Bala shrugged. “It depends. If it’s Hausa or Arabic you want, it will not cost you as much as wanting to learn to read English. We would have to find someone from Lagos if it’s English you want. Lagos people are expensive. Is it English?” “I don’t know. But I can show you.” I thrust my hand under my tattered dashiki and pulled out my story book from the waistband of my knickers.
“Ah, you’ve been hiding a book! Bala reached for the book. Abdu said, “Are we going to stand here and mope all day? The others have started work. When are we going to start our own work?” Bala took my arm. “He is right. Let’s go to our special place.” The seven of us trotted off, leaving the other almajiris to their begging.
Bala’s special place was a hideout. It was cave in a clump of huge rocks at the back of the motor park. Patches of tall dried grass grew here and there on the rocks. If you climbed up from the back of the rocks, no one in the park would see you. “How did you discover this place?” I asked. “Well, we discovered it, didn’t we?” Bala said.
The mouth of the cave was covered with curtain-like grass. No one outside could see anyone in the cave, but from the cave you could see almost everything happening in the park. Bala nudged me. “Let’s have the book so I can look at it.” My jaw went slack. “But I gave it to you!” “You gave it to me?”