DAULAH

The Sight Of Her Father

Ya Allah,we have nothing except what you grant us,we own nothing except by your permission and we know nothing except what you showed us.May Almighty Allah grant us the best of possessions and knowledge as well as wisdom that us and our entire families to Jannah Ameen
JUMMU'AH MUBARAK

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DAULAH

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My bad.

I thought as I drive past that usual small group gathering in front of the house. I didn't have the time worth explaining to them that the dust I spew on them wasn't intentional. They were shielding their eyes as the rays of sand made from the dashing of my rapid wheels hovered them. I can only imagine the vile comments they must be making about me now. But when has that ever bothered me? They can carry on by all means.

I hate this Kano traffic, I hate any traffic in general and I hate that these girls had to pull me out of the house after my just arrival. Sushi called and said I needed to come to her place right away because she is in a life-or-death situation and before I could ask her to explain what it is, she cut the call and refused to pick up when I called again and again leaving me with a crippling sense of anxiety and no other choice than to go check up on her, and now I am stuck in this horrendous traffic of Kurna.

The car honks and spatters and clashes and all the other unpleasant sounds of the congested place was irritable and so I turned up the music to the loudest tune, and when I got my eyes back to face my front, an even more unpleasant scene with the man in some Toyota corolla right in front of me and a beggar child irritated me, No, it made me mad.

I didn't know exactly what transpired between the boy standing beside the man's side of the car begging for alms through the opened glass, but it couldn't possibly be more than just that, begging for the alms, and the inhuman excuse for a human being pushed the boy away roughly, adding good enough strength and pressure to have the boy almost somersaulting and falling hard on his back and hitting his head on the harsh edges of the coal tar.

The boy hastily got back on his feet to escape being run over by the impatient bike men who were shoving their way through every recess. The boy retreated to stand by the roadside, his palms glued to the back of his head which hit the ground as he grimaced, and he must have felt the liquid in his hand because he brought it to his face to see blood smeared all over it. He now starts to weep, and I am clutching tightly my steering wheel, boiling with rage.

The traffic moved, the man's car moved and mine paced behind with all my anger directed toward him. I turned my head one more time to the boy. He is still crying and I feel a tug between my chest. I am never known for my reasoning and as such, I didn't think twice before rolling down my window and calling out to the boy. He came quickly thinking I was going to give him something. But I have another thing in mind.

"Bude mota ka shigo,"( open the car and come in) I urged him, motioning to the backseat. The boy kept staring at me, he didn't not move to comply with my instruction, a mixture of uncertainty and mistrust written all over his face. Well, I understand. And it is good. It is good not to trust a stranger in a big car that just asks you to hop in. but I only wanted to take him to a pharmacy or hospital and have his wound checked. And then think of what I would do with after that. But even the traffic wouldn't exactly give us the ample time we need so I can convince him of my intentions. I sigh. I cursed that I didn't have a cent in me to give him, only a pack of strawberry orbit that was left in the car. I took it from the car storage and handed it to him, apologetically. And then I sit back behind my wheels and got ready to exert justice for him. A jungle one.