The Sojourner's Plight

By Omowaiye David Leke

The Sojourners Plight explores the historical yet contemporary universal issue of religious conflict and violence. Michael, Uche, and Tunde are three friends from the Southern, Eastern, and Western parts of Nigeria respectively. Believing in unity and peaceful co-existence amongst tribes and religions, the basis upon which the country was forged, they settle down and start up their families in Gerinlafiaa town in the Muslim-populated Northern Nigeria.
For a while, things go on well with them until a Jihad breaks out and spreads through the North like wildfire. The thirst for Christian blood soon reaches Gerinlafia. And so in a town whose name denotes peace, brute violence is unleashed. Christians and non-northerners are brutally murdered for no reason save the faith they profess. The three friends are not spared as they all lose everything.
Two of them survive, and one returns with vengeance in his heart. He is hell-bent on settling a score, on making his Northern brothers feel the indelible pains their actions have seared into his heartpains that the passage of time can never heal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Oct 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482803648

Omowaiye David Leke

Omowaiye David Leke is a third-year student of the Department of English and Literary studies, University of Abuja, Nigeria. Born in Lagos into a family of six, he grew up with a passion for the arts. The Sojourner’s Plight is his debut novel. He currently presides over the University of Abuja Literary Society.

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Copyright © 2014, 2015 by Omowaiye David Leke.

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-4828-0365-5

             eBook        978-1-4828-0364-8

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CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

In

memory of the

lost souls, sent into oblivion

by religious crises in times past.

Soar on, for thy blood constantly cries

out, seeking not vengeance but an end to it all:

An end to indiscriminate bloodshed in the name of religion.

May all lost souls, rest in peace.

For Faustina, Andre and Amia

The real differences around the World today are not between Jews and Arabs, Christians and Muslims, the West and the East. The real differences are between those who embrace peace and those who would destroy it; between those who look to the future and those who cling to the past; between those who open their arms and those who are determined to clench their fists.

~William J. Clinton

ONE

M ichael flipped over the last page of the documents he had been reading for the last two hours. He stretched out his hands, flexing his aching muscles, as his eyes fell on the table clock. It read 6:35 p.m. ‘How time flies,’ he thought, arranging the documents neatly in a file. He placed the file in his drawer and locked it with a combination code. Getting up lazily, somewhat exerted by the day’s work, he packed up his briefcase then crossed over to the other side of the office that served as Mr Bala’s corner. The windows were beside his co-worker’s table. The elderly Hausa man loved the view of the main gate he enjoyed from his office. That way, he knew who was stepping in and out of the Gerinlafia Local Government Secretariat. Shutting the window panes, Michael pulled down the raised blinds and returned to his table. There he picked up his briefcase and turned off the lights as he stepped out of the office. The corridor that led to the main entrance of his wing was deserted and as he made his way towards the main entrance, he noticed all the other offices were closed for the day.

Stepping out of his wing, he closed his eyes and took in a rush of air, immersing himself in the ambience of the cool evening. Somewhat revived, his eyes fluttered open and stared off in the direction of the far-off hills of Gerinlafia. The Sun had slowly begun its descent over the distant hills and would soon disappear behind them. Michael loved watching its descent. He liked the rays the sinking sun cast on the hills, giving them a golden touch. He took his eyes of the hills and looked around hoping to see someone. Everywhere was dead quiet. He was the last person to leave again today.

‘Workaholic,’ he said to himself, mimicking his wife as he walked towards the gate of the secretariat.

A wide smile lit up his face at the thought of his wife. Michael loved and adored the woman who had given him three kids in their twelve years of marriage. He was still thinking about her when a voice broke him out of his reverie.

‘Inaini Oga,’ the gateman on duty greeted.

‘G-g-good evening Ahmed,’ Michael managed to stutter in response.

‘How is work?’ he inquired, coming around.

‘Oga work dey fine o. E be like say you do plenty plenty work today because time don go well well,’ Ahmed queried his ‘plenty’ coming out as ‘flenty’.

A smile lit up Michael’s face. He was always amused at the way the P`s came out as F’s when most of the Hausas spoke.

‘Yes, that is true,’ he answered. ‘I just had to finish everything before taking my leave.’

Dipping his hands in his pocket, he brought out a hundred naira note and handed it over to Ahmed.

‘Nagode Oga,’ Ahmed thanked, smiling broadly. ‘Oga thank you very very much’.

‘Thank God,’ Michael answered stepping out of the gate of the Secretariat.

‘Oga help me greet madam and your pikin dem,’ Ahmed called after him.

‘Okay Ahmed, see you tomorrow,’ Michael replied, hitting the road.

A gentle breeze blew over the town as he walked home. He preferred walking despite his house was quite far-away from the local government secretariat. To him the walk was worth it, for he enjoyed the scenery and the hustle and bustle of a typical northern town at evenings. This evening just like every other one, the streets were densely crowded. Cars and motorcycles honked their ways through the crowded streets. Hausa songs blared from speakers hung at the entrance of the shops that lined both sides of the streets. Fruit-sellers, roasted meat sellers and traders of all sorts of imaginable things displayed their wares along the road sides, calling out to passers-by. Some heeded their call, pausing to haggle over prices before buying. Some lingered, a longing desire in their eyes but hamstrung by lack of the financial might to lay claims to their desires, they slowly trudged on, abashed. Others who were visibly in a haste to make it to their homes or financially incapacitated, simply passed on not sparing a glance. Unlike the former, they had learnt to tame their cravings.

Hawkers were not left out. They roamed through the crowded streets calling out their wares, contributing their quota to the already unbearable din. Many times, Michael and some other pedestrians had to jump out of the way of some overzealous motorcyclists who absurdly enough found an already crowded road the right arena for their display of crazy stunts. A few riders on horses, camels and donkeys also pushed through the throng making their ways to their different abode. Often times as Michael sauntered on; traffic was stalled by a stray donkey or a Hausa-Fulani herdsman leading his cattle across the road towards shelter for the night, thus inciting curses and obscenities from motorists in haste.

Almajiris were everywhere scavenging for food. They were children and youths who had been sent by their parents to Islamic schools known as Islamiyyas to learn the Koran and the tenets of the religion. They schooled under the tutelage of an Islamic teacher referred to as ‘Mallam’. Most often, these children and youths were brought from villages and towns afar off and dumped at the Islamiyya. Provisions were not made for their welfare and so they had to take to the streets, begging and doing odd jobs to be able to feed themselves and sometimes their Mallams. Michael gave a few notes to the Almajiris that crossed his path. He couldn’t help but pity their lot each time he ran into them, for they always looked unkempt and hungry.

Taking a turn into another road, he heard a soft musical voice blaring out over the speakers of the central mosque located at the centre of the town. It was time for evening prayers. The crowd in the streets thinned out as many found their ways into nearby mosques for prayers. Michael made his way down Tudun Wada road and took a left turn into the Market road. He had been walking for twenty minutes now. Uche, his friend and neighbour had a shop where he sold building materials at the outskirt of the main market. On daily basis, Michael branched by and the two walked home together.

Two vans full of tiles were packed in front of Uche’s shop when Michael got there. Uche visibly had just gotten a fresh order of tiles. Michael remembered his friend had told him about ordering for the tiles from his dealer in Onitsha. Uche’s shop attendants were unloading the vans with the help of some Almajiri boys. Michael paused to greet them before heading into the shop. His friend was bent over an account book when he stepped in. His younger brother who had come to visit him and was to return to the East in some days’ time was also with him in the shop. He and Michael exchanged pleasantries before he stepped out to oversee the unloading of the vans.

‘You finally got your tiles,’ Michael said to Uche in a way of greeting.

His friend looked up from the account book he was busy with and smiled. Uche was a handsome young man with a burly build and of average height. He was four years younger than Michael, the two related well notwithstanding.

He came towards his friend and slapped him lightly on the back.

‘Michael the son of Ubong,’ he greeted.

‘The tiles were brought in this evening after a long week of waiting,’ he informed. ‘The drivers said they were delayed at Lokoja due to the Niger’s flooding of the town.’

‘I thought plans were being made by the government to dredge the River Niger so that such incidents wouldn’t occur again?’ Michael asked. ‘Why is this still happening?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Welcome to our good old Nigeria,’ Uche said with a flourish and his friend smiled.

‘Please can you give me some minutes to round off then we’ll be on our way?’ he asked.

‘No problem,’ Michael said taking his seat on a chair placed near the entrance of the shop.

He watched the boys unloading the van while Uche went back to his paperwork. The Almajiri boys and Uche’s attendants were doing the bulk of the unloading while Uche’s brother watched over them and helped when necessary. As Michael watched, his eyes caught one of the Almajiri boys who visibly was too young and weak to lift the box of tiles he was struggling with but wouldn’t give up on it. The boy probably knew there was no other avenue to make money that evening so he wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by. He continued struggling with the box until Uche’s younger brother saw him and walked up to him.

‘You cannot do this work. Find work elsewhere!’ Uche’s brother said to him, collecting the box of tiles he had been struggling with.

‘Oga abeg,’ the boy pleaded. ‘Oga please I go fit do am.’

‘The boxes are too heavy for you. Leave!’ Uche’s brother told him, a tone of finality in his voice. He did not have the time to spare, arguing with the little one.

‘Oga abeg,’ the boy pleaded again. This time around, tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘I never chop today Oga. Na God I use beg you.’

That softened Uche’s brother. He dipped his hand in his pocket and brought out a five hundred naira note, which he handed over to the Almajiri boy.

‘Use this to eat,’ he said to him.

The little boy collected the money and stared at the giver, speechless for a while. He visibly had not been expecting that much.

‘Nagode oga. Allah go bless you well well,’ he said repeatedly, still dazed.

‘Okay you can go now,’ Uche’s brother said to him.

‘Thank you well well oga,’ the little boy said turning to leave. He kept staring at the money in his hands as he left. That was probably the highest denomination anyone had ever given him.

Michael could never understand the concept of the Almajiris in the North. The fact that children were brought up to toe the right path as laid down by the religion was quite understandable but what he couldn’t come to terms with was why people would procreate in large numbers knowing fully well they do not have the resources to fend for these children. They then end up turning them into the hands of an Islamic teacher who sends them out to beg on daily basis.

A voice broke into Micheal’s thoughts. It was the voice of one of the drivers who had brought the tiles down.

‘You shouldn’t have given him that much,’ the driver said to Uche’s brother.

‘Why?’ Uche’s brother asked baffled.

‘One can never be good enough for some of these people. No matter how good you are to them it won’t stop the extremists amongst them from sticking a dagger in your heart at the slightest opportunity,’ the driver answered.

‘That’s the truth,’ the other driver piped in, supporting his friend.

‘No, it’s not that bad. Just a very few of them are like that,’ Uche’s younger brother answered dismissively.

‘Oh! When you spend the number of years I have spent in the North and you witness a Jihad, you will understand why I said that,’ the first driver said letting the conversation die down.

‘Do not use the sins of a few to judge a multitude,’ Uche’s younger brother countered somewhat miffed before turning back to watch over the unloading of the vans.

The two drivers just shook their heads.

‘We are going off to eat,’ they said to him.

Uche’s brother did not turn back to them. He was still irked by their words.

The drivers shrugged and turned to leave for the food vendor’s stall down the road.

Ten minutes later, Uche was through with his account book. He locked up the book in the small safe he kept in his shop.

‘We can leave now,’ he said to Michael.

‘Alright,’ Michael said rising to his feet. He stepped out of the shop with Uche in tow.

‘You guys can close for the day once you are through with the unloading,’ Uche told his attendants.

‘Thank you Oga,’ they answered.

‘Give these Almajiris five hundred naira each for their services,’ Uche informed his younger brother.

‘Where are the drivers?’ he inquired looking around.

‘They went to eat down the road,’ his younger brother informed.

‘Tell them I’ll see them tomorrow morning,’ Uche instructed his brother. ‘Try not to stay out late today. You know you are a stranger here,’ he advised.

‘I won’t today. As soon as they are through here, I’ll join you at home,’ his brother answered

‘Alright, see you then,’ Uche said to him as he and Michael crossed over to the other side of the road and took the route that led to the area where they both lived.

‘How was your day?’ Uche asked his friend.

Michael narrated the events of the day as they walked on. The two friends later passed by a group of beggars whom they made it a point of duty to give alms to everyday. The beggars were always happy whenever they saw the duo approach. They knew they never passed-by without giving.

‘Inaini Oga,’ the beggars chorused happily.

‘Inaini,’ Uche and Michael answered with smiles.

They reached into their pockets and handed over some naira notes to the eldest of the beggars.

‘Mungode oga,’ the elderly beggar thanked with smiles.

‘Thank God,’ Michael and Uche replied as they left the beggars and walked on.

Thirty minutes later, they were on their own street and made their way towards their homes waving at neighbours as they passed-by.

‘Have you heard from Tunde?’ Uche asked when they got to the front of his house.

Tunde was their other friend and neighbour. His house was just after Michael’s.

‘No I haven’t,’ Michael answered.

‘When would he be back?’ Uche inquired.

‘I guess he should be back by now,’ Michael answered.

‘Alright then,’ Uche said. ‘Greet Mama Ubong and your kids,’ he added, turning to leave.

‘Extend my greetings to your wife and son too,’ Michael called after him.

He then walked a few steps ahead and turned into his own compound. His five year old daughter - Enobong was playing with her dolls in the veranda. She was so engrossed with what she was doing that she did not notice her father approach. Michael snuck up behind her and placed two pointed fingers on her back.

‘Give me your dolls or I’ll shoot,’ he intoned in a voice bereft of happiness.

Surprisingly, the little one started laughing.

‘Daddy I know it is you,’ she said.

‘Alright you got me today,’ Michael said feigning defeat. ‘But you know you shouldn’t be playing here at this time,’ he chided.

‘I’m sorry Dad,’ Enobong apologized. ‘I came out here to wait for you and brought my dolls along so I wouldn’t be lonely.’

‘It’s alright my little angel,’ Michel said to her. ‘Just don’t do it again,’ he admonished.

‘I won’t Dad. I promise you.’ Enobong said smiling up at him.

Michael carried her and threw her up in the air making her squeal with joy. She landed safely in his hands and father and daughter laughed as they went in shutting the door behind them.

TWO

M ichael had just left Uche and was making his way towards the Local Government Secretariat. It was 7:15 a.m. on a Monday morning. The rising sun still partially blocked by the hills of Gerinlafia, cast its golden rays on the town setting it aglow. It was a beautiful morning for the people of Gerinlafia but not for Michael and the other sojourners in the North. Thoughts ran through his mind as he took his normal route to the Local Government Secretariat. A tremor had begun to run through the North that could explode into a full blown Jihad if not stemmed. It had happened a lot of times in the past and was visibly stirring up again. This was enough cause for alarm for Michael and the non-Muslims residing in Northern Nigeria.

News had travelled of a group named ‘Bawon Islam’. They were a group of Islamic extremists with the aim of eradicating all forms of westernization in the Northern part of Nigeria. They had launched their mission with an attack on a church in faraway Maiduguri. Five hundred Christians had been killed in this attack. It was reported that they had attacked the church on a Sunday morning while service was being held and had rained bullets and locally made bombs on the un-suspecting worshippers. No one had been reported to have escaped the brutal massacre. The ‘Bawon Islam’ after the massacre had given a clarion call to its brothers all over the north to rise and expunge the non-believers, a call that would willingly be answered by those who were extremists in the North.

Michael got to the gate of the Secretariat and walked in. Not many people had arrived. The car park was still scanty. He made his way to his own wing and went straight to his office, greeting his co-workers who had arrived earlier as he passed by. He was a little bit surprised when he got to his office and noticed the door was ajar. Pushing it open cautiously, he saw that his co-worker, Mr. Bala had arrived. The elderly man was reading the morning newspaper. He dropped the paper and looked up as Michael stepped in.

‘Good morning Mr. Michael,’ he greeted, taking off his glasses.

‘Good morning Oga Bala,’ Michael answered. ‘How is your family?’

‘Very fine my brother. And yours?’ Bala asked

‘They are faring well.’

‘You came quite early today,’ Michael noted.

‘Yes I had to go drop something in my cousin’s house. He is travelling to Kano so I sent him to my daughter at Bayero University. He left around six-forty.’

‘He shall arrive there safely,’ Michael prayed

‘Insha Allah,’ Bala answered picking up the newspaper he had been reading.

Michael sat down and cleared his table, going through the left over work from the previous week. Minutes passed and he was ready to begin the day’s work when Bala spoke up.

‘These are bad times. Killings everywhere for no just cause,’ he intoned sadly.

‘What has happened again?’ Michael asked. He stood up and walked over to Bala’s table.

‘Gruesome killings in Sokoto in the name of fighting a holy war,’ Bala answered turning the newspaper towards Michael.

Michael picked up the newspaper and read the story.

A young lady had passed by a praying ground while some Muslims were praying. Under the claim that she walked past their praying ground dressed in short skirts, they pounced on her and beat her to death. It didn’t stop there. Not satisfied with the jungle justice they had meted out on the poor girl, they turned on Christians in the vicinity, killing as many as possible to satisfy what the newspapers termed their ‘wanton thirst for Christian blood’.

‘What on earth is the justification for these killings?’ Michael asked saddened by what he had just read.

‘None my brother, they tie their unjust lust for human blood around the religion, claiming they are fighting a holy war,’ Mr Bala answered. ‘An absurd claim,’ he added disgusted.

‘Quite unfortunate,’ Michael said in a faint murmur as he walked towards the window and stared out, lost in thoughts.

‘Do you know where the problem of the North lies?’ Mr Bala asked breaking into his thoughts.

‘No,’ Michael replied weakly.

‘Illiteracy!’ the elderly Hausa man declared. ‘That is where our problem lies. A large number of our people are illiterates. Our people claim they do not want to have anything to do with Western education yet it is this same Western education that our northern leaders and elites use to subject them to docile servitude. They use the power and wealth gained from Western education to keep our people permanently mute even though they rot away in ignorance and abject poverty. Is it not illiteracy that makes a youth sell his undying loyalty to a rich man for a paltry sum? Is it not illiteracy that makes our youths do the bidding of the few rich without looking back? Our leaders and elites have not been fair to us. They continually bask in the adulations and ‘Ranka dade’ of the poor, the poor whom they see merely as tools to be wielded