Echoes in the Dust

Chapter One

The rhythmic hum of the Keke Napep also called "Maruwa"--the ubiquitous tricycle-jitneys of Nigeria, vibrated through Modupe Hassan's seat as it weaved through the bustling, narrow streets of Gwange District, home to the rural tribe that resided on the outskirts of the Gwange forest. Dust curled up in soft clouds behind them, swirling in the golden afternoon light. The driver, a wiry man with sun-darkened skin, maneuvered expertly between potholes, his hands gripping the handlebars with practiced ease. 

The city was far off, this was the countryside—Maiduguri, ancient and unshaken, pulsed with life despite its scars. Women in brightly patterned wrappers balanced baskets of tomatoes and onions on their heads, their voices rising in haggling tones at the roadside market. Men lounged under the shade of wooden stalls, sipping Zobo from plastic cups, watching the world drift by. A cluster of barefoot children, their faces streaked with dust, dashed past, laughing as they chased a worn-out football down the street. 

A radio crackled in the distance, playing an old Hausa melody, the kind her mother used to hum while cooking. "Her mother."

Modupe inhaled deeply, letting the memory settle before exhaling it away. 

The Keke Napep jerked to a stop. "Hajia, we don reach" the driver announced, turning slightly to glance at her. (We have arrived.) 

She stepped out, brushing the dust from her jeans, and handed him the fare. 

"Nagode," she said instinctively. (Thank you.)

The driver blinked at her, surprised. "Hajiya na jin Hausa?" (Madam, you understand Hausa?)

Modupe smiled. "Ehh, na ji. Mahaifiyata Bahaushiya ce." (Yes, I understand. My mother was Hausa.) 

The man let out a short chuckle, nodding approvingly before speeding off, leaving her at the edge of the village. 

She turned and looked around her.

Gwange lay ahead, a cluster of traditional mud-brick houses, their walls sunbaked into shades of deep ochre. Smoke curled from a few scattered cooking fires, and the aroma of frying mosa mixed with the scent of dry earth. 

Beyond the huts, an open field stretched towards the horizon, dotted with herds of cattle, their curved horns catching the sunlight as they grazed lazily. Young Fulani boys, dressed in loose kaftans, waved small sticks, guiding the animals toward a watering hole where a few wiry goats lapped at the muddy water. 

Chickens scratched at the ground near the entrance of a homestead, pecking at leftover grains. A woman squatted nearby, pounding millet in a wooden mortar, her rhythmic strokes blending with the distant calls of the muezzin signaling the approaching Asr prayer. 

A sudden burst of laughter rang out as a group of children ran past, kicking up dust as they chased one another around the huts. One of them, a little girl with neatly plaited hair, stopped to stare at Modupe, eyes wide with curiosity. 

"Kei! Malama ya zo!" she called excitedly. (Hey! The teacher has come!) 

From the shaded veranda of one of the houses, Mallam Ibrahim emerged, his lean frame draped in a faded blue kaftan. A white turban rested atop his head, its loose ends fluttering slightly in the warm afternoon breeze. His deeply lined face bore the marks of a man who had seen much, his sharp eyes peering curiously at the unexpected visitor. 

"Ah, Malama," he greeted, his voice rich with age and authority. "So, you are the one who has come to ask about old stories?" 

Modupe smiled and dipped her head slightly in respect. "Yes, Mallam. I have heard whispers of a tale… an old story passed down through your people. They call it "God's Sling Pebble." 

At the mention of the name, a flicker of something—hesitation, perhaps even fear—crossed Mallam Ibrahim's face. He glanced briefly at the children still playing nearby before stepping down from the veranda. 

"This story, ah…" he exhaled, rubbing his palm over his graying beard. "It is not just a story, Malama. It is a warning." 

A gust of wind stirred the dust at their feet, carrying with it the faint scent of burning wood and roasting maize. 

"Come," he gestured, leading her toward a shaded area beneath an old baobab tree, its thick roots rising like ancient veins from the cracked earth. 

They settled on woven mats spread beneath the tree's expansive canopy, the shade offering relief from the afternoon heat. A young boy approached silently, setting down a wooden tray with a steaming pot of kunu before scurrying off. 

Mallam Ibrahim poured a small cup and passed it to her. "Drink, and I will tell you what my grandfather once told me." 

Modupe wrapped her fingers around the warm cup, the fermented millet drink earthy against her tongue. She leaned in, her recorder discreetly tucked in her lap. 

Mallam Ibrahim took a slow sip before beginning. 

----

"A long, long time ago," he started, his voice lowering as if speaking too loudly might awaken something, "there was a traveler. A nomad who wandered far beyond his people's lands. One night, while returning home, he saw a fire in the sky." 

Modupe nodded, familiar with this part of the tale. She had come across variations of it before—of a great "burning stone that fell but did not break the earth". But here, now, hearing it from the lips of someone whose family had carried this story for centuries, it felt different. 

"The man ran," Mallam Ibrahim continued. "He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, his lips trembling with prayer. But when he told his people what he had seen, they did not believe him. 'You have drunk too much burukutu, they laughed. But he knew what he saw. A great fire, and yet… no sound of thunder, no shaking of the ground." 

He paused, his gaze drifting toward the cattle in the distance, their slow movements unbothered by the weight of history. 

"My grandfather said that the traveler's words were forgotten… but the land did not forget. That place, Malama, it is not like other places. The animals do not graze there. The trees grow in strange ways. Some say that even the winds speak differently when you are near." 

Modupe felt her pulse quicken. Signs. Markers. Anthropological red flags that hinted at something significant, something real. 

"Where is this place?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even. 

Mallam Ibrahim exhaled, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. "You are asking questions that should not be asked," he muttered. "This is why those before you have left empty-handed." 

Modupe leaned forward. "But I have not left yet, Mallam." 

A long silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, Mallam Ibrahim raised his hand and pointed eastward, beyond the village, past the fields, toward the shadowed outline of a distant forest. 

"If you truly wish to find the Sling Pebble, Malama, then that is where you must go." 

Modupe followed his gaze, her heart pounding. 

The legend wasn't just a story. 

It was waiting for her. 

As Mallam Ibrahim speaks of the nomad's sighting, he hesitates, lowering his voice. 

"You are not the first to seek the sling-pebble, Malama," he says, his eyes shadowed with memory. 

Modupe leans in. "Who else?" 

Mallam Ibrahim sighs, rubbing his knees. "My grandfather spoke of a man. Alhaji Musa Wada. A scholar, respected, well-traveled. He was not a man of foolish tales. But he went searching… and never returned." 

The wind shifts carrying the distant sound of cattle lowing. 

"When they found him," Mallam Ibrahim continues, "his body lay near the old forest, untouched by scavengers. But in his hands… was something strange." 

Modupe hesitated. She leveled her gaze at Mallam Ibrahim and asked, "What was in Alhaji Wada's hand when he was found?" 

Mallam Ibrahim's face remained unreadable, but his fingers twitched slightly against his robe. For a moment, he said nothing, only looking past her toward the distant horizon, where the forest loomed like a silent sentinel. 

"There was nothing," he finally replied, his tone flat. "Only the ramblings of a man who wandered too far." 

Modupe frowned. "But rumors of some sort of map or guide—" 

"It is late, Malama," he interrupted gently, straightening his back with a tired sigh. "You have heard enough stories for one day." 

The dismissal was clear. He turned away, adjusting his turban as he shuffled toward his homestead. 

Modupe exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of unspoken truths pressing against her. She gave a small nod, murmuring, "Nagode, Mallam," before stepping back toward the road, her mind racing.

Modupe sighed, disappointment settling in her chest as she adjusted her bag. Mallam Ibrahim had given her no new leads, only the same vague warnings about the God's Sling Pebble that she had already come across in old academic records. Perhaps, she thought, the story was truly just that—a story.

She turned toward the road, intending to find a Keke Napep back to her lodge, when a raspy voice called after her. 

"Kei, Malama!" (You, madam!)

Modupe turned to see an old woman, her frame bent with age, seated on a wooden stool near the entrance of a mud-brick hut. A weathered blue veil draped loosely over her head, revealing a face carved by time and hardship.

As soon as the woman spoke, several men nearby hissed in irritation. A few muttered curses in Hausa, spitting on the ground as they walked away. Modupe caught snippets of their grumbling—something about "mata maras kunya" (shameless women) and "tsohuwar mayya" (old witch).

The old woman ignored them. Instead, she beckoned Modupe closer with a crooked finger.

"You are looking for something," she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. "Something no one wants to speak of."

Modupe hesitated, glancing at the disapproving men before stepping forward. "Yes… you know about the Sling Pebble?"

The woman nodded slowly. "Not just the tale. The man who searched for it. He was my grandfather. Alhaji Musa Wada."

Modupe's breath hitched. This was it. A real connection. 

The old woman reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a delicate, crumbling parchment, wrapped in what looked like goatskin. She placed it in Modupe's hands with deliberate care. "He left this behind. Before he died, raving like a madman near the forest." 

Modupe unwrapped the parchment, her fingers shaking slightly. The ink had faded, but she could still make out the script—Arabic… but strange. Ajami, she realized. Ancient Hausa written in Arabic letters.

She squinted, carefully reading the worn-out text. One phrase stood out immediately:

"The earth swallows light, yet the sky trembles beneath it."

Modupe swallowed hard. A riddle… or a warning?

Before she could ask anything else, heavy footsteps shuffled behind her.

She turned to see Mallam Ibrahim standing there, his usually composed face tight with anger. His knotted fingers clenched the edge of his robe as he stared at the old woman.

"No…" he muttered, voice thick with disbelief. His next words came out sharper, cutting through the thickening tension. 

"You did not dare.!!"

The old woman met his gaze without fear, her lips pressed into a thin, knowing smile. She said nothing more.

Modupe quickly tucked the parchment into her bag, sensing she had overstayed her welcome. She murmured a polite "Nagode, kakanni" (Thank you, grandmother) before turning toward the road.

The sun hung low in the sky as she stepped onto the roadside, scanning for a Keke Napep to take her away from "this place of whispers and buried truths."

But as she waited, her fingers absentmindedly traced the old parchment in her bag. 

She had come looking for a legend. "Now, she held its proof."

As Modupe stepped away, tucking the parchment safely into her bag, she felt the weight of Mallam Ibrahim's gaze still on her. The old woman remained seated, silent under his scrutiny, but there was something unspoken between them—something long buried and now unearthed.

Just as Modupe reached the roadside, raising a hand to flag down a passing Maruwa, Mallam Ibrahim's voice rang out behind her.

"You choose to meddle in what we do not understand?"

She turned slightly, catching the dark shadow in his eyes. The other villagers had gone quiet, their movements slowed, as if waiting for something unseen to unfold.

Mallam Ibrahim exhaled through his nose, his voice low, heavy with warning.

"You will not return."

The finality in his words sent a chill up her spine.

Modupe held his gaze for a moment longer before stepping into the keke, her pulse quickening as the vehicle rumbled to life, pulling her away from the Gwange Tribe and their secrets.