Sokoto and Shokoto

The search was cut short, because right in front of him was a certain answer, not in the shape as he had hoped, but simply answering the burning questions, that had led him from place to place and for years and years. It was the form of a man, a little broken on the iron board he was drawn on, with rust spreading his eyes to two, like a long scar cutting through. He had the Babban Riga and slippers, with his hand pointing towards the roadside, the dusts all over his fingers. His face seemed kind, the type of kindness from a life that has been full of experience and incidents, with the sort of acceptance that seems to say that, If I have lived for this long, I have somehow found a way to save myself. The kindness that lies on the borderline line of sad.

But what really is sadness he thought, but the ability to recognise what is incomplete, and to somehow find the courage to name it as it is. Once you name you begin to feel; the turbulence, the memories, and even the dreams. It can be a tricky

experience to push within this awareness, but if it has any consolation, it would be the tough skin grown, strong eyes wide open, and just maybe, a deeper heart.

Now his mind was recalled back to the billboard, at this intersection, with the man’s right arms pointing in the forward direction, and his left carrying a book, its sleeves were rumpled, and the book was held in such a way, so that half of it was hanging from his hands. The page shown was torn from its middle, but the half that he could see had words written:

“I am sometimes not able to remember the stories from all the books I have read, and sometimes I totally forget I have read them in the first instance. It is a tortured feeling, when it dawns on me that some of the beautiful brilliant stories that have been written, some of its best parts, are now missing to me.  Could this be because I read a bit too much, or am I just quick to move away? No, I am only puzzled until the convictions. They always come, when I manoeuvre or observe, or participate effectively in a moment, with knowledge I know deep down could only have come from a particular book or a part of it, and then I remember very clearly, like I never forgot”.

Another puzzling thing about books is the faces I give to the characters, I take the description, the narrative of the writer, and give her a face, a little oval, with brown eyes. I give eye glasses, a wide waistline, I give an angry expression, the face when there is a desire, and I carry this image throughout the book, as well as all of its characters. Somehow, I have come to understand that these characters have a million faces from all of its readers. We separately draw them mentally as we read, and define them in our own heads. Or could all of us be seeing the same people? “.

“Yet is necessary to read, its truth is communicated even beyond the written word, it awakens as it chooses, and by going through its parts, we hopefully sojourn into its meaning. A meaning that lingers and lasts”.

In truth, no words were written on the half of the page remaining, but he seemed to see all of these words, his mind thrown into several questions and realisations, so that he was taught a lesson in seconds, as he stared at this man and his pointed hands.

Another puzzling thing about books is the faces I give to the characters, I take the description, the narrative of the writer, and give her a face, a little oval, with brown eyes. I give eye glasses, a wide waistline, I give an angry expression, the face when there is a desire, and I carry this image throughout the book, as well as all of its characters. Somehow, I have come to understand that these characters have a million faces from all of its readers, we separately draw them mentally as we read, and define them in our own heads. Or could all of us be seeing the same people? “. 

A smile emerged on his face, content at this dialogue shared with the old man on the billboard. He pulled his knapsack up, drank the last drops of water in his plastic bottle, and kept walking north, towards Kano. Towards himself.