School.

“Uwani Halilu?”

 “Present, sir.”

“Baraka Lado?”

 “Present, sir.”

“Sahura Ayuba?”

 “Present, sir.”

“Indo Malam Hamza?”

 “Here I am, present, sir, I’ve come…”

The teacher quickly turned to look at her, shocked by the way she responded, then pulled off the glasses that clung to his face and fixed his stern eyes on hers, as if to see whether she would fear him. But instead, he found her glaring back as though she might eat him alive. In anger, he shot her a hard glare and barked:

“You! Are you out of your mind?!”

Indo stood up, adjusting her hijab, which was crumpled and torn from the neck down to her chest, and replied:

“Take it easy, Mallam.”

“Better get back to your seat, foolish girl.”

He said this without even looking at her. She returned to her seat, scratching herself restlessly, clearly fighting off lice the way she carried on. When he finished roll call, he stood and left, waiting until the period was up so he could return to teach them English—a subject they hardly understood a word of. If he explained in Hausa, they would respond eagerly with questions, but in English alone, they would just stare at him as though to swallow him whole.

After about five minutes, he returned with both large and small books in his hands. Entering the classroom, he found them in noisy chatter. At the far end, he spotted Indo wrestling with a boy named Lurwanu, her hijab tightly tied around her waist as they fought. He grabbed his cane and stormed over. The other pupils scattered at once, leaving Indo and Lurwanu alone. He lashed Indo first, since she seemed to be the aggressor, then whipped Lurwanu, saying:

“You! Let go of her, stupid boy!”

The sharp sting of the cane made her release him—though she hadn’t intended to let go until she drew blood, just as she had sworn at the start of their fight. Watching them, Mallam Sadeeq demanded:

“What started this fight?!”

Lurwanu’s eyes brimmed with tears as he said,

“Mallam, it was her…”

But before he could finish, Indo cut in:

“Mallam, wallahi he’s lying, he’s the one who started…”

To protect himself from her accusation, Lurwanu protested:

“Wallahi Mallam, she’s lying, I only placed my…”

“Billahilladhi, Mallam, it was him who—”

“Keep silent or else! Stupid children!”

They didn’t catch the meaning of his English, but his tone—and especially his final words—made it clear he was scolding them, so they fell silent, staring at his moving lips. Indo, however, only thought he looked so sweet she could eat him up.

He returned to his desk, sat down, and beckoned them forward. As they came, Indo kept shoving Lurwanu aside until they reached his table.

“You, what happened between you and her?”

“Mallam, it was her. We were sitting quietly when she started kicking me. I told her to stop, but she refused. That’s how the fight began.”

Before he allowed her to speak, Indo burst out, glaring at Lurwanu, saliva foaming at her lips from anger:

“Curse your father! I swear to God, Mallam, he’s the one who attacked me from behind! I only defended myself. He’s arrogant and he insults me.”

“That’s enough! Both of you sit down. I don’t want to hear another word of nonsense.”

They returned to their seats. Indo, whose desk was normally at the back, was called forward by Mallam Sadeeq. He ordered the pupils in front to make space, forcing her to sit there. She did so, full of resentment, realizing the teacher clearly disliked her and would never take her side in anything.

The lesson ended, leaving the class exhausted. He himself was frustrated that they understood no English unless he switched to Hausa. After dismissal, he mounted his motorcycle and rode home. After bathing and praying Zuhr, he sat down, picked up his phone, and called his twin brother. Luckily, the call connected.

“Hi, twins. How’s home? How’s work?”

From the other end, his twin answered in a soft, almost whispering voice:

“All is fine. How are the students? I hope it’s going the way you want?”

Scratching his head as if his brother could see him, and licking his lips, Sadeeq said:

“Nope! Not at all. The whole school is a mess. They made me a form teacher, but honestly, unless I explain in Hausa, I can’t get through to them. Sometimes I don’t even know how to translate a single word.”

His brother burst out laughing, knowing it would annoy Sadeeq, who hated joking about education. He teased:

“Come on, Sadeeq. Remember, even your girlfriend is there. Relax—you know village folks like people quickly. Enjoy it. Just make sure you bring us a wife from there!”

Click! Sadeeq ended the call abruptly, annoyed at his brother’s mockery. Instead of encouragement, Abubakar only gave him trouble. Abubakar smiled to himself, knowing his brother must be fuming. He planned to visit and apologize soon, just to see how he was managing.

---

Some hours later, Sadeeq was hurrying to the mosque, afraid of being late. Just as he reached a corner, a bucket of dirty water was dumped over him, soaking his trousers. He glared at the wall in frustration, but before he could react, he found himself surrounded by people—some of them even his students.

“Subhanallah! Mallam Sadeeq, what happened to you?”

Before he could answer, another told a boy,

“Quick, go inside that house and ask them for a bucket of clean water.”

The headmaster, standing nearby, asked in concern:

“What happened, Mallam Sadeeq?”

Sadeeq barely restrained his anger as he replied, pointing at his soaked clothes:

“I was just passing by to the mosque, and without any care, they threw their filth out as though no one mattered. They’ve wasted my time and even cost me my congregation prayer.”

“Ah, Mallam, I’m sorry. You know this is our village. That’s how they are. Please, forgive them.”

At that moment, the boy returned—with Indo of all people—carrying the bucket together. She tilted it slightly as she approached, saying,

“Who needs water from the bucket?”

The moment her eyes met Sadeeq’s, she quickly pursed her lips and stepped closer, pouring water for him as she exclaimed:

“La ilaha illallah! Mallam Sadeeq, is this really you at our gate today?!”

He ignored her, eyeing the broken, jagged bucket instead. Then he turned to the headmaster:

“Sir, let me just go home. This is only a waste of my time. Thank you.”

The headmaster let him go with a farewell. Others apologized, while Indo called after him:

“Mallam, the water! Should I follow you to the mosque, or should I take it back home?”

He didn’t answer. Indo pouted, muttering as she walked back home that their water had been wasted for nothing.

---

Two days later, Indo still hadn’t come to school. On the third day, she showed up. From the doorway, her presence was obvious—the class roared with noise and laughter. She was sitting on the teachers’ mat at the front, wearing glasses, holding a pencil, one leg crossed over the other, mimicking Mallam Sadeeq.

“Mary Alto.”

“Zuwaira Jamilu.”

“Mansur Bawa.”

The whole class erupted in cheers and laughter, oblivious to his arrival. Indo even stood up, laughing, saying,

“By the Qur’an, this is exactly how Mallam Sadeeq does it.”

“Ahh, Indo!” the class shouted.

Suddenly, silence fell. Everyone turned toward the door, where Mallam Sadeeq stood, face dark as a thundercloud. Indo quickly sat down, back in her usual corner—though when he was in class, she was forced to sit at the front.

The students all rose to greet him nervously, unsure what he would do.

“Good morning, sir!”

He placed the register and books on the desk, signaled them to sit, adjusted his glasses, and fixed his gaze on Indo.

“You! Come here.”

She rose, trembling—no one in the class failed to understand the command “come.” Reaching him, he pointed to a chair beside his desk and said