Born on a Tuesday by Elnathan John Read Free Book Online Page A

strike at the trunk of the tree. He stops when he notices me.
    â€˜What are you looking for?’ he asks.
    â€˜My house. My mother’s house,’ I tell him.
    â€˜Who is your mother?’
    â€˜Umma.’
    â€˜Umma, mai koko?’
    They still call her the one who sells gruel. When I say yes, he looks away and sighs. I am scared. I drop the bags I am holding.
    â€˜That is her house you are looking at. Her sister-in-law took her to Katako. Do you know where it is?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I reply and pick up my bags. Katako is a bit far from here but there is a shortcut through Dogon Icce. As I walk away, he says something I do not hear. I do not stop. All I want is to see my mother.
    The only houses standing are the few made of concrete blocks. Many trees have fallen, some uprooted from the ground. I hope, insha Allah, I find Umma well. Without walls or trees to climb, there are so many lizards on the ground looking like they have lost their way. My feet hurt from walking but I will not stop to rest. It is evening and I want to reach Katako before the sun goes down. There are flies everywhere and bloated carcasses of dogs and goats. The smell in the village makes my stomach rumble. Now I feel like I should have left for Dogon Icce as soon as I arrived in Sokoto. Only Allah knows why this happened, why my mother’s house is now a huge pile of mud and thatch. I wonder if any of my brothers are back. If I had a phone like Sheikh Jamal or Malam Junaidu and I could get one for Umma and my brothers, I would have called them to know how they were and where they were. All I know is that when the rains first stopped falling and the millet dried up in the farm, my father sent them—Maccido, Hassan and Hussein—to become almajirai in an Islamic school in a place called Tashar Kanuri. A few months after, I was off to Bayan Layi because the malam in Tashar Kanuri didn’t have space for more students. I wonder why Umma didn’t send anyone to look for me when my father died or if my brothers knew. Allah knows. Allah knows what is best.
    The day my brothers left for Tashar Kanuri, I was both sad and happy. Sad that suddenly I didn’t have anyone to protect me from the bullies in the village but happy I had more space to sleep and maybe my portions of food would become bigger. The portions never got bigger. Maccido used to slap me hard for no reason, even though Umma used to quarrel with him about it. He never listened to her and was mean because he was the eldest and was bigger than all of us. Still, he beat up anyone who beat me or tried to bully me in the village. Sometimes I liked him. Sometimes I hated him. Hassan and Hussein, the twins, were quiet and fair like Umma. Many times I thought Umma loved them more than she loved the rest of us. Nobody beat or bullied them. Umma told us my father only beat them to make them change from being left-handed when they were very little. So they learned how to use their right hands but didn’t stop using their left hands. I always wished I knew how to use both hands. Nobody believed Hassan and Hussein could do any wrong, so when they would go to play with Maccido and come back late, my father would beat only Maccido. My father wanted to send just Maccido and Hassan to Tashar Kanuri but everyone thought it was a bad idea to separate the twins, so he sent all three of them leaving me alone with Umma.
    I stop and rub my palms together. They are red from carrying the two bags. I can see my aunt’s mud house in the distance and my heart is beating fast. Tears are filling my eyes and my nose hurts. I can’t remember the last time I was here but little has changed apart from the roof, which is no longer thatch but old rusted zinc. There is also now a reed curtain covering the door that leads into the zaure, the room at the entrance where male visitors are received.
    â€˜Salamu alaikum,’ I shout at the entrance.
    â€˜Wa alaikum wassalam. Who is