The sun hung low over Kano, casting a reddish hue across the horizon as Aminu and Zara left the warehouse. The air was thick with dust, and the usual chatter of the city had faded into a tense quiet. Even the vendors, who typically lined the streets shouting their wares, seemed subdued, aware that something was brewing.
Aminu felt the weight of the morning’s meeting pressing down on him. Escalation—shutting down the city, disrupting businesses, blocking roads—it all felt too much, too fast. His mind raced with the possibilities. What if things turned violent? What if innocent people got hurt? The cause was just, but was this the right way?
Zara walked beside him, her face set in determination, the same fierce resolve that had carried her through every protest. She believed in this fight with every fiber of her being. But even she couldn’t ignore the risks.
“They’re right, Aminu,” she said after a long stretch of silence. “If we don’t push harder, nothing will change. The government will ignore us like they always have.”
Aminu sighed, his eyes scanning the street ahead. “I know,” he replied softly. “But how far are we willing to go? Disrupting lives, shutting down businesses—it feels like we’re crossing a line.”
Zara stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. “Aminu, we’re already on the line. Every day we wait, more people suffer. More children go hungry. More lives are ruined. If we don’t force the government’s hand, who will?”
Aminu could hear the desperation in her voice, the raw emotion that drove her forward. She was right in so many ways. But his heart still tugged at him, reminding him of the cost.
“What if it turns violent?” Aminu asked, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at him. “What if things spiral out of control?”
Zara’s eyes softened for a moment. She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. “We can’t control everything. But we can’t live in fear of what might happen. If we let fear dictate our actions, then we’ve already lost.”
Aminu nodded, though the knot in his stomach remained.
As they continued walking, they passed a group of young men huddled in an alleyway, talking in low voices. One of them recognized Zara and waved her over.
“Zara! Aminu!” he called, his voice hushed but urgent.
They approached cautiously, noting the tension in the air. These were some of the younger protesters, the ones who had been most vocal about taking more radical action. The leader of the group, Tunde, a wiry boy barely out of his teens, stepped forward.
“Zara,” he said in a low voice, “we’ve been talking. The police are getting more aggressive. We need to start defending ourselves.”
Zara frowned. “What do you mean by that, Tunde?”
Tunde glanced around nervously before continuing. “I mean, we can’t keep going out there with just placards and chants. They have guns, tear gas, batons... We need to be prepared.”
Aminu’s heart skipped a beat. “Prepared how?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Tunde hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice. “We’re talking about arming ourselves. Nothing too extreme—just enough to defend ourselves if they attack.”
Zara’s eyes widened. “Tunde, that’s not what this movement is about. We’ve always been peaceful.”
“I know,” Tunde replied quickly. “But peaceful isn’t working! Look at what happened last week—Fatima was nearly trampled by the police. They don’t care about peaceful. They only understand force.”
Aminu could see the logic in Tunde’s words, but he also knew the dangers of going down that path. Once weapons entered the equation, there was no turning back.
“We can’t become what we’re fighting against,” Aminu said firmly. “If we start arming ourselves, we’re no better than the people we’re protesting.”
Tunde looked frustrated. “I’m not saying we attack anyone. I’m just saying we defend ourselves. If the police know we can fight back, maybe they’ll think twice before cracking our heads open.”
Zara’s jaw tightened. She glanced at Aminu, her eyes conflicted. “This isn’t what we agreed on,” she said quietly. “But we can’t ignore the fact that the police are becoming more violent.”
The group fell into an uneasy silence. The line between peaceful protest and armed resistance was razor-thin, and they were teetering on the edge.
After a moment, Zara spoke again, her voice calm but firm. “We need to stick to our principles. Once we start using violence, we lose the moral high ground. That’s not how we win this fight.”
Tunde looked like he wanted to argue, but he stayed quiet, clearly weighing his options.
“Let’s focus on growing the movement,” Zara continued. “We get more people on our side, more support from the community. That’s how we win. Not with weapons.”
Tunde nodded reluctantly. “Okay,” he muttered. “But if things get worse...”
“We’ll deal with it when the time comes,” Zara said, her voice soft but resolute.
As the group dispersed, Aminu felt a flicker of relief. For now, at least, the movement would remain peaceful. But he knew that the pressure was mounting. The government wasn’t backing down, and the protesters were growing more desperate by the day.
Later that evening, Aminu and Zara returned home to find Halima sitting in the kitchen, staring at an old photograph. She looked up as they entered, her eyes filled with a sadness that made Aminu’s heart ache.
“Mama?” he asked gently, sitting down beside her. “What’s wrong?”
Halima handed him the photograph. It was a picture of Aminu’s father, taken many years ago, before the illness that had claimed him. In the photo, he stood tall and proud, his arm around a younger Halima, both of them smiling at the camera.
“I was just thinking about your father,” Halima said quietly. “He would have been so proud of you, Aminu.”
Aminu swallowed the lump in his throat. His father had been a man of principle, a man who had always stood up for what he believed in. But he had also been a man of peace, someone who believed in dialogue and compromise.
“I hope so,” Aminu replied softly, his mind drifting back to the protest, to the tension that hung over the movement like a dark cloud.
Halima placed a hand on his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “He always believed in doing what was right, no matter how hard it was. But he also believed that violence only begets more violence. Don’t lose sight of that, Aminu. The path you choose now will shape the future.”
Aminu nodded, though the weight of her words pressed heavily on him. The future felt uncertain, like a road with too many forks, each one leading to a different outcome.
Zara stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, listening to their conversation. “We won’t lose sight of it, Mama,” she said, her voice firm. “But the world is different now. The government won’t listen to reason. We have to be ready for whatever comes next.”
Halima looked at her daughter, her expression unreadable. “Just promise me you’ll be careful,” she said softly. “Both of you.”
Aminu and Zara exchanged a glance, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. They were in this together, no matter what.
As the night deepened, Aminu lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The city was quiet, but the silence felt fragile, like it could shatter at any moment. His mind raced with thoughts of the movement, of the decisions they would have to make in the coming days.
Zara had fallen asleep beside him, her breathing steady and calm. She had always been the stronger one, the one who never wavered in her resolve. But Aminu couldn’t shake the feeling that the storm was far from over.
As he closed his eyes, a single thought echoed in his mind: What price are we willing to pay for change?
End of Chapter Eleven