Sunsets Are for Goodbyes

I

AMINA MAKARFI WALKED into our classroom like she owned it; whispers followed in her wake. Her dark skin glowed, and her smirk, domineering. She sat in the front row, removed a book from her bag, and began reading. Her expression was a blend of indifference and defiance. 

“Kai, ta bache ne? ” Bala, one of the big boys in my class asked. Is she lost?

“Why don’t you go and ask her,” I said with a sly smile.

Oblivious to my trap, Bala left his seat to ask her the same question.

Amina continued with her reading, ignoring the figure in front of her.  

“Is it not you I am talking to?” Bala continued in Hausa and snatched the book from her.

Amina looked up at him with disdain.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Bala asked her the question a third time.

“No, I am not. Now, can you give me my book?”  

Bala dropped the book to her table. “You should not be here. This school is for boys only,” he added. 

“If I am not mistaken, this is Government Day Secondary School, not Government Boys’ College.” 

“And you are just a girl,” Bala retorted.

“If you have a problem with my admission, I think you should go to the headmaster and complain,” Amina said.

Bala sucked his teeth and retreated to his seat, humiliated. In the corner of the classroom, some boys laughed at him.

---

“That girl is very proud,” Emeka, one of our friends, said during lunch break. We were sitting under a big dogoyaro tree, our usual spot.

“Let’s not lie; Bala deserved what he got, too,” I said.

Then Emeka said, “But what about Collins? All he did was ask if she needed help with schoolwork. Do you know what she said?” 

“What?” I asked.

“Boys are a distraction, but thank you,” Collins said, poorly mimicking Amina’s voice, which made us all laugh. 

Not too long after, we saw Amina coming toward us, and as she passed in front of us, Emeka said, “Nwada akwụkwọ,” and we all burst into another round of laughter. He had called her a chicken in Igbo. She looked back at us, confused. Her eyes and mine met, and guilt ran through my spine in that instant.

“She is such a peacock. All because her parents are rich,” Collins said.

“Her parents are rich?” I said. I barely knew anything about her. 

Then Collins told us she was the daughter of one of the richest men in the Northern Region, Alhaji Abubakar Makarfi. He supposedly owned a conglomerate of companies, and they lived in Lagos for a while before moving back to Kaduna.

“No wonder she is so full of herself,” Ife said after Collins’ story. “I am sure that is why they gave her admission in Form Four.”

“Ba! She could have chosen any of the girls’ schools in Zaria,” Emeka said. “Now, she is the only girl in our class.”

---

Some days after that afternoon, a junior student informed me that Mr Bello, my class teacher, had called for me. When I got to the administrative block, it was still almost empty, as most teachers were yet to arrive school. He appeared to be working on something when I entered his office.

“Sir. You called for me,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Bello said, looking up at me. “Have your seat, class captain.” 

I thanked him and sat in one of the metal chairs in front of his desk. 

“I am sure you know about the new student, Miss Amina Makarfi.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. 

“Unfortunately, I was not present when she was introduced to the class, but I trust she has settled in well?” He reset his moon-shaped spectacles on the bridge of his small nose.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, then. Let me know if she or your classmates need anything. That’s all for now.”

I walked up to Amina during lunch when most of the class had made their way to the tuck shop. She sat in the front seat, as usual, engrossed in reading. I tapped on her table to get her attention and was met with insipid eyes. 

“Hello. My name is Chinedu Irokazie. I am the class captain,” I said, knowing well not to offer her a handshake.

“Okay,” she said and returned to her book. 

“I wanted to see if you were settling in well. Mr. Bello said— ”

“Why does everyone  think I can not take care of myself?” She cut. She seemed to want to say something else, but it never came out.

“All right,” I said. I walked away. My friends had been right about her all this while.

---

With November came a chilling harmattan wind and a huge cloud of hate over Zaria. The nation was on the cusp of political upheaval, and tensions started to mount across the three regions. These divisions had seeped into our classroom, too. Everyone had their own opinions on the history of our country’s multi-ethnicity.

All of us, brimming with half-knowledge and false truths we had heard from our parents, argued over what the root of the whole matter was, which eventually led to riots in the colleges in Zaria a few weeks later, sticks and fists flying as we fought for our respective tribes. Fortunately, the casualties of the riots were minor; there were no deaths, only injuries. The school tuck shop was also set ablaze, so to quell the tension, Mr. Bello had an idea. He divided us into pairs and made us work on an assignment researching the history of certain ethnic groups of the country.

When he announced Amina and I as a pair, we immediately registered our objections. But he merely smiled and said, “I trust the two of you will come to a consensus,” then he turned to the rest of the class. “You should all enjoy your holiday, and I can not wait to see what you all come up with. Goodbye.”

Once Mr. Bello left, some classmates approached me to tease me, wishing me luck with Amina, whom they had now labelled the class witch. Soon, everyone was with their project partners. I sat behind the class, waiting for Amina to make the move, but she seemed determined to ignore me as well.

After a while, I dragged myself to the front of the class and sat in the chair next to her. “We are supposed to talk about the history project,” I said, facing her.

She looked at me and said nothing. And for the first time, it felt like she really was seeing me.

I broke the silence and said, “And I can work alone; no one will know.”

“No,” she said sharply. “There is no way I am entrusting you with my grades.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling. “I just hope you don’t behead me before we are done.” 

“Is that a joke?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Well, that was a poor attempt, um—”

“Chinedu,” I said.

“Chinedu,” she repeated. There was a slight smile on her oblong face.

She then took out a pen and wrote on a piece of paper. “This is my address. Come on Saturday so we can start.” 

“Okay,” I said, taking the note. Then she packed her things and left the classroom. 

“No 12, Ahmadu Bello Crescent, New G.R.A., Zaria City,” I read the note aloud, pocketed it, and returned to my seat.

“How is it that she is nice to you?” Emeka, who had been waiting for us to go home together, asked.

“I don’t know,” I told him, smiling from ear to ear.

---

I rechecked the address on the note to be sure I was knocking on the right gate. After another round of knocking, the gate swung open, and a boy who looked like a male version of Amina appeared.

“Wane ne kike nema?” He asked in Hausa, his hands crossed on his chest.

“I am looking for Amina,” I said.

The boy scanned me from top down, confused. “I am her classmate from school. We want to work on an assignment together.”

“Okay,” he said, letting me in.

We walked toward what I remember as the most beautiful house I had ever seen. The main building was encircled by other smaller duplexes, all pristine white and gold and sparkling in the afternoon sun.

I followed the boy to the back of the main residence, where a garden flourished. Scattered throughout the verdant expanse were concrete chairs, offering respite beneath the shade of towering orange trees. The garden was a testimony to the Makarfis’ meticulous pruning and extravagant taste.

The boy pointed to a bench and said he would be back soon with Amina, and then he disappeared inside the house. Once he was gone, I observed the environment better. I tried to identify some of the flowers in the garden.

Amina showed up a few minutes later wearing a red boubou and a black hijab. She smiled at me. She sat on the bench and dropped a box of cookies and a textbook between us. I adjusted to the edge to keep a distance.

She said she had thought I wouldn’t show up. That she knew she had come off as rude in our previous encounters. And that she had, in fact, only been that way because she was offended. 

“But I did not do anything,” I protested, throwing my hands in the air.

At that moment, her friendly disposition disappeared.

“What did I do?” I asked.

“Let’s start,” she said, fiddling with the book she had brought.

I concurred. “What tribe are we working on?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I suggest something we are sure our classmates won’t choose.”

“What of the Okrika?” I said.

“What is that?” 

“Who,” I said. “The Okrikas are an ethnic group with relations to the Ijaws.” I paused. “They speak Kirikeni-okwein.” 

“Nice,” she said, looking impressed. “How do you know this?” 

“My mother. She is from Okrika. I can speak the language a bit.  And we can always ask my mother and uncle for extra information we can’t find at the University library.”

She opened the cookie box and took a bite. She offered me some, but I declined.

I asked again what I had done to offend her. She was hesitant, so I pleaded, even.

Then she talked about an afternoon in school, where I’d been with my friends at the dogoyaro tree, and Emeka called her a chicken in Igbo.

“You understand Igbo?” I asked.

“Yes. My best friend when we were in Lagos was Igbo. I can speak some.”

“I am sorry,” I said, ashamed to look at her face.

“I have forgiven you,” she said. “I wouldn’t have invited you if not.”

“Thank you.” 

“I just thought you were different from them when I got to that school. You were the only one not looking at me like I did not belong there. Then I saw you laughing at me with your friends, and I thought maybe I was wrong about him.”

“So, do you still think I am like the others?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I guess we will find out,” she said with a smile, placing a hand on my shoulder. It was then that I realised that the space between us had significantly reduced. 

We were closer on the bench now, and she looked more beautiful. I noticed, for the first time, her brown eyes.

She suddenly coughed. Then she said, “So, what do you know about the Okrika people?” 

I began telling her everything my mother had narrated to me, but we were soon distracted by another two girls who seemed at least half Amina’s age and shared an uncanny resemblance with her, running around and toward us, laughing.

“Shi ne saurayin ki?” they inquired continuously. Is he your boyfriend?

“That is Zahrah and Zaria, the devil’s spawns in this house,” she said, chasing the twins away.

“You are no fun,” they said, leaving us in the garden again. I was amused and asked how many siblings she had.

“Four from my mother: me, Khalid and the twins. And a hundred other step-siblings, I guess. I have lost count.”

We both laughed.

When we fell silent, I realised that time had been far spent.  The sun had started to set into the clouds.

“I have to go now,” I told Amina. “Sabon Gari is far from here.”

“Okay. When are we going to continue?” 

“Will you come to my house instead?” I blurted out. Amina seemed surprised by the suggestion. “It would be easier to interview my mother and uncle together, and you won’t have to worry about your sisters.”

“Okay, I think that sounds good,” she said with a smile.

I scribbled my address on a piece of paper and handed it to her. 

“All right,” she said and squeezed my hand. I hadn’t realised we were holding hands until then.

---

II

I WAS FAST asleep in my bed when Amina arrived. It was my sister who woke me, saying my girlfriend from school was in the living room. I sprang up, put a shirt on quickly, and rushed into the living room where Amina and her brother, Khalid, were waiting.

“Hi,” I said, waving.

“Hi,” she replied, giving me a strange look.

“Sorry, I was asleep,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I’ll find a football field around here,” Khalid said and exited the living room.

“Sorry, my father wouldn’t let me leave the house without someone coming along,” Amina said.

“I understand.”.

“What is understandable about that? I can take care of myself.”

“I understand your perspective, and I understand his, too. There are people out there with bad intentions.”

“You mean, ‘men.’”

“True,” I said, unsure of what else to say.

“Is your mother around?” Amina asked.

“No, no. She’s not back from the market yet. I didn’t know you were coming,” I said.

She nodded.

We both fell silent, not knowing what to say to each other. She kept looking at the door as if expecting someone to enter. Realising she might not be comfortable with me in the living room, I suggested we go for a walk. She agreed.

---

The scorching afternoon sun beat down on our skin as we continued under it. Our hands soon intertwined on the busy streets of Sabon Gari, small container shops popping up like mushrooms on every corner.

“So, I have a question,” Amina said.

“Okay,” I said, a little anxious.

“What is the most romantic thing you have read that you want to do?”

“If I ever fall in love, I want to watch the sunset with that person on a hill, hands entwined like our hearts.”

“That is beautiful.” 

“Yes, it is” “What is your favourite book?” I asked.

“Little Women by Louisa May Alcott.”

“Hmm, that explains a lot.” 

“What do you mean by that?” She said. 

“You remind me so much of Josephine March.” 

“I do? You have read the book, too?”

“Yes, I have. You are very opinionated like her. And you do not take rubbish from boys. ”

“Maybe boys should stop bringing their rubbish to me then,” 

“You know what they call you in our class?” I asked her.

“The class witch, right?”

 I nodded.

“Tell me, how is it that I am a witch when all they do is provoke me all the time.” 

“I understand you. Honestly, I do. People like Bala are super annoying, but I feel you should know that by now and not let them get to you. For peace, you should just try to be nice to them.”

Then Amina frowned.

 “Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

“It’s all right, let’s go back to your place. Your mother should have now returned.” 

The walk back home was silent. And just like Amina had surmised, Mama was back from the market. I left Amina in the living room while I talked to my mother in the kitchen. 

“I will join you soon,” she said. “Give this to her while you wait.” She stretched a bowl of okpa to me.

“No need, Mama. She ate before coming.” I dropped the bowl of okpa on the table.

Amina was writing in her notebook when I entered the living room. She looked up and saw me, her signature frown plastered on her face. 

“I am sorry, Amina. Whatever I said was wrong; my intentions were good,” I apologised.

“I refuse to look stupid just to suit the ego of boys. If they feel threatened by my existence, I will not dim my light. In sha Allah, I hope they go blind.” 

“Okay,” I said. Just then, my mother entered the living room with the bowl of okpa I had dropped on the kitchen table. 

“Good evening, ma,” Amina said.

“Good evening, my daughter. My son tells me you have questions for me.” She sat in the cane chair across from us.

“Yes, ma,” Amina answered, turning to me, “We do.” 

“No problem. While we discuss, you can eat some okpa I made myself,” Mama said proudly, shifting in her chair.

We sunk into our seats and began the interview. My mother’s eyes sparkled as she recounted tales of her people and their traditions. Some stories were familiar, but others were entirely new to me. There were gaps in her knowledge, of course, but she assured us that her brother, a professor at the University of Northern Nigeria, would be able to fill them.

Khalid joined us near the end of the interview. He was covered in sweat and grime, so I directed him to the bathroom. He soon returned, freshened up. Then he and Amina left for home shortly after. Amina and I decided to meet again to visit my uncle for our final interview.

---

Later that day, after dinner, my mother called me to her room and asked me to sit. Then she began telling me the story of how she met my father. Realising where she was headed with the story, I said, “Amina and I are not dating, Mama.” 

“We all have eyes, ‘Nedu. I see the way you look at her. You like her,” she said before I could defend myself. “Now, it’s normal to have emotions. You are growing into a wonderful young man, but I must remind you that there are areas you can’t go to; that girl is one of them. She is a rich Hausa girl from a good Muslim family, and her people will never accept you.” 

“Why?” I asked.

“Ehn-ehn! So you truly like her. Let me tell you, ‘Nedu: such has been the order of things from the beginning. Fire and water have no business together; they are only meant to extinguish and destroy each other.” 

I was left speechless, and for the first time, I realised how Amina felt about the boys and all those rules that favoured men. I  wanted to tell my mother that love was never blind but seen in colours. I wanted to ask her why I should be denied my variety.

That night, I had a ridiculous dream where Amina and I married and became the prime minister and president, respectively. We were on a tour to strengthen the unity among Nigerian citizens.

---

III

ON JANUARY 16^TH, Amina and I presented our history assignment before our class to a round of applause. Mr. Bello gave us the highest score among our peers, calling our project a revelation. This made Amina so happy that she hugged me publicly, to the surprise of the entire class. 

After school, Amina and I began walking home together when we encountered a group of Hausa traders on the road. They were chanting, “Akashe baki!” Death to strangers. Amina and I exchanged confused glances. I wouldn’t understand why they made such a statement until I reached Sabon Gari, where everyone was jolly. When I arrived home, my father was back from work. He was sitting on the cane chair on the veranda, his radio by his side. “Ehihie ọma,” I greeted him.

“Ha! Chinedu, my wonderful son, come and have your seat. Today is a joyous day.” 

“Why?” I asked him, sitting on the bench with him. 

“The old government is gone,” my father said with a wide smile, showing his slightly-brown teeth. “All of them were assassinated by soldiers. There is a new government in town, and the one in power is our kinsman.”

“How is that a good thing?” I asked.

“It is o, and it means more opportunities for us, justice for our people who have been killed over the years, especially in Kano. For so long, we have suffered at the hands of our countrymen. This is the beginning of a new era, my son,” he said with so much joy and hope.

“Won’t that only lead to more division?” I said.

“Ta! You are still very young. You do not understand how things work in this country.” 

“Okay, sir,” I said and left him on the verandah of the house.

---

As predicted, the coup d’état only deepened the country’s divisions. My kinsmen, who had celebrated the assassination of the Northern leaders, became the whipping boy in the hands of angry Northerners. As weeks bled into months, the fear for our lives became our bedfellow. We slept with one eye open, haunted by stories of our kinsmen being burned alive in their homes by rioters. 

The day it happened in Zaria had begun peacefully, and none of us suspected the impending chaos. We went about our daily routines: my parents went to their stationery shop in Sabon Gari market, and my siblings and I went to our respective schools.

When I returned from school, Sabon Gari was ablaze. Shops were engulfed in flames, and smoke billowed skyward like incense rising from a biblical pyre. I ran toward my father’s shop with all the energy in me. Everywhere I looked in the market, people were helping injured people up. I saw a lifeless, charred body and said a quick prayer to God for my family’s safety. 

My parents’ shop, like the rest of the shops in Sabon Gari, was on fire. When I arrived, I scanned the crowd for my parents’ familiar faces but found them nowhere. Hot tears streamed down my face as terrifying thoughts crept into my head. What if they were dead? What if they had been burned alive?

“Oga pikin,” someone called from behind. I turned to see Philip, one of my father’s workers. He was barefoot and half-naked. The first thing I noticed was the blood and then the slash across his bare chest. Whoever had struck him had intended to kill.

“Where is my father?” I asked.

“He went home. He is in a bad state, too,” he said, pointing at the fresh scar on his chest.

---

When my mother told me we were leaving Zaria the next day, I immediately knew what I needed to do. Like many of our kinsmen who had experienced the ravaging of their shops and the terror of the angry northerners, my parents had decided to join the mass exodus of our people back to our homeland in eastern Nigeria.

Later in the afternoon, I crept out of the house dressed in a flowing robe, determined to reach G.R.A in Zaria city. Things were calmer in the G.R.A; it was as if the rest of the city was not on fire. I walked to Amina’s house, and when I knocked on the gate, Khalid opened it, beaming at me like a fool.

“Why are you here?” He asked. “Our father is around.” 

“I need to see Amina,” I said. “It’s very important.”

“What is it that can’t wait until tomorrow when you two lovebirds see each other at school or wherever you usually meet?” 

“Please,” I begged, making sure the desperation was evident in my voice. 

“All right, I will tell her you are here.”I tapped my foot impatiently on the floor as I waited. It felt like forever before the gate opened again. This time, Amina appeared behind Khalid. 

“You would have to be quick. I told my dad she was escorting me to the store down the road. Please don’t make me regret this.” 

“Thanks, Khalid. I promise we won’t take more than thirty minutes.” 

“Okay.” 

With that, Amina and I walked away, leaving Khalid to close the gate and go to his friend’s house. 

“You better have a good reason for bringing me out,” Amina said.

“I do. Trust me.”

“Okay?”

“I am leaving tomorrow,” I told her, studying her face to see her reaction, but there was none.

“Leaving for where?” She asked, the confusion seeping into her voice.

“I am leaving Zaria, Amina. They burnt my parents’ shop today.” 

“I am so sorry.” She looked really apologetic.

“It’s okay. We knew this was coming,” I said.

“You know,” she started. “Sometimes I wonder if we realise that we are all just humans, no matter what tribe, religion or language, humanity is our first identity.” 

We continued the walk in silence until we reached the foot of the hill I was bringing us to. Amina stopped walking, the question in her eyes.

“I know we have only known each other for a few months, but I would be lying if I said knowing you has not been a life-changing experience. ” 

“Hmm, what are you driving at?”

“So the truth is: I like you,” I said before I could stop myself. I could hear my heartbeat fast.

“I like you too,” she said with a smile.

“You do?” 

“Yes, I think that’s obvious.”.

“Yeah, you have been all over since day one,” I joked, and we both laughed, “Remember that day we took a walk around Sabon Gari?” 

“Yes,” she said. “You said you wanted to watch the sunset with someone you loved.”

I nodded. “Can we do that together?”

“Yes,” she said, her smile exposing her cute dimples.

I took her hands in mine as we climbed the hill for the first and final time to watch the sunset together.

---

Anuoluwa Ngozi is a literary polymath and thespian whose work interacts with Africanness, social justice, mysticism and strangeness. A recent graduate of the Department of History and International Studies, University of Ilorin. When not haunted by stories, they can be found daydreaming about brighter days. Find them on X(Twitter) @byanuoluwangozi.