1 THE ENCOUNTER

“Wallahi, I’m tired,” Zulaihat muttered, rubbing her aching back. “My feet, my back, it’s like they’ve become one with the earth. Gaskiya, I need a break.”

We all murmured in agreement. In the intense heat of the midday sun, we sought the shade of a nearby mango tree. Its fruit-laden branches promised a fleeting relief we couldn’t resist. Beneath it we rested, our breaths slow and laboured, the day’s exhaustion settling deep into our bones. The village, far from the comforts of home, had a quiet beauty in its simplicity. No electricity. No roads worth mentioning. No hospital. No clean water. Yet in the stillness, in the rhythm of our daily tasks, like fetching water from the river, there was something pure, something grounding. I had learned to embrace it during my visits, though every time the work felt heavier. After a brief rest, we stood, dusted ourselves off, and made our way back from the river for the final leg of the journey. Our basins, filled to the brim, balanced precariously on our heads, the weight pressing down with each step. The air was thick with the scent of earth, and the only sounds were our footsteps and the whisper of leaves swaying in the breeze.

Then, out of nowhere, it happened. A young man on a bicycle came barrelling down the narrow path, and in an instant, he crashed into us. Two of our basins toppled, shattering on the ground, the water spilling out in every direction, soaking the hems of our wrappa and our slippers. One basin struck my arm as I reached out to catch it, the jagged shards scraping my skin and grazing my leg. I stumbled back. My heart raced, and my breath quickened with anger.

“Are you blind?” I snapped, my voice sharp, eyes flashing with the sting of indignation. “Don’t you see where you’re going?”

“You have to replace our basins!” Asma’u added, her voice tight with pain as she pointed to her bruised arm, where one of the falling basins had struck her. “And what about our injuries? How do you expect us to go home like this?”

The young man, rather than apologising or offering help, bent down to inspect his bicycle. His fingers ran over the tyres, checking the chain as if we were an afterthought. His concern for the bicycle, rather than for us, felt like an insult, the bitterness of it lodging deep in my throat.

“As-salaam alaikum,” he greeted, his voice deep and measured, carrying a calm that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air.

We didn’t respond. Our anger was too raw, too fresh. He smiled slowly, almost to himself, before adding, “Beautiful girls like you shouldn’t be fetching water.” His gaze lingered on me, steady and unblinking, as though the others no longer existed. I felt a warmth flood my cheeks, an unexpected shyness that made me lower my eyes, unable to find the words to reply.

Zulaihat, always the boldest among us, folded her arms and stepped forward, breaking the silence. “Hey, mister, cut the sweet talk and tell us how you plan to fix this mess.”

The young man chuckled softly, the sound a low ripple in the thick air before he introduced himself. “My name is Junaid, and I’m the grandson of Mallam Ibrahim Bello.” He exhaled deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m really sorry about this. It wasn’t intentional. I think the bicycle’s brakes are faulty. I actually borrowed it from a friend to run errands for my grandparents.”

We exchanged glances, incredulous at his calmness. Then, unable to hold it in, we burst into laughter. It was a spontaneous, almost reckless release of the frustration that had been building. “If the bicycle isn’t even yours, then how do you plan to pay for our basins, and our treatment?” I asked, arching a brow. “Because we can’t go home looking like this.” The others nodded in agreement, their faces shadowed now again with concern. Their families were already struggling, and replacing the basins would only add to the burden. I, however, felt a strange sense of detachment. I knew my grandparents wouldn’t be too harsh on me, but my heart ached for my friends. How would they explain this to their parents? And more importantly… who was this Junaid?

Junaid seemed to sense the shift in the air. His expression, light-hearted moments ago, now carried a hint of concern as he studied our faces, perhaps realizing the gravity of the situation. “I understand,” he said, his voice firm, a promise in his words. “I’ll make it right.”

Zulaihat crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Junaid glanced down at his bicycle again, as if it might somehow offer a solution. It did not. Slowly, he met our eyes once more. “I can speak to my grandfather,” he said, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed the uncertainty that lingered. “If I explain what happened, I’m sure he’ll help me replace the basins.”

We exchanged sceptical glances. Elders weren’t always the most understanding, and we didn’t want to get into more trouble. Asma’u shifted uncomfortably, rubbing her bruised arm. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. My father is very strict. If he hears I lost my basin because of a boy, I might get into serious trouble.”

Junaid scratched his head. “Alright, what if I buy the basins myself? I just need some time.”

Zulaihat rolled her eyes. “With what money?”

Junaid chuckled. “That’s a good question.” He glanced at me again, and something about the way his eyes lingered made my stomach twist. “How about this?” he continued. “I’ll meet you girls here tomorrow evening, and I’ll bring replacements.”

It sounded reasonable. I hesitated. “Fine,” I said before any of the others could protest. “Tomorrow evening. Same place.”

Junaid’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “It’s a deal.”