Stolen Dreams

“YOU HAVE TO dream before your dreams can come true.” This quote by A.P. J. Abdul Kalam has become a sort of mantra for me. 

My hobby is to dream. I stare into oblivion, imagining and drifting far into a future where I would never need to walk 40 kilometres to fetch water from Mallam Abubakar’s well. A future where I exist as the main character, staring into the eyes of little children who look up to me as a healer, only this time, I exist not as a healer but as a paediatrician—this is my dream.

“Hauwa! It is your turn to pass the ball.” Mariam hits me square in the face, forcing me out of my place of comfort to the harsh reality of the present. 

“Welcome back, explorer. I hope you got to Mars this time,” Zainab teased, lifting me off the ground. 

The impact of Mariam’s blow must’ve been enough to throw me to the ground. I looked down at my flowery pleated skirt, now covered in red sand, and suddenly remembered I wasn’t even supposed to be playing with my friends. My mother had sent me out to buy sugar for the Kunu Zaki we were all going to drink for breakfast that morning. 

I committed two or maybe three offences early this morning. The first offence was participating in a game I wasn’t meant to be playing; the second was getting lost in the game. What stopped me from picking up the ball, throwing it to my friends, waving them goodbye, and focusing on the errand? Instead, I not only participated in the game, but I also had to dream. That brief escape lasted about five minutes, I am sure. The ball must have passed to Mariam, who had to throw it five times in the air, ensuring it did not touch the floor; if she succeeded in this venture, she then had to pass the ball over to Zainab, who repeated the same tossing, then Bilikis, Rose and Belema would repeat the same routine of throwing and passing the ball to the next person. That entire round should have taken about ten minutes before the ball would get to my turn. I must have spent approximately twenty-five minutes playing, then five minutes dreaming and still had to walk for another seven minutes before getting to Mallam Yusuf’s store, my actual destination. 

I immediately sprang to my feet. The ever-sympathetic Zainab helped me dust the red earth off my skirt. 

“Mariam, you should appeal to your Baba to send you to that military school you spend all day talking about,” Zainab remarked, directing a cold gaze toward Mariam.

“Well, how was I to know she is as light as a feather? That wasn’t even my best blow,” Mariam retorted. I gently brushed the sand off my buttocks, wore my hijab properly, snatched my black satchel off Zainab’s hand, and bolted to Mallam Yusuf’s shop.

The silence in the room was heavier than the blanket Aunty Rukayat bought for my mother during her last visit to Lagos. All six pairs of eyes stared at me, and I cowardly returned their gaze. 

“Baba, you must send Hauwa to the boarding school in Chibok. Rukayat lives there. If she does not learn to be responsible at her age, how will she learn to raise a family and take care of her children?” Mama broke the pin-drop silence that had settled in the room. 

It was 10 a.m., and nobody had breakfast because I had spent three hours and thirty minutes on an errand that should have taken about fifteen minutes to complete successfully. After my encounter with my friends, I got to Mallam Yusuf’s shop early enough but spent an eternity watching Hajia Ralia extract milk from a cow’s udder. This ritual remained fascinating to me; the relief each cow experienced once the milk was extracted was reflected in a loud Mooooo and an eagerness to leave the site of the extraction. 

Now, it was time to pay for my sins, hence the tribunal I was facing. 

Baba’s furrowed brows carried the weight of his judgement; “Alright, she will go to Chibok next week. You will prepare to take her to your sister’s house before the next term resumes.” I nearly leapt in genuine joy as my heart began an exciting leap! Going to Aunty Rukayat’s house will be my punishment for all the truancy I had put my parents through! This was a merciful penance. Allah is indeed great for this merciful punishment! 

Outwardly, I hid my excitement well, but inside, my heart duelled with my ribcage, leaping for joy. Aunty Rukayat was strict but could tolerate my dreams. She would sit endlessly and listen to my rambles about the future. I would pester her with questions about what it felt like to treat people and care for the sick. Aunty Rukayat was a nurse. She studied nursing at Ahmadu Bello University in Zaria. My excitement was as boundless as the black cotton soil of the Firki swamps of the Southwestern part of Biu. My fate was sealed. 

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FINALLY, THE D–Day arrived. My father woke me up as early as 3 a.m. to advise me. Still very sleepy, I grudgingly left the comfort of my pillow and mattress. The day before had been a busy one; my mother and I had spent the entire day shopping for the requirements of the boarding house. 

My mother had previously travelled three days earlier to Government Girls Secondary School to get the prospectus for the boarding house. In addition to shopping, I had also spent the previous day bidding my friends and playmates goodbye. We had spent about fourteen years of our lives playing, gossiping, running errands and occasionally completing our assignments together. This separation was more difficult than I anticipated. A few tears were shed with promises to write to them often, narrating all about life outside Askira. Askira was a distance away from Chibok, my mother had said.

I stared at the brown, tattered raffia mat in the living room, avoiding my father’s gaze. “Maman na,” he began. That first word sent shivers down my spine. My father only referred to me as his mother when he wanted to appeal to my conscience or when I had been terribly wronged by someone and wanted to exact some form of vengeance. I slowly lifted my eyes to meet his teary eyes. 

“You must not forget whose daughter you are,” he said. “I am not sending you to your aunty as a form of punishment, I am sending you to her because I know she understands you best… You are a great child, a very intelligent one at that.” He paused and stroked my face, “I know greatness lies within you. All I need you to do is focus. You will have a bright future.” Salty liquid brushed over my lips, and I realised I had been crying. I quickly wiped them off and gave my father the tightest hug I had ever given him. Leaving home was not as easy as I thought. My excitement soon became a hollow ache deep within the pit of my stomach. The muezzin’s call for prayers brought us to the present. My father sent me off for the morning prayers with a gentle pat on the cheek.

At 7:45 a.m., neighbours and some of my close relatives came to bid me farewell; my relocation to Chibok was a big deal as indigenes of Askira rarely left their hometown for another city. Mine was even a very uncommon occurrence since people hardly sent their daughters off to school at my age for fear of being corrupted by worldly virtues. Finally, my father strapped my heavy leather bag to the handlebars of his silver-coated motorcycle; he sat balanced on the bike, I sat behind him, and my mother took the rear seat. Everyone waved excitedly as my father turned on the ignition and sped off. Little children ran in pursuit of the bike. I turned back and smiled, waving till the children were gradually replaced by red dust. My father took us to the motor park, where my mother and I would board the next available bus to Chibok. We were in luck, the available bus needed just two more passengers before embarking on the trip. The conductors approached us to collect our box; after payment, my mother and I were quickly shoved into the bus, and our trip commenced. 

The bus was tight and uncomfortable. It was only after the commencement of the trip that I realised I was a co-passenger with a goat! The woman seated beside me had a live goat strapped between her legs. I stared at the goat in disgust. The woman stared at me and laughed. My mother, amused by my reaction, laughed along with her. The bus jerked, bounced and lurched like an eager bull ready for a timid matador. Passengers were tossed in their seats, gripping armrests or the back of their seats to steady themselves. The bus tilted and swayed, causing involuntary shifts in posture and occasional gasps of “Wayoo Allah” or murmurs of discomfort. Loose items rattled; the overall atmosphere was that of discomfort, even for the goat. 

After about three hours, we arrived at Chibok. Aunty Rukayat was at the park to pick us up in her white Toyota Corolla. I ran to meet her and then jumped on her in excitement. I last saw her five years ago, and she had not aged a bit. Her ebony skin glowed, her lips parted in a wide grin revealing deep dimples beside each cheek, and her white teeth shone brightly in stark contrast to her face. She opened her arms to accept my enthusiastic hug while my mother stood back to watch our cheerful drama. Finally, I left the two sisters to hug. They greeted each other warmly, and Aunty Rukayat ushered us into her vehicle. They conversed cheerfully in Hausa while I spent my time looking out the window, surveying this town I had heard so much about. I couldn’t help but pick up a little of their conversation.

“Really… Boko Haram has taken over Bornu this much? Wayoo Allah!” Mother exclaimed.

“Wallahi, if the government does nothing to curb the growing insecurity, doctors, nurses, and expatriates will have no choice but to flee Bornu,” Aunty Rukayat retorted. Her reaction surprised me. Despite being strict, she always had this aura of peace and calm about her. She surrendered all her troubles to Allah and refused to worry about what she could not control. Now, she appeared agitated. “Just last week, six aid workers were kidnapped, and the government has done nothing to rescue these workers, although I heard some traditional rulers are seeking dialogue with these terrorists. All I want is peace, just peace wallahi.” 

My mother frowned, looked down at her sweaty palm and asked: “Do you think this is the right time to send Hauwa to the boarding house, with all this talk of kidnapping going around?”

Aunty Rukayat chuckled, “Government schools are protected by government security personnel. At the entrance, uniformed officers conduct thorough bag checks, and they also had perimeter fences recently reinforced.  Soldiers regularly conduct patrols alongside security teams to ensure the safety of the girls. Don’t worry, Aunty Aisha. Hauwa is safe.”

Just then, we arrived at her quarters. I was mesmerised by the perfect rows of neatly mowed flowers gracing both sides of the compound. The red wildflowers had been chopped into submission and could only be seen within their green cage. Since Aunty Rukayat is still a spinster, we were welcomed by the quiet solitude of her neat living room. Everything was in position. We were served cold drinks of Fanta and shortbread biscuits to quench our growing thirst and hunger while she set the electric burner to prepare rice and stew with chicken. We ate, chatted and immediately went to bed since the next day would be a big day for me; the day I would become a student at Government Girls Secondary School, Chibok.

“You have to dream before your dreams can come true!” the principal declared, “We do not kill dreams here, we nurture dreams and give them wings to fly. Do not see yourselves as incubators created to birth humans, you are not factories!” She proclaimed, “You are inventors, engineers, doctors, scientists, lawyers and whatever you dream, you can achieve!” The assembly hall shook with thunderous vibrations as we all clapped enthusiastically at the motivating speech delivered by the principal, Hajia Farida Aminu. I was surrounded by the joyous faces of new and returning students who had spent weeks at home and were happy to return to school.

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I HAD THOUGHT I would find it difficult to interact with the students, but I realised my fears had no ground. The students of Government Girls Secondary School were kind, cheerful, and helpful. Upon resumption, I was assigned a hostel and was given five checkered green pinafores to signify my house. I was allotted Queen Amina’s house. The hostel mistress, Mrs. Bala Ahmed, introduced me to the room captain, Amina; Mrs. Ahmed assigned me a room and bed space. The room captain, Amina, was a senior girl in SS3. She walked me through the rules and regulations of the boarding house, and I was quite ecstatic to find out she was in the same room as me, Room VI. 

Days faded into weeks and weeks into months, and I gradually looked forward to going home and being united with my parents, siblings, and friends. This anticipation gradually grew into longing as my provisions began to deplete. 

Amidst the many activities within the boarding house, I sometimes heard rumours of the growing unrest around Chibok. The last time Aunty Rukayat had come to visit, she looked pensive, she told me she had to bring three sets of provisions for me because she was not sure she would visit me again during the term, as the road between the General Hospital located in Garu and the Government Girls Secondary school situated in Damboa had become increasingly unsafe. She even said something about advising my parents to take me back to Askira. The whole talk of insecurity was, to me, a talk for adults and a very distant issue that should not concern fourteen-year-olds like myself.  

One Monday night in April, I was roused from my sleep by the commotion around me. Stifled tears and muffled, incoherent voices surrounded me. My groggy eyes were forced awake by the sight of men in the dormitory.  Men! This was an alien occurrence; never had we had a man violate the sanctity of this female-dominated space. 

There were tens of men dragging girls off their beds, forcing them to march out of the hostel to somewhere. Still struggling to figure out what was happening all around me, I felt a strong, firm masculine grip on my arm. It was now my turn to be hurled out of bed and yanked into line to be part of the uniform procession marching out of the hostel. I slapped myself to bring my mind back to the reality of the present, but it was not a dream. It was not like any of my daydreams. 

Still in our nightwear, we were led outside the hostel. I looked up and saw that almost all the girls in the hostel had been rudely interrupted from their sleep. We let out piercing pleas to the heavens, but no help came. Our housemistresses were nowhere to be found, nor were the security guards who stood as unshakeable forces equipped to protect us.  We stood out, defenceless against strange men who wielded heavy ammunition, ready to bash the skull of whoever protested. We looked around in fear, anxiety and cluelessness. Heavy grey trucks with army-green trampolines surrounded the hostel premises. 

A cold hand gripped me from the left side. It was Amina’s. She looked at me and mouthed the words, “Do not scream, just obey.” I nodded in despondency; my world was crumbling before my eyes. We were presently being counted like animals about to be slaughtered. 276 of us were loaded into trucks. It was dark inside, each truck accompanied by five men who did not bother wearing masks. These men were bold! They took their time loading us into trucks and acted as if no force on earth could stop them from their mission.

Finally, the truck moved out of the school premises with great speed. Inside the truck was pitch darkness, and I could not see my shaky hands. I sat on the cold, bare iron floor of the truck, jittery but at the same time motionless. For the first time in my life, I felt alone and could not dream. My dream had been stolen from me by strangers. For the first time in days, I thought of my father, who quietly motivated me to dream. I thought of Aunty Rukayat, who lived her dream, and finally, I thought of my principal, who encouraged us to dream, ignorant of the price of dreaming. 

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Maria Onne Idenyi is a PhD student at Durban University of Technology, South Africa, exploring English literature. With over a decade of teaching experience, she is passionate about creating safe, inclusive spaces for children and advocating feminist principles. A devoted mother of two, Maria channels her love for storytelling and justice into both her academic and personal life.

Cover credit: Ebumnobichukwu Agu.