Chapter 6: Hunger and Schemes

I tell myself say I go waka far small, come back after some days to check if she don change.

For my mind, I dey count the days, dey pray say she go survive. I dey plan to sneak back, bring her food, even if na only small. I dey believe say my stubbornness fit save her, even when the world dey show me otherwise.

This grassland big well-well, and the harmattan breeze cold die. Apart from the sheep pen, I no even know where else fit be my home.

The place dey stretch like river, everywhere dry, grass dey wave like sea. Harmattan dey bite ear, dust dey choke throat. Na only sheep pen I know, the rest na fear and strange noise.

As I pass one round hut, I feel the warmth from inside, so I sit down quietly lean for the wall.

The mud wall dey give small comfort, warmth dey seep through my thin skin. I close my eyes, dey listen to voice and laughter, wishing say I fit be one of them—anywhere wey people dey treat each other better.

Inside, I hear herdsmen dey talk.

Voices low, but words sharp. The language dey heavy for ear, like people wey dey plan something dark. My mind dey race, I press ear to wall, dey try hear well.

One woman ask with cold voice, “Hauwa, when we go kill that woman and pikin for sheep pen? To keep them na waste of food.”

The woman voice dry, no pity. I imagine her face—hard like old wood. Na the kind of voice wey fit chase spirit for shrine.

Then one man sigh.

The sigh long, as if the matter tire am. His own voice carry weight, authority like man wey don see war.

“Malam Audu, no be now. The older one na princess, and as wahala don start again, maybe she fit still useful.”

His words dey shake me. For their world, life na only value if e fit bring gain. Princess or not, hunger no dey look face.

“Useful for wetin? No be Garba Kingdom talk say dem don find the Oba’s daughter? E clear say dem don abandon the real one...”

Her tone sharp like cutlass. E pain me as I dey imagine say nobody dey fight for my mama again. The world dey move on, leave her for dust.

“The real one na real one, Hauwa. This year weather too bad, sheep no dey breed, and food scarce for harmattan. If you say dem dey waste food, why you no kill the small one first.”

The man voice cold, reason dey inside, but heart no dey. For this place, every extra mouth be trouble; survival na only law.

“That one make sense.”

Her voice now carry something like evil joy, like say she dey happy for another person sorrow. I hug myself tighter, dey pray say night go cover me, hide me from their plans.

As I hear their words, cold just catch my body.