Chapter 6: A Glimpse Beyond the Familiar

The morning was bright, the air thick with the scent of wet grass and fresh cow dung as I guided the herd toward the open fields. The cows moved lazily, their tails swatting at invisible flies. I tapped my staff against the ground, my bare feet pressing into the damp soil, urging them forward. This was routine. This was normal. But today, my thoughts were anything but settled.

The sun was climbing higher when I first saw it—the new building standing at the edge of the village. My brows furrowed. It hadn't been there last week. The structure was different from the mud-walled homes I had known all my life. The walls were smooth and white, the roof made of corrugated metal that gleamed under the sun. And above the doorway, a symbol I recognized only from stories—a wooden cross.

A church.

I stopped, tightening my grip on my staff. I had heard whispers about missionaries coming to nearby villages, but I never thought they would reach ours. My father had spoken of them with disapproval, almost warning, saying they brought confusion to those weak in faith.

As I stood there, curiosity pulled me closer. Through the open doorway, I saw five people inside—three men and two women, their heads bowed in prayer. But it wasn't their posture that unsettled me—it was the way they prayed. Their voices rose, not in Arabic, not in Hausa, but in a strange tongue that danced through the air in a way I had never heard before. It wasn't a recitation. It wasn't structured. It was… different.

The cows moved ahead without me, tugged by the instinct to graze. I hesitated for a moment longer, then turned away, catching up with them. But my mind remained behind, lingering in that small building, among those people and their foreign words.

---

I tried to push the church from my thoughts, focusing instead on the cattle. The sun bore down on my back as I led them to the grazing fields, the familiar rustling of dry grass filling the air. Everything should have felt the same, but it didn't.

As I sat under the shade of a large baobab tree, chewing absentmindedly on a piece of dried gwanda, my thoughts wandered. Who were those people? What were they saying? What kind of God did they pray to?

I had been raised to believe that Islam was the only path. That the Qur'an held all the truth one would ever need. And yet, those people had looked at peace. Certain, just as we were.

I closed my eyes, muttering verses under my breath, grounding myself in what I knew. But the questions had already taken root, refusing to be buried.

---

By the time I returned home, the village was alive with movement. Women stirred large clay pots of fura da nono, the tangy scent of fermented milk thick in the air. Children chased each other between the huts, their laughter high and sharp. My younger brother, Umar, was among them, his small legs kicking up dust as he ran after a goat. My sister, Aisha, sat beside our mother, pounding millet with steady hands, humming a tune under her breath.

I entered the compound, dusting my feet before stepping into the shade. Baba was seated on his low wooden stool, a bowl of tuwo masara before him. His gaze lifted when he saw me.

"You were gone longer than usual," he said, his tone unreadable.

"The cows wandered far today," I replied carefully, lowering myself onto a mat beside him.

He watched me for a moment, then gestured toward the food. "Eat with me."

I reached for a portion of the steaming tuwo, dipping it into the thick, dark miyan kuka. The taste was familiar—earthy, rich with dried baobab leaves and the spice of ground dawadawa. The warmth of the dish spread through me, yet today, it did little to settle the unease in my stomach.

"I heard there is a new building in the village," Baba said suddenly.

I hesitated, my fingers playing with the hem of my tunic. "Yes, Baba. A church."

His chewing slowed. He set the bowl down. "And you saw it?"

I nodded. "I did."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "They are here to mislead. To bring lies wrapped in kindness. You must not go near that place, Nasir."

I swallowed, nodding again. "I only passed by."

His eyes bore into mine, searching. "Good." Then, after a moment, he added, "A man's faith is like a rope. If you pull too hard, it frays. Do not test yours."

I bowed my head, chewing my lip.

---

That night, sleep did not come easily. I lay on my mat, staring at the open ceiling of our hut. The crickets chirped in a steady rhythm, their sound blending with the occasional hoot of an owl perched somewhere in the trees. A warm breeze rustled through the compound, carrying with it the mingling scents of burning wood and the faint aroma of fried masa from a nearby home.

Tonight was different. My mother had asked me to let Umar and Aisha sleep in my hut instead of hers. They usually curled up beside her, but for reasons she didn't explain, she had asked me to take them in.

I turned onto my side, watching the dim glow of the lantern my mother had left burning. My siblings slept soundly nearby—Umar curled up under a thin sheet, Aisha's soft breathing steady.

I had only looked at the church. Yet it had awakened something in me. A stirring, a curiosity I couldn't shake.

I closed my eyes, reciting the verses I had known since childhood, hoping they would bring me peace.

But instead of calming me, they only made the questions louder.