Chapter 7: Whispers in the Wind

The market was alive with movement. The scent of dried pepper and suya smoke mixed with the crisp morning air, and the sound of traders calling out their prices filled the space between stalls. Women in brightly patterned hijabs balanced trays of groundnut pyramids on their heads, children darted between goats, and men haggled over sacks of millet and rice.

I walked through the crowd with Musa and Abdul, each of us carrying small leather pouches with money from our mothers. Our task was simple—buy spices and millet, then return home. Yet, I already knew the day would be anything but ordinary.

We stopped by a vendor selling kuli-kuli, and as Abdul was about to pay, a voice drifted through the noise—not Hausa, not Arabic, but something different.

"…Yes, you can greet them in Hausa, but always remember to speak with kindness. Ka ce, 'Sannu da aiki.'"

I turned my head toward the sound. Near the newly built church, a tall man stood with two others, speaking Hausa but with an accent. His clothes were simple—a loose kaftan, his sleeves rolled up as though he had been working. His face was familiar.

"Who is that?" I asked.

Musa glanced up and frowned. "One of the missionaries. I heard his name is Daniel."

Abdul scoffed, stuffing a handful of kuli-kuli into his mouth. "They think they can teach us our own language?" He shook his head. "Foolish people."

But I wasn't listening. Something about Daniel intrigued me—not because he was a missionary, but because he didn't look like one. He wasn't dressed in a grand robe like an imam, nor did he wear the stiff garments of a wealthy trader. He looked… ordinary. Yet the way he spoke, calm and sure, made me curious.

We finished buying what we needed and were heading back when Daniel suddenly turned and caught my gaze. I almost looked away, but before I could, he smiled and greeted us first.

"Sannu da aiki," he said, nodding toward our baskets. "Kai, the market is always busiest on Thursdays, ba haka ba?"

Abdul tensed beside me, his fingers tightening around his pouch. Musa, always the friendlier one, answered, "Eh, especially before Jumu'ah prayers."

Daniel's smile widened. "You speak well. Are you all students?"

"We attend the madrasa," Musa answered cautiously. "We study the Qur'an."

"That is good," Daniel said. "Seeking knowledge is a noble thing. Even our Prophet Isa—Jesus—was known as a great teacher."

Abdul's jaw clenched. "We do not follow your Isa."

Daniel didn't react with offense. Instead, he nodded, as if expecting the response. "I understand. We all walk different roads, but sometimes, those roads cross."

Something about the way he said it made me shift uncomfortably. I was about to speak when a woman carrying a heavy basket nearly stumbled near us. Without hesitation, Daniel reached out, steadying her load. She muttered a quick "Nagode," and he smiled before stepping back. It was a simple act, yet it stayed with me.

As we turned to leave, curiosity won over me. "Where are you from?" I asked.

Daniel's eyes flickered with something unreadable before he replied, "I once lived in Kano before moving here."

I frowned slightly. "Why did you come here?"

He hesitated for only a moment before smiling. "Sometimes, we don't choose where the wind carries us."

The words lingered in my mind long after we walked away.

---

The madrasa was quieter than usual, the boys reciting verses in hushed tones as the imam prepared his lesson. But my mind wasn't in the room—it was still at the market, still with Daniel's words.

When we had a short break, Abdul turned to me. "Nasir, you were quiet today."

"Just thinking," I admitted.

Musa grinned. "Thinking about the missionary?"

Abdul shot him a glare. "Do not joke about such things. If people hear you, they will say you are listening to them."

Musa rolled his eyes. "A man greeted us, spoke a few words, and helped a woman. How does that make him a danger?"

Abdul leaned closer. "That is how it begins. First, you talk to them. Then you listen. Then you start questioning, and before you know it, you have left the truth." He turned to me. "Nasir, you saw him too. Do you not agree?"

I wanted to. I wanted to nod and let the conversation pass. But something inside me hesitated.

"I don't know," I finally said. "He didn't try to convert us. He just… spoke."

Abdul's expression darkened. "That is exactly why he is dangerous."

---

That night, as I helped Baba prepare for Isha prayer, his voice came low and firm.

"I hear you met the missionaries today."

I stiffened, carefully placing the prayer mats on the ground. "I only spoke to a man at the market."

Baba's gaze was sharp. "That is how it begins, Nasir. First, a conversation. Then, a seed of doubt. And before you know it, you are lost."

I swallowed, staring at the woven mat beneath my fingers. "Baba, have you ever spoken to them yourself?"

Silence stretched between us. Then, his voice came quiet but firm. "A man does not need to taste poison to know it will kill him."

I lowered my head, pressing my lips together. The conversation was over.

But inside me, a fire had been lit. And no matter how much I prayed that night, I could not put it out.