This is the Chapter 2: "Barren Grounds" of the Whispers of the Nation". If you want to write the first chapter you can access it through this link here. The introduction to the book is also available in the first chapter I posted a couple of days ago.
Suleiman was seen stepping out of his humble clay house as the sun peeked over the horizon. The air was still cool, a brief gift before the searing heat of the northern Nigerian day arrived. He paused for a moment as he looked across the village of Gashua. "Why is it so quiet, as if the city is mourning someone important?" he remarked, reminiscing. Back then, children's laughter used to fill the streets, and the marketplace thrived with activity. But now, the silence felt unnatural, heavy with fear and unease, as if the village itself had changed.
Sulieman, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, seems to have seen a lot. He fixed his worn cap before leaving for the local school. His footsteps on the dusty road were steady, but his heart remained heavy. It had been days since he had taught an entire class. The insurgency had turned everything upside down, families were fleeing, violence was a constant threat, and a deep sadness was creeping in, though he tried hard to push it away.
The school was a short distance away, a small building with cracked walls and a tin roof that clattered noisily whenever the wind picked up. As soon as Sulieman entered the school compound, he noticed Aisha standing by the doorway. She arrived early, as usual, with her arms crossed and her face set in a determined grimace.
Aisha, a woman in her late twenties, was as stubborn as the sun in July. Despite all the happening, she turned up every morning as she was eager to help teach the children who still dared to attend classes.
“Suleiman,” she greeted, her voice carrying the weight of the day before it had even begun.
“Aisha, he replied and grinned. “Another day, eh?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You sound optimistic for a man who’s about to face an empty classroom.”
He chuckled softly. “One must laugh to keep from crying, no?”
Aisha smiled slightly, though her eyes remained serious. “ Fatimo's mother called. She’s not sending her to school today. The roads aren’t safe.”
Suleiman sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t blame her. But if the children stop coming… what’s left for us to do?”
Before Aisha could respond, the sound of sputtering and clanking filled the air. As they both turned, they saw a beat-up old motorcycle bleaching black smoke as it trundled down the road. The motorist, one of the local farmers, waved pleasantly as he passed as if the world were not happening around them.
Suleiman chuckled and said, "I’m sure the bike has more life in it than half the village. What else can we say in this situation?"
Aisha shook her head and said with a softer look, “Maybe we should invite it to class. At least it’s still running.”
Suleiman chuckled again. He enjoyed the rare moment of humour. But the laughter quickly faded into a tin air as they entered the classroom. It was empty except for a few decrepit desks and chairs. The blackboard, once a sign of education and hope, was now old and abandoned. There were flames all around them.
They waited, hoping at least a few children would show up. As the minutes passed, Suleiman began to question. However, just as he was going to recommend packing up, a little person came in the doorway.
Fatima Danjuma appeared, her wiry form enveloped in a faded blue garment, eyes wide and alert. She held a worn notebook to her chest as if it were her sole barrier from the world.
“Fatima,” Aisha said, her voice breaking the silence, “you came.”
The girl nodded shyly and slipped into her usual seat. Suleiman felt a surge of warmth. It wasn’t a full classroom, but it was something. If one child still believed in the power of education, then there was hope.
As Suleiman started the lesson, more children trickled in, slowly and cautiously. Some came alone, others in pairs, their eyes darting nervously as though expecting trouble to burst through the door at any moment. By the time the hour was up, seven students sat in the classroom.
Seven out of twenty-five.
But it was enough.
Suleiman picked up a piece of chalk and began scribbling simple arithmetic problems on the blackboard. “All right, class, let’s see who remembers how to do math.”
Fatima raised her hand, ready as usual. Suleiman called on her, and she boldly answered the first question.
"Good," he replied, nodding. "Now, let's try something a little harder."
He wrote a longer equation on the board and turned to face the class. Fatima stared at the problem, her brow furrowed in concentration. Just as Suleiman was going to summon someone else, a thunderous rumble broke the silence.
The children's heads shot up, eyes wide with panic, but Suleiman only smiled.
“Relax, class,” he said. “That wasn’t gunfire. That was my stomach.”
Aisha stifled a laugh as the children giggled. Even Fatima, normally serious, cracked a smile.
“We’re learning on empty stomachs,” Suleiman said, “but I suppose that’s another lesson in endurance.”
The humour lightened the mood, but it didn’t change the reality they all faced. The lesson continued, punctuated by the occasional thud of distant gunfire or the roar of an approaching truck. Suleiman didn't stop teaching as he turned a deaf ear to the happening around them.
By the time the school day ended, the sun had risen high and was pounding down on the tin roof. The children gathered their belongings and shuffled out of the classroom. Their movements were slow and careful as if every move was a query about what awaited them outside.
Soon enough, Suleiman watched them taking their leave as his heart was full of pride and grief. These children represented Nigeria's future, yet they grew up in a world that seemed destined to crush them.
Aisha stayed behind to tidy the classroom as she normally did. She looked at Suleiman, lost in concentration, then stared at the empty whiteboard.
“You know,” she said, breaking the silence, “if you keep making jokes about your stomach, we might have to start serving food with our lessons.”
Suleiman smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “If only we had food to serve.”
They locked the school up for the day and walked back towards the village together. As they neared the main road, they passed a group of men gathered under a large baobab tree, their voices low and serious. They were talking about the upcoming elections: the whispered promises, the rising tensions, the rumours of more violence to come.
Suleiman and Aisha exchanged glances but didn't say anything. There were no words to lighten the situation. They had both lived long enough to understand that even if change occurred, it would not be easy.
As they parted ways, Suleiman felt the weight of the day fall on him like a heavy blanket. He walked slowly towards his house, the familiar route seeming longer than usual. When he arrived at the front door, his wife, Mariam, greeted him with a tired smile.
“How was school?” she asked as he sat down.
He sighed. “Quiet. But Fatima came. "And a few others."
Mariam nodded and placed a dish of rice and beans in front of him. "At least some are still coming. That is something.
Suleiman looked down at the plain food and then back at his wife. "We're doing the best we can," he said quietly. "But sometimes I wonder if it's enough."
Mariam reached over and touched his hand. “It is,” she said firmly. “It has to be.”
Later that night, as Suleiman lay in bed, listening to the distant rumble of trucks and the occasional crack of gunfire, he thought of his students. Of Fatima, with her sparkling eyes and eager inquiry. Of Aisha and her calm strength. She had been whispering to the men under the baobab tree about an uncertain future.
He closed his eyes and said a prayer for peace of mind, safety, and the strength to persevere since he believed that tomorrow would arrive, whether they were prepared or not.