Katsina State is a land of diverse peoples: traders, enlightened and educated individuals, and people well-versed in Islamic religious knowledge. It is a land populated by generous people who deeply respect guests, originating the proud moniker: "Katsinawa Dikko, dakin kara kunya garemu, badai tsoroba" (We are the people of Dikko, a house of modesty and honor, but never of cowardice).

The state features numerous neighborhoods belonging to both the common folk and the wealthy.

The G.R.A. Neighborhood

The Government Reservation Area (G.R.A.) is a beautiful neighborhood inhabited by the ultra-wealthy—mostly intellectuals and wealthy merchants. It is a place where people do not wander about aimlessly; everyone drives past in their own vehicles. The smooth, asphalted roads stretch neatly, flanked on both sides by towering trees that stand in orderly rows beside the grand houses. This creates a mesmerizing and captivating view, where the only sound is the breeze rustling through the leaves.

I stood there, marveling at the sheer magnitude of the houses in the neighborhood, shaking my head in quiet wonder, thinking that people who build such colossal structures act as though they will never die.

Suddenly, I slammed on the brakes in front of the most extravagant and stunning house on the street. From its grand gate to its exterior paint color and the surrounding beds of flowers, it was breathtaking.

Hearing a commotion at the massive gate, I stopped to feed my eyes. An elderly man, around 55 years old, was struggling to push open the heavy gate. Just then, a bright red Ferrari zoomed out rapidly, nearly running over the old man's toes. He leaped back just in time, stepping aside to catch his breath.

Seeing that the car sped off without stopping, he shook his head and muttered, "May Allah guide you, Amnah. If only you could first show respect to your elders, your behavior wouldn't be so identical to your mother's—you lack none of your father's traits."

With great effort, he pulled the gate shut and sat down on a small bench nearby, beginning to fiddle with a radio in his hands.

A young lady, no older than 17, rushed out of the massive mansion toward him, shouting, "Baba Madu, did Amnah already leave?"

He quickly put down the radio, stood up, and replied, "Yes, Hajia Amal, she left just a short while ago. Good morning."

She shook her head, rolling her bright eyes, and said, "Baba, please stop greeting me like that; I am your granddaughter, wallahi! I forgot to greet you because I was in a rush. Mamy said she is sending us to the market to buy provisions for Ramadan, but she claims she refuses to rub shoulders with commoners. She prefers the supermarket. But how can you buy items that Mamy gives out as charity during Ramadan from a supermarket?"

Baba Madu smiled and said, "Well, go wherever she wants you to go, Hajia Amal."

She lifted her head, looked at him, and said, "Baba, the items are in bulk—things like maize, millet, sorghum, acha, and wheat. You know those require the open market."

He remained silent, a smile playing on his lips, offering no further comment because he believed their family drama was not his concern.

She turned around and headed back inside the house, looking utterly furious.

Baba Madu watched her, shaking his head, and murmured, "Such is life. Allah created you from the same womb, yet He made your characters so different. You took after your mother, while she took after your father."

She opened the large glass-paneled door directly into the living room. It was a massive space decorated in shades of blue and gold, featuring luxurious couches, drapes, and a thick carpet. The only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and an enchanting, delightful aroma of burning incense.

She sat down, pressing her temples as she felt deep resentment toward the disdain her sister showed toward the common people.

Hearing footsteps coming down the staircase, she quickly lifted her gaze, locking eyes with her mother's beautiful face as she descended, her expression filled with surprise.

Her mother was a stunningly fair-complexioned woman—likely of Fulani or Arab descent—dressed in a magnificent maroon lace gown whose quality screamed luxury. She wore large gold earrings and heavy, stunning, expensive gold rings on her fingers.

Speaking in a sweet voice, she walked down and sat beside Amal, cupping Amal’s chin in her hand and asking, "What's wrong? Didn't you girls go out? I thought I heard Amnah's car leave."

With tears in her eyes, Amal replied, "Mamy, she left me behind! She wanted to go her own way anyway; she never intended to go to the open market. How could she insist on going to a supermarket? If we were going to the market, we would have gone to the Grain Market (Layin Yan Awo)—they have fresh, quality goods there, unlike supermarkets where items sit on shelves for years because that isn't where they belong."

Mamy fell silent, her face darkening. After a long pause, she reached for her phone, dialed a number, and brought it to her ear while breathing heavily, tapping one red-henna-stained foot against the floor. Upon hearing the call connect, she spoke in a voice burning with intense anger:

"You have done well; you've done exactly what your mind and heart dictated! But wallahi, let me tell you: if you bring back old goods for me to give out as charity, you will regret it! Because I prefer to give away what I can eat myself. Foolish girl, you are a woman, yet you despise the poor—yet you don't even know where marriage will take you, blockhead!" She hung up abruptly.

About 30 minutes later, they heard the front gate open. Mamy hardened her expression, turning her attention back to her phone to scroll through it.

Ten minutes later, the door opened with a soft Islamic greeting (Salam). Recognizing the importance of the greeting, Mamy responded without even looking up.

Mashallah was the word that escaped my lips when my eyes landed on a breathtaking young woman, no more than 22 years old. She was exceptionally fair—just like Mamy—with mesmerizing, heavy-lidded eyes that looked as though she were sleepy. Deep within her pupils, a golden-brown sparkle shone. She had a high, straight nose, full pink lips, and a top-tier beauty. She was tall, moderately full-figured, with an exceptionally captivating shape—full breasts and wide, curvaceous hips. She wore a brown, rhinestone-studded abaya that clung to her body, matching brown Toms shoes, and a brown handbag.

Slowly, she walked into the living room, her eyes fixed on her mother, holding a medium-sized calabash bowl (kula) in her hands.

She sat down right beside her mother and said, "Mamy, are you angry with me? I didn't even go to the market; I went to Nene's house because she prepared chicken dambu for me, and since she was about to go out, I went and came back before Amal was even ready. But you are already shouting, Mamy, without listening! Did this little girl cause trouble between us?" She finished by shooting a glare at Amal.

Amal poked out her lower lip, snuggling closer to Mamy.

Mamy lifted her head upon hearing this, softening her expression as she said, "You always do things your own way, Amnah. I know you too well; wallahi, you would do even worse!"

She stroked Amnah's hair, pouting slightly as Amnah said, "Mamy, you should just let Abba furnish this house with servants who will do everything for you, but you refused. Yet for us, how can you expect us to go to the open market to buy provisions? Rice or drinks would be fine, but to be seen going to the grain market? Such an appearance does not befit us!" She finished calmly, as if she hadn't just thrown a fit.

Mamy stared intently at her, a multitude of thoughts running through her mind concerning her beloved daughter. She shook her head and said, "Put that calabash of meat down and get going. If you won't go, give me back my money! As for servants, I don't want them—do you want me to spoil you so that when you are sent to your husband's house, you get chased back because you don't know how to do anything?"

Amnah poked out her lower lip and said, "I hope my own future home is well-supplied with modern conveniences. At the very least, I want to see more than ten people under my command, serving me while I pay them so that if any duty needs to be done, there is someone rushing to execute it because it is their job."

Mamy scoffed with irritation, biting her lip.

Calmly, Amnah stood up, adjusted her hijab, grabbed her handbag and car keys, jingled them, and walked out without a word to Amal.

Amal didn't want to let it slide, so she quickly stood up, threw her scarf over her shoulders, and said, "Mamy, we'll be right back."

Mamy offered a brief prayer for their safety while lounging across the living room sofa, tapping away on her phone and pressing it to her ear. After a short pause, the call was answered.

She let out a sigh of relief and said, "There is a problem, Hajia Lubna. A massive problem, wallahi! Amnah's attitude terrifies and shocks me. She refuses to mix with the poor; she thinks rendering service to them beneath her. She hates interacting with commoners or going where they go. She views the poor as beings created solely to serve and be dismissed, or people who will risk their lives for a little money. Hajia Lubna, I think it is time I sit her down and straighten things out..." She sighed again and added, "Alright, see you later," before hanging up.

Amnah's Trip to the Market

As soon as they stepped outside, Amnah got into her car, rested her head on the steering wheel, and let out a heavy sigh. She felt an overwhelming sense of discomfort and indescribable disgust. Just the thought of going where people might touch her flesh—or worse, the way common people lacked manners and might brush against her feet—horrified her.

She quickly blinked her red, bloodshot eyes and glared at Amal, who was just getting into the passenger seat.

With a trembling, panicked voice, Amal asked, "Are you finally at peace now that you're taking me where your heart refuses to go? Wallahi, Amnah, I feel like my breath is about to leave me from the sheer misery I'm feeling. What kind of hearts do you and Mamy have regarding the poor? We have enough money to place a thousand people in this house and pay them well. Amal, look at our father's house, look at the cars we drive, and you expect me to go to the market in this state?" She clenched her fist and struck her knee.

Terror and panic washed over Amal all at once; she had never imagined her sister's snobbery ran this deep, though she now realized Amnah's resistance had a stubborn logic of its own.

Amnah started the car and drove off furiously. Amal glanced at her and then at the gate, letting out a sigh of relief as Baba Madu had already opened it and stepped out of the way.

She screeched out of the yard, flinging the car onto the street. Steering with expert precision, she drove into the bustling town center, with Amal pointing out the directions since Amnah had never been to such a congested area.

Everywhere they passed, heads turned because the convertible top of the car was down.

Amnah let out a sharp hiss and muttered, "Idiots! They're even staring at the car like poor folks have never seen one." Amal closed her eyes and looked away.

Slowly, they rolled through the grand gates bearing the sign CENTRAL MARKET, navigating through until they emerged near the Grain Market (Yan Awo gate).

Amnah hissed yet again, pulled out brown sunglasses to shield her eyes, and pursed her tiny pink lips tightly.

Amal said, "Park right here so we can get out." Amnah looked at her furiously, as if about to snap, but instead pulled up right beside a group of men standing by sacks of millet.

A dignified elderly man stepped forward and asked, "Young ladies, are you looking for millet?"

Looking as though she might snap again, Amnah restrained herself and said, "Yes." Opening her handbag, she pulled out a piece of paper with a short note written in English and handed it to him, considering even speaking to him a waste of time.

The old man turned the paper over, struggling to read it because it was written in English.

She stared at him blankly, realizing he couldn't understand. She let out a sharp hiss, causing him to turn and look at her as he began to speak.

"Babaaaa!"

That single voice pierced their ears, cutting off the old man's words.

Slowly, the old man turned toward a young man dressed in traditional nomadic (buzu) attire. His face was entirely covered by a black turban, his feet clad in cheap slippers. He wore black trousers and a white fabric shirt. Nothing of his face was visible except his sharp eyes.

The old man said, "Habu, take this note to Mai Shadda's shop and tell him to read what is written here, then bring me the details."

The young man paused for a fraction of a second, looked at the man without a word, and then strode off briskly.

I stared at him—he was very tall, with a strong, athletic build of a rugged man. He walked with long, fast strides until he rounded a corner away from the crowd, sat down to read the note thoroughly, tucked it back into his pocket, and hurried back to the old man.

In a rough voice, he reported, "He wasn't there, but I met someone else and had him read it. She needs 50 bags each of millet, sorghum, maize, acha, and wheat. Calculate the total cost and load them into her car," he finished, turning to leave.

A broad smile broke across the old man's face. "Alhamdulillah! Today we just received a new stock, so she'll get everything. Habu, go to the store and help load her car—or did you come with a vehicle, Hajia?" he asked Amnah.

She curled her lip and looked away. Amal quickly intervened, "No, do you have a laborer (d'an dako) who can load them into the car?"

The old man pointed immediately, "There is Habu; he will take them wherever you want."

Amal looked at the young man closely and asked, "Will you load them into the car and follow us?"

He nodded without a word.

Swiftly, he walked over to a grain store and began hauling the heavy sacks onto the back of the car with incredible strength and heroism.

Amnah watched him intensely, wishing that he were her personal servant whom she could command at will, believing he possessed the endurance for hardship.

Once he confirmed the small car's trunk was packed, he returned to the old man and said in a voice that sounded nothing like a nomadic laborer's, "Baba, I'm done. I loaded 50 bags; I'll go and come back for the rest."

The old man nodded briskly. "Good. You earned 5,000 Naira for the ones you just loaded. Since they want about 200 bags in total, you'll make around 20,000 Naira today."

He said nothing, nor was there any sign of joy on his face. He turned, climbed into his rattling old car, and started it up, leaving a trail of smoke behind. People called out to him as Bukar Buzu, but no matter how much they shouted, he only glanced back and raised a hand—none of them had ever seen his face or heard him speak properly, except for the old man.

The Confrontation on the Road

They drove until they reached the heavy traffic in the city center.

Furious, Amnah slammed on her brakes. Seeing this, the laborer stopped his rattling car right behind them.

Outraged, Amnah got out, stormed over to him, and raged: "You absolute blockhead! How could you fill my ears with the roar of that rattling piece of junk? Why couldn't you wait for me to pull away before following me? This is the problem with associating with ignorant, animal-like laborers! You want people to mock my status and assume we're together? You expect me to associate with a dirty wretch like you, you idiot! Mtssss!"

From the moment she started speaking, he didn't utter a word, nor did he show any intention of responding.

Furious, she barked, "Hey, laborer! Are you deaf?"

He remained silent, staring ahead at the road.

She let out a long hiss, spat in his direction, and walked away.

Slowly, the young man used the edge of his turban to wipe away the spit. He said nothing, simply tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel.

She returned to her car, started it, and rocketed forward into traffic.

He started his vehicle and followed her all the way to the gates of their mansion.

She honked sharply, and Baba Madu opened the gate, allowing her to drive inside. Seeing this, the laborer parked his car right in the middle of the courtyard, refusing to pull up right beside her luxury vehicle. He immediately began offloading the sacks at a rapid pace, finishing in no time and standing by to collect his balance before fetching the rest.

Amal hurried out, walked over to him, and handed him money, saying, "Please forgive earlier. I saw Aunty Amnah yelling at you, didn't I?"

He shook his head dismissively—he just wanted his money so he could leave and avoid her questions.

She handed him the cash, saying, "We're waiting for the rest now."

Without a word, he climbed into his car and tried to start it, but the engine refused to turn over.

Slowly, he got out, crouched down to fiddle with the engine underneath, and tried again—still nothing.

He stood up, pressing his hands to his head, feeling as though he might cry. He was suffering from a maddening hunger and thirst; he had gone straight to the market without eating anything, only to be thrust into this grueling labor.

Amal felt deep pity for him. His face was tightly drawn, the heat was suffocating, and the sky signaled an approaching rainstorm. She quickly hurried back into the living room, went to the kitchen, and found a large plate. She piled it high with rice, stew, chicken pieces, and coleslaw, filled a medium plate with peppered chicken, poured cold tiger nut drink (kunun aya) into a medium flask, grabbed a bottle of water, arranged everything on a large tray, and rushed back outside.

As she stepped out of the living room, she bumped into Amnah, who glared at her.

Amal hardened her expression, pushed the door open, and stepped outside quickly.

She walked straight toward him and said, "Sorry, you've been standing in the sun. Is the car refusing to start?"

"Um," he replied curtly.

He raised his head to look at her, and for the first time, his brow was visible, unlike before when his eyes had been completely covered. Realizing this, he quickly grabbed his turban and wrapped it back around his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.

She smiled and said, "You nomads don't feel heat or heaviness, do you?"

He remained silent, annoyed by her chatter. He hated being cornered and spoken to.

She placed the food before him and said, "Please, sit down and eat. Let me call a mechanic for you, okay?"

He shook his head, maintaining his calm demeanor, and opened his mouth to say, "I am full. May Allah bless you."

Her eyes widened. She clasped her hands together and pleaded, "Please, for the sake of Allah and His Messenger, sit down and eat this food. I beg you! If you don't, Amnah will laugh at me, wallahi. Please, help me out," she finished, tilting her head in a gesture of sincere pleading.

He paused for a moment, then said, "Alright, thank you. But please turn the cooler around so I don't dirty your dishes," he finished softly.

Deep pity touched her heart—he clearly felt he was unworthy of eating from the same grade of dishes they used.

Gently, she said, "No, we are all human beings. It's nothing, just eat."

Feeling his stomach twist with ravenous hunger, he extended both hands, picked up the food containers, placed them in the back of his car, got inside, and sat quietly, waiting for her to leave.

Realizing this, she turned and walked back inside, marveling at his self-restraint and modesty—so unlike typical laborers, who were often brash.

The moment he saw her leave, he looked around to ensure no one was watching except the security guard, who had his back turned. He reached behind his turban, unwound it, and let it fall away from his face.

Slowly, he lifted his head, exhaling a breath.

My heart gave an involuntary leap, causing me to drop my phone without even realizing it...

2. Summary

The excerpt introduces Katsina State and zeroes in on an opulent G.R.A. household. Two contrasting sisters from a wealthy background are portrayed: Amnah, who is deeply arrogant, snobbish, and harbors intense disdain for the common people ("talakawa"), and Amal, who is more grounded and empathetic.

Mamy (their mother) sends the girls to procure bulk charity items for Ramadan. Because Amnah refuses to visit the open market to mingle with ordinary folk, they go to the Grain Market (Layin Yan Awo). There, they hire a mysterious laborer whose face is concealed by a turban, known as Bukar Buzu. Amnah treats him with extreme contempt and verbal abuse, viewing him as subhuman.

Despite Amnah’s cruelty, Amal feels deep sympathy for the hardworking laborer, especially when his car breaks down under the scorching sun while he is exhausted and starving. Amal brings him a generous meal and drinks. Though initially resistant due to his pride and humility, the laborer accepts the food. In the final moments, as he removes his turban in privacy, his true identity—revealed to be a remarkably handsome, fair-complexioned young man—shocks the narrator, leaving her breathless.

3. Comments

• Character Contrast: The author uses Amnah and Amal as foils to highlight the theme of classism and empathy. Amnah represents the corrosive nature of wealth and entitlement, while Amal represents compassion and basic human decency.
• Social Commentary: The narrative sharply critiques how the wealthy elite view and treat the working class (talakawa). Amnah’s dehumanizing language exposes a lack of empathy that is often bred in environments of extreme privilege.
• Atmosphere and Suspense: The introduction of the mysterious laborer (Bukar Buzu) creates romantic suspense. His hidden identity, striking physical transformation upon removing his disguise, and the narrator's visceral reaction successfully hook the reader's interest.

4. Conclusions

• Theme of Humility vs. Arrogance: True dignity lies in character, not wealth. While Amnah believes her status elevates her, her cruel behavior diminishes her humanity. Conversely, the laborer's quiet endurance and self-respect elevate him despite his humble occupation.
• Foreshadowing: The revelation of the laborer's true appearance and the emotional impact it has on the narrator/observer strongly suggests a future plot development involving romance, hidden identity, or a humbling arc for Amnah.

Would you like me to translate subsequent chapters or provide further analysis of the novel's themes?