Five days to Eid al-Adha, and everywhere is dry. None of the stuff we like to have this time of year – reflector glasses in neon colours for the girls, for one. How else will they be in viral social media photos when leaving the Eid prayer ground? We boys, we want photo-ready glasses too. We want American caps pulled down over one eye. Not only have our parents not bought these things, we also have not received Sallah money to buy them for ourselves.
Me and my friend Hamza were at his mother’s shop two days ago, and all we got was Toyota, one of the snacks she sells. Hajiya dabbed the crumbs off the fronts of our shirts as we bit into the crunchy treat. She said Toyota was all she could give us, that trading was slow because half the market was waiting on Agadez.
‘How so?’ I said, borrowing the words of our teacher, Mallam Abu.
A lot of festival rams come from Niger Republic, Hajiya explained. ‘They bring rago from places like Agadez to come and sell here.’
‘We don’t have enough?’ Hamza’s Toyota hand paused halfway to his mouth.
‘Wallahi.’ Hajiya rewrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and her turaren wuta scented the air with flowers. ‘From the money they make selling livestock, they buy our agricultural produce for their own celebrations.’
Hamza looked from his mother to me.
‘Desertification,’ I said to him. ‘Mallam Abu talked about it in class, remember?’
Hajiya smiled, baring a gold tooth. ‘Desertification my foot. This is cross-border trade that has been going on here on the northern tip of Nigeria long before the Sahara started creeping in, gaskiya. What border even? Who put up the border?’
Hamza and I shrugged.
‘The day Sallah rams cannot come, that is when I will know there is a border,’ Hajiya said.
***
Now I know how my Baba gets most of his rams, and I realise that he, too, is waiting on Agadez. He deals in livestock and sends rams to the south—to Lagos, Ibadan and other places at festival time. This is usually his busiest period, but everywhere is dry. Yesterday, Alhaji Gumel’s truck stopped outside our house. The truck has ‘Allahu Akbar’ painted in green and gold on one side and ‘Insha Allah’ on the other. Alhaji Gumel owns a transport company that moves livestock around the country. He had come to check on the schedule for Baba’s consignment.
‘I'm still waiting for the rams o,’ Baba said. ‘Please give me two more days.’
Alhaji Gumel squished his craggy brows. ‘Won’t it be getting late by then? We need to ensure the rams get to the various markets in time for the last-minute surge in demand.’
‘First I have to get the rago, ko?’ Baba said. ‘Right now I have only twenty-five in my enclosure, and those are not even for sale. They are for our own use, and to gift to friends and relatives for Eid, and to feed the Almajiri.’
Baba walked the visitor back to the truck.
‘I will have to travel down with the rams at this rate,’ Alhaji Gumel said as he heaved up into the passenger seat. ‘It is a long journey on bad roads, as you know, with banditry, animal rustling and whatnot. I cannot entrust a late cargo to my workers alone.’
‘I might have to go with you too.’ Baba’s face stretched into a thin smile as he waved the transporter off. Exhaust fumes billowed from the back of the truck as it pulled away, shrouding Baba in grey. He removed his kufi from his head and used it to fan the smoke from his face. Baba usually had over two hundred rams in the livestock enclosure by now, the animals warbling baahhh baahhh all day long. Now he has just the ones that are not for sale. Though I hope Baba can send the trucks and make his money, I know our family will not be without ram meat this Eid. Baba peered inside his kufi as if searching for something, then he looked back up at the departing truck. He seemed lost in thought as he strode back into the house, forgetting to put the kufi back on his head.
***
I am on my way to the football ground and I hear two women talking at the mill. They are processing jero. Their conversation pricks my ears and I slow down. I act like I am studying a centipede curling about on the ground, and watch the women from the corner of my eye. The first woman, the mill owner, adds the mixture of millet and dried spices to the top feeder of the machine, while the other one keeps a close eye on the blended flour spouting from the other end into a large basin placed on a low wooden stool. The miller and her customer speak in raised voices over the juddering grind of the mill and the small generator it’s running on.
‘Ever since that man stood on the podium at Eagle Square and said on television, ‘Subsidy is gone!’, things have been down-down,’ says the miller, adding more jero mix to the feeder funnel.
‘Heiii! But subsidy is for petroleum, ko?’ the customer said. ‘What is even our own business with petrol here in the north? If you tell me cross-Saharan trade, ah-ha, that I will understand.’
‘But petrol affects everything in this country. The ice-cream vendor needs petrol for the generator that powers his freezer, since PHCN’s electricity supply is more off than on.’
‘You talk true, wallahi. Petrodollar, ko? Dollar up, naira down. Everything cost-cost.’
‘Forget the dollar. Even CFA is king now.’
‘Subhanallahi!’ The customer interlocks her fingers and fastens them to her middle.
‘Even the ram sellers of Niger Republic are staying away. Their currency is stronger than ours right now.’
I scratch my head as I walk on. No Sallah ram tied to the front of every other house with bales of grass to nibble on. No stranded pail of water to quench the animal’s thirst. No dung smell reaching my nose from ram droppings dotting the patch like mushy pins on a map. Eid is almost here, and all we hear is subsidy and devaluation.
***
We are at the football ground, which is really a large clearing where we play for our Under-12 league. Today is our final match before Eid. On the other side of a wall that runs down one side of the field, the grand mosque rises to a crescent that gleams gold in the afternoon sun. The whistle sounds and I forget about the women at the mill.
Hamza is our goalkeeper. The game picks up and we chase the ball around the field, stomping on the sparse grass with our dusty trainer shoes. It is going well until Rahama and her friends arrive and sit on a log in the shadow of the dongoyaro tree. Rahama is the leader of the girls, and is also Hamza’s younger sister. She doesn’t come to the football field unless she wants to start wahala. Rahama is here with five or six girls, including Nafisa, and that can only mean trouble. If Hamza is worried about their arrival, he doesn’t show it. He keeps his eyes on the ball and shifts his weight from side to side on his wide-apart feet, his upper body swaying like a skinny sumo wrestler. Hamza’s shoulders have the same keen concentration as his eyes. When we are on the field like this, Hamza’s head is so correct, it is hard to believe that he is eleven years old like me.
We are at Extra-Time and the game is tied. It is even more important at this time because the winners become Eid stars. Everyone hails them as champions. They form their own ram trail, parading through the neighbourhood with tall kufis on their heads like grown men. The losers’ families host the winners, praying that next time, their own children will win. They lay out festival food – tuwo shinkafa, masa, miyan taushe, miyan gyada, dambu nama, sweets and snacks, and revolving trays and plates of chunky ram. Stewed, boiled, fried, skewered. The winners eat till their stomachs push out in their kaftans, like round-bellied Alhajis at the Bureau de Change.
We started the match knowing the stakes are higher in this time of subsidy and devaluation and rams stuck in Agadez.
‘We must make sure we win,’ Hamza had said to me before the starting whistle. ‘Most of us are not sure we will get to eat Sallah ram, let alone feed these ones in the other team. Better they host us and not the other way round.’
So, we are playing for that reason. And the girls with their sullen faces are watching us play.
‘Be playing ball like thoughtless goats,’ Rahama screeches from the sidelines. ‘Have you heard about the devalued naira? I am sorry for you. Eid is going to be dry!’ She pulls her hijab over her mouth, so that when we freeze on the field and look towards the dongoyaro tree, I am not at first sure which of the girls spoke.
‘With this your big mouth,’ Nafisa says with a jut of the chin at Rahama, making it clear who likened us to goats.
Hamza picks up the ball and tucks it in the crook of his arm. He walks towards the girls, and we follow, emptying the field.
‘Goats. Where?’ Hamza stops in front of his sister.
‘You will know when that’s all you get for Eid,’ Rahama says, arms folded across her chest, eyes blazing.
‘Goat. Akuya? Allah forbid it!’ I speak for the first time.
Nafisa shrugs. ‘Some parents are even buying ducks and chickens. Do you boys pay attention to anything except football?’
We turn to Nafisa. She got knocked down by a ram three Eids ago. She was with her older sister when they turned a corner and saw this big-horned ram tied by one of its legs to a pillar. The kind of ram that now costs over a million naira in the devaluation. The rago was chewing its grass in peace. But seeing it so close, Nafisa froze and started to sob. The ram looked up. Nafisa stayed rooted to the spot. The big sister cajoled her: Let’s go, it’s okay, it’s not bothering us… it’s tethered…
They did not see the ram move, straightening the length of rope as it did so. It headbutted Nafisa from the back and sent her flying several paces away, leaving her with grazed knees. Then the ram went back to its former position and continued to chew. It was a big joke among us when we heard from those who had witnessed the incident. When the rago was turned to Eid food that year, its owner sent a large dish bursting with fried cutlets to Nafisa’s house, as a way of saying ‘sorry’. Still, she was not satisfied. She has lived with a grudge against rams ever since, and it always shows at Sallah time.
‘Yes, Nafisa, we pay attention to more than football,’ says one of our midfielders, nicknamed Celestine Babayaro. ‘Do you pay attention to anything other than your ram revenge?’
Someone cackles. ‘Really, Nafisa, it’s time to let it go. Don’t you think so?’
‘Just because the ram took you for football and decided to take a header,’ another boy says, to more laughter.
And now Nafisa’s face is as puffed and taut as our football. Her eyes are large and unfocused, and her pupils look like they will roll up her forehead.
‘All because I am worried about what Eid will be like for us!’ she wails. ‘It’s two days to Eid! Do you know what that means?’
‘Look what you have all done!’ Rahama holds Nafisa by the shoulders and gives us dirty looks. With one palm, she wipes her friend’s tears.
Hamza steps forward, chest puffed out. Always the leader, always the one to think up new ideas. ‘No need for fight,’ he says. ‘Whether rams come or they don’t come, we will all eat rago, wallahi. Whatever we don’t get, it will not be meat. Ram is certain.’
Huh? Really? Everyone looks at themselves.
‘Believe me when I tell you that you will eat ram,’ Hamza continues, ‘and it is thanks to our friend here.’
His football-free hand rests on my shoulder. I feel like I am the centre of a circle made up of all their bodies. Nafisa quietens down, and Rahama’s face cracks into a smile. Everyone looks at me with bright eyes. Hamza explains that although my Baba is still waiting on Agadez for the livestock he sends south, that does not affect the rams he will sacrifice and give out as Sallah gifts. Ram meat will be in abundance at my house during Eid, and so they can all come, and what do I think? My mouth drops open. I stare mutely at Hamza, wondering why I told him about Alhaji Gumel’s visit. But it is too late. All eyes are on me.
Yes, I hear myself say with a nod. I nod again as if to convince myself. They can all come to my house on Eid. Baba has twenty-five rams that he bought in Dapchi several months back. He’s been feeding and fattening them. They are for family and friends.
‘Godiya da yawa,’ says Celestine Babayaro. ‘Maybe the twenty-five rams can be the general Eid sacrifice for the community. The religion allows that.’
‘Even if it is just one ram that is set aside for us, we will eat our fill,’ Rahama says.
The match is forgotten. The sun sinks behind the dome of the mosque as we leave the football ground. Soon it will be dusk. The mosque’s loudspeakers crank into life.
‘Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim,’ the Imam begins. ‘It is not by force to buy ram for the festival of sacrifice. It is all about the niyyah, the sincere thought of your heart. Even if all you can afford is chicken, Allah is merciful. Whatever you sacrifice, do not forget the poor.’
The loudspeaker goes silent. One of the strikers says he ran into Mallam Abu the day before, and they talked about devaluation. The teacher confirmed that the naira is very weak right now against the CFA, and so there is no incentive for ram dealers in places like Agadez and Matarka to come and sell in Nigeria.
‘Mallam Abu said the naira has lost its purchasing power,’ says the striker. ‘And then you have floods in Niger Republic, and the authorities over there banning livestock exports whenever it suits them.’
We listen to the striker as if it is the teacher speaking.
‘In short, rams are now too expensive for most Nigerian households. Mallam Abu said that what we call Eid being dry is just young people having their first encounter with economic realities.’
‘Economic realities,’ Rahama echoes, as if weighing up the words.
***
As we enter our neighbourhood, I wonder how I will tell my parents that they will feed thirty extra children for Eid. It will be okay, I tell myself. After all, my mother hosts the women in her Adashe group on rotation for Eid; some years the ones from the market, other years the ones from her Madrasa.
‘Why don’t we pass by my Baba’s enclosure, so you can see the twenty-five rams for yourself?’ I say. ‘Mama is also likely to be there at this time assisting with the feed.’
‘Good idea,’ says Hamza. ‘We can give notice that she should expect all of us at your house for Sallah.’
We take a shortcut to the untarred, dusty street where the mudbrick enclosure is located. I walk faster as we approach, and my friends are right on my heels. My head feels light. I hear the revving of an engine and look up. A pall of dust and exhaust fumes balloons out as a truck reverses and starts to pull away. I think I see a glimpse of Baba’s favourite green-embroidered kufi in the front passenger seat as the truck manoeuvred, but I am not sure.
Rahama points. ‘Whose truck is that?’
‘Alhaji Gumel,’ I reply. ‘He transports rams to the south for Baba.’
‘No wonder. I saw white through gaps at the back of the truck. Like rams.’
‘It’s not possible,’ I tell Rahama. ‘No rams yet from Agadez. Also, the truck is not heading in the right direction for the south.’
I half-run the rest of the way to the enclosure, wondering why it’s all so quiet. No baahhh baahhh of a chorus of rams. I almost bump into Mama at the entrance. I look past her to the enclosure. It is empty. The silence is loud. Everywhere dry, except for that heavy aroma of dung. Mama has not seen my face; she smiles broadly as she responds to the salaams of my friends.
‘Sannu! Imagine all of you here to greet me; that is very good, ko? Barka da zuwa’.
‘Where are the animals?’ I blurt out.
‘Oh, those,’ Mama says. ‘Your father could no longer wait o. It is clear that no rams are coming. Better to take these ones to Agadez, to sell for a higher price. For CFA, better gains. There they go in Alhaji Gumel’s truck. Alhamdulillah.’
‘What? Baba is taking our twenty-five rams to Agadez?’
‘Ee—’
I do not wait for Mama to finish. I do not stop to see my friends’ faces. I don’t know what has happened to my feet, but I am running and running after Alhaji Gumel’s truck, shouting that I have promised my friends ram meat for Eid. The truck’s dust trails are on my face and I am running and the whole street is looking at me and I am running. I hear Mama calling after me. I continue to run after Alhaji Gumel’s truck and Baba and the twenty-five rams. My friends are running after me, trying to catch me. I can hear them calling for me to stop. Hamza, Rahama, Nafisa, the two teams. I am not stopping. Tears are rolling down my face in the cloud of dust, and I am running.
‘What matters is the niyyah!’ I hear the striker shout after me. ‘Niyyah is all that matters!’
Hamza, Celestine Babayaro and the striker are catching up with me. I hear the commotion behind me, the commotion all around. I continue to run. The truck turns a corner and disappears. I continue to run.
Molara Wood is a writer, journalist and editor based in Lagos, Nigeria. She is the author of "Indigo", a collection of short stories.
Social media handles: @molarawood (Twitter) / @molara_wood (Instagram)
Photo by Erwin Bosman