls into slavery. Under him, the people of
Garuruwa turned their daughters into commodities,
purchasable with a few shillings. This is why we intervened and
rescued you. Therefore, every banished daughter of this land
should return to her father's house if her parents are alive. And
for those whose parents have passed, your parents' house
awaits. It's yours—your inheritance. Embrace a new life, a new
culture, and a new civilization," he proclaimed before
departing.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Amidst the anticipation of reuniting
with my mother and the unexpected possibility of encountering
my husband again, I found myself lost in thought.

39
Determined to seek answers, I visited the chief's palace the
next morning. Although he was away, the palace leader assured
me that he would return soon. Jakadiya, the female palace
attendant, then led me to Kande, my mother, who was holding
my son's hand.
I noticed a woman sitting in a regal golden chair beneath a
sizable tree with female servants massaging her legs as we
approached. From a distance, I speculated that this might be
the chief's wife. However, as I drew nearer, I recognized my
mother. Overwhelmed with emotion, I called out, "Mama!"
Startled, she looked up and saw me, unable to move from her
seat. Leaving Dardaa Junior behind, I rushed towards her. She
stood and opened her arms wide, embracing me tightly. Tears
flowed freely as she cried, almost bathing me in her tears.

After our emotional reunion, I introduced my son to her and

shared the news of his father's demise. To my surprise, my
mother revealed, "The father of your son is now the chief of
this village."

Perplexed, I inquired, "How, mama?"

40
She explained, "Your father's people killed him because he
opposed their cruel treatment of women and slave trading.
Your husband, leading a troop of soldiers from Borno, declared
the abolition of slave trading and mistreatment of daughters
inhumane. Your father rejected their plan, vowing to fight them
if they returned. Subsequently, he confronted your husband's
troop, leading to your father's demise. Your husband, after your
father's death, was appointed as our new chief. Some villagers
embraced the change, while others harbored resentment
towards your father's practices. Your husband, now our chief,
joined a humanitarian group to combat inhumane treatment."

My mother continued to praise my husband's virtues, sharing

how he reveres her and sits on the ground when visiting. She
portrayed him as a man deserving the throne left vacant by my
father.

"Ehen, I had forgotten about them," I said, referring to my

younger brother. "Did they perish in the battle?"

Kneeling between her legs, my arms on each thigh, she

recounted their fate. As she narrated the events of my absence,
I realized my son was missing. Panicking, I called out for him.
41
"See," she pointed behind me, "there he is with his father."

When Dardaa junior approached, he recognized me, stopping in

surprise. Sha'aban called him silently, "Minash!" The shock left
me speechless. Slowly advancing towards me, he dropped the
boy. "Minash!" he called again. I stood frozen, unable to
respond. He approached me like a snail, but I couldn't wait; I
darted towards him like an arrow. We embraced tightly, and as
we stood there, my mother graciously vacated the space,
allowing us a moment of private reunion.

In essence, this marked our liberation in a new world—a new

life, a new religion, and a new civilization. From that point
onward, our village, once known as Garuruwa, embraced a
transformation and became Garga. Slavery and discrimination
were eradicated, and women were liberated from ignorance
and religious barbarism. No longer sold into slavery by rulers,
we, as a community, embraced diversity and cultural exchange,
nurturing a rich heritage of cultural understanding and unity.

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