My unknown culture

It is very early morning in Kano city. The dawn peeps in and drives away the yellow skies of dusk that covered Kano through the night. I am in the ancient city-state that seats the great Emir of Kano. The city is also known as the centre of command for the ancient Fulani tribes who waged war and conquered many civilizations across the northern planes of West Africa. Outside, the city wakes. The hawkers walk around chanting the poetry of their profession. The akara woman whose breakfast stall was right behind my hotel building has begun her daily calls to the nose of all the Kano. She compels us all to her stall with the siren of her frying oil and the tantalizing aroma that beacons every nerve in nose. The stomach grumbles in response. The lyrical buzzing of one million and one motorcycle men permeates the air. Waking up, the furious zig zag buzz of the okadas reminds me of the colony of bees that lived in my backyard, back home in California. It is time to go. I am scheduled to go to some villages in the western parts of Jigawa, a neighboring state, to interview health workers for my master thesis project. It was all part of my grand adventure back home, to rediscover myself and end my 10 years voluntary exile.

The excitement of the coming day chase me out of my bed, and I prepare myself for a day packed full of activities. I am wearing my niqab tight around my head so that the only things visible are my eyes peering out of an ocean of cotton. I am not used to moving with so much clothing covering my body. I am a true Californian and this idea of complete covering is alien to me. However the thoughts of flat planes of Kano giving way to the majestic hills that covered the landscape of Jigawa wipes away all the discomfort my new wardrobe brings.

We have been driving for 2 hours. My assigned driver’s choice of music is both inexplicable and ultimately amusing. Dolly Parton’s “I will always love you” has been playing for the last hour and I fascinated by his complete enjoyment of the music. I never cared for country music yet he thought to play something he thought I might be familiar with. I am touched. As we drove past a particularly big rock, we see a crowd forming down the road. An hawker stops the car and speaks hausa furiously to the driver. I don’t understand what she says but I immediately knew that I am in trouble.

“It is boko haram”, he said, “They are killing people anyone that cannot recite the Quran”.

I knew this moment was inevitable. I had prepared all year for this but I am ready I think to myself.

“We go back” “We go back,” he repeated.