OUR LIVES FLASHED BEFORE US

When I finished my exams on Saturday, September 13, 2025, I was heading to a poetry festival. By chance, I ran into one of my closest friends from boarding school, and since we were going the same way, we hopped into a Keke NAPEP (commercial tricycles popularly called A daidaita here). Everything was fine until we reached Mandawari, and then I remembered — too late — that Maulud celebrations were still on.

The road was choked with people: men, women, children, all singing praises of the Prophet. The crowd was alive, colourful, endless. It would have been beautiful if not for the fear that slipped in with it. We were in an open vehicle, trapped in the middle of it all. For about forty minutes, we couldn’t move. Right in front of us, a group of boys were smoking a substance, their eyes fixed on us like they had already chosen. Some were pushing people off the road, cornering them to snatch what they could. My friend and I held each other’s hands, whispered prayers, and tucked our bags behind us so they wouldn’t be spotted. My heart was hammering, and for a moment it felt like the street could swallow us.

That’s the thing about living in Kano, especially when you rely on public transport: every day has its own brand of fear. What if I enter the wrong keke? What if today is my turn for “Kawo” — to hand over my valuables in front of knives that glint too close? These thoughts sit with me all the time. The fear is routine. It makes you calculate routes, watch every passenger, be wary of the drivers and pray all the time. The city is alive, yes, but so is the danger. The police were there, but their number was a joke compared to the size of the crowd.

When I finished my exams, I thought the hardest part of the day was behind me, but on that day, our lives flashed right in front of us. We didn’t know whether we would leave safely. All we knew was that we prayed, and God answered.

As narrated by: FATIMA BOYI MAHUTA (KANO, NIGERIA)