Rapidbills
The harmattan wind had been blowing for weeks, carrying fine red dust from the Sahara across the cracked earth of Guasa village. It settled on everything—the plastered cement walls of the newer compounds, the corrugated zinc roofs held down by heavy stones against the wind, and the leaves of the few acacia trees that stubbornly clung to life. Amina woke before the first call to prayer, the thin mat beneath her already gritty with the dust that had slipped through the narrow window during the night. She was twelve, small for her age, with sharp eyes that noticed things others missed: the way the wind made the millet stalks in the fields bow like old men in prayer, or how her little brother Yusuf’s breathing changed when he was pretending to sleep.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. The compound was still dark, but she could smell the faint woodsmoke from last night’s fire and the dry, animal scent of the goats tethered near the wall. Her mother, Inna Hauwa, was already moving in the next room, the soft rustle of her wrapper and the clink of the metal pot telling Amina it was time to start the day.
“Amina,” Inna called softly, her voice low so as not to wake the others. “Come help with the grinding before the sun gets too hot”.
Amina wrapped her faded blue cloth tighter around her shoulders against the morning chill and padded barefoot across the hard-packed earth of the compound. The ground felt cool and rough under her feet. She joined her mother at the grinding stone, a heavy flat rock set outside under a lean-to. Together, they worked the smaller upper stone back and forth. The rhythmic scrape filled the quiet air, a sound Amina had known since she could walk.
She liked this time best, before the village fully woke. The sky was turning pale pink, and she heard her friend Zainab’s mother greeting the day with a low “Barka da safiya,” and the reply, “Lafiya lau,” all is well. Amina wondered if it really was. Last week, the men had spoken in hushed tones about villages to the west. She had caught only fragments: “yan ta’adda… on motorcycles… took the girls for ransom…”. Yan ta’adda meant bad men. She knew motorcycles well—the village Okadas were always buzzing—but these sounded different in the stories, heavier and more dangerous.
Later, Amina and her younger brother Yusuf were sent with two yellow plastic jerrycans to fetch water from the borehole. Yusuf walked ahead in his faded, dusty football jersey, kicking up puffs of dust with his bare feet and chattering about a lizard. She smiled, but her eyes scanned the horizon. At the borehole, other children were already there. They took turns pumping the heavy handle, the water gushing cold and clear.
In the evening, Amina overheard Baba speaking to Uncle Musa. Their voices were low. “…they came at night, on motorcycles. Took five girls…”. Amina froze. She pictured the bikes roaring into the village like angry bulls. Night fell, and the family spread their mats outside under the star-filled sky. Amina lay on her back, Yusuf curled beside her.
Then it came. A low hum, like distant bees. The hum grew—engines, multiple, coming from the bush path.
Baba sat up first. “Get inside,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Now”.
The hum became a roar, growing louder, closer. Dust began to swirl as headlights pierced the darkness. The quiet before the storm had ended.
Disclaimer: The characters and everything you have read are fictional.
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