Hauwa sat with her mother outside the hut. Her sister was cradled in her mother’s arms. She had just finished suckling. The air in the village was calm. There was no moon to peer at.

Her father had gone into his own hut to rest after a hard day on the farm. Baba, had not been happy lately. She had heard him shout at the damage to his crops. He, came in with a sad face all the time.

She did not like it when Baba was not happy. He would not throw her up and call her pet names. She would not be able to eat from his food. Her brother, Danjuma would tell her to leave him alone.

Mama, was also feeling the strain on the farm. She was not as happy as she used to be. The whole village felt different. She wanted the joy that used to inhabit their community. Young as she was, it touched her.

Mama said to go inside. It was late. They put off the lamps and went in.

At some point she woke up and felt like peeing. She did not want to wet herself. Baba would reprimand her. She opened the door quietly to go to the “bayi”.

She was there when she heard the noises. She saw men attacking the village with cutlass and arrows. She heard cries. She heard gunshots. She heard pleas for mercy. She hid in the corner. Someone pushed the door open. Peered inside and went off.

She waited there afraid and confused till the day broke. There was a smell that came through. Burning and putrid. She made her way through what was littered with corpses.

People were huddled. Someone recognised her and swept her up. It was Aunty Aisha from the next village. She started to cry from relief and fear.

They were packing things to go to a shelter. She did not see Baba, Danjuma, Mama and Hadiza. She started to cry again. The women wailed loudly. The men swore vengeance.

She saw people being brought out with gashes on their torsos. She saw one that looked like her mama, with a slit through her body. She saw the lifeless body of Hadiza with her head twisted.

She had become an orphan. She did not know why. Her life had taken a new shape at an early age. The madness had twisted her life.

The papers would report the next day that 16 people had been killed in her village from an attack. No one would mention her name as a survivor, the beauty of mama’s laughter, the joy Danjuma took from playing in the fields. Baba was just a number.

Politicians would debate the $1b release from the safety of their abodes. There wouldn’t be an enquiry. It would be mass burial for those that died. It would be sources of arguments on social media.

The way we are!

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