“Sanu Jubril, sanu Jubril!” Lukman and Musa called out from the crowd. They were Jubril’s friends. They abandoned the throng and ran toward him, whistling and waving green leaves.
“Sanu Lukman . . . sanu Musa!” Jubril said, and waved back to them.
They were older than Jubril. Musa was a hulking figure, bare-chested, and had carved his beard into what the non-Muslims called “Sharia beard,” which Jubril would have loved to have had if he had been blessed with thick facial hair. Lukman was thin and the taller of the two. Apart from the leaves, Musa was carrying a sword, and Lukman clutched a clear jar of gasoline that had no lid. Running toward Jubril, Lukman used the palm of his hand to stopper the container, and Jubril suspected the bulge in his breast pocket was a box of matches.
“Where your leap?” Lukman said to Jubril, panting and pointing at Musa’s leaves.
“My friend, wetin dey haffen?” Jubril said, moving away from the cows to meet them. “Kai, wetin be de froblem dis time?”
“You no come frotest, huh?” Musa said.
“Which frotest? Gimme time,” Jubril said, and tried to nudge Musa on the rib, but he dodged.
“Leave me alone,” Musa said.
“Make I fark de cows pirst. I dey come.”
“You no come frotest,” Lukman repeated, glaring as Jubril tried to pat him on the shoulder. Jubril stopped dead in his tracks. “You no be good Muslim . . . ,” Lukman said.
“Me?”
“Yes,” Musa said.
Jubril laughed a short laugh. “Haba!”
“Your mama no allow you pollow us to be almajeris in dose days . . . ,” Musa said, and looked at Lukman as if he wanted him to complete the accusation.
“You two dey craze o!” Jubril taunted them.
“She no allow make you join us kill dis Christians,” Lukman said.
“My mama no be like dat,” Jubril argued. “I say I dey come. I go join una now now. Ah ah, no vex now. Come, pollow me go fark dis cows, and I go join.”
Jubril moved back toward his cows, but the two lunged at him menacingly. Lukman put down the jar, and Musa adjusted his sword. The tiny bells that adorned the brown sheath jangled. Jubril stopped laughing, sensing trouble. His friends were not smiling and their eyes bore hatred. He had never seen them like that before.
Remembering the two people who ran past him near the pools, Jubril jumped up and plucked some leaves from a Flame of the Forest, to show solidarity with whatever cause his friends were advancing. But his effort only alarmed them, for they thought he was trying to flee. They held him by his babariga.
“OK now, I be one of you,” Jubril said, waving the leaves before them, dropping his stick.
“One of who?” Musa said.
“Dis no be matter of leap, you hear?” Lukman said.
“Come, wetin I do you?” Jubril asked them.
“Wetin you do us, huh?” Lukman said.
“Yes . . . why you dey harass me like dis?”
“OK, we no go fay you de money we owe you,” Musa said.
“Which money? If you dey talk about de thousand naira you come borrow prom me, na lie o. You go fay me. Ha-ha, dat one no be talk at all.”
“Cancel de debt now or else . . .”
“You must fay me my money. Oderwise I go refort you to de alkali. Dis one we go hear por Sharia court!”
With that, Jubril spun suddenly and freed himself from their grip.
“Also we go hear por court say you be pake Muslim!” Lukman said. “You be Christian . . .”
“Me? Christian?”
“Traitor, traitor!” they charged.
“Por where?” Jubril said. “You no go pit blackmail me por dis one.”
“Yusup, your inpidel brother, better fass you,” Musa said.
“Traitor, traitor,” repeated Lukman.
Two men stopped and wanted to know what was going on.
Jubril still thought there was a chance they were pulling his leg. He felt he had proved that he was a devout believer. He remembered the wild celebration that swept through the north a few months back, when the Manzikan governor launched his total Sharia, arguing that common law was rooted in the Bible and Christianity. He said the Muslims had been cheated by Christians all along and that the time had come for Muslims to enjoy a legal system rooted in the Koran and Islam. He maintained that with Sharia the state would be cleansed of all the vices and immorality that plagued the people.
Jubril had joined the huge crowds chanting and brandishing the picture of their hero, the Manzikan governor. For three days, Jubril had gone out and demonstrated for the Sharia system to be established in Khamfi, though he, like most in the crowd, knew that in Khamfi there were as many Christians as there were Muslims.
It must be said, though, that for Jubril, it was not just a naive celebration—or a political rally, as the southern press had insinuated. Actually, the pro-Sharia rally swelled because people like him were ready to personally testify with their maimed limbs. Their presence had energized the rally. When Manzikan State gave single women in its employ a three-month ultimatum to get married—even if it meant being someone’s third or fourth wife—or lose their job, Jubril and Musa and Lukman had gathered and cheered. They were convinced that Sharia should be extended to the whole country. Brothels and bars were shut down. When Manzikan warned that those who did not wear the Sharia beard could not bid for government contracts, barbers had long lines of devout men waiting to have their beards carved up. Jubril even accompanied Musa to the barber’s shop.
Now, Jubril laughed at his friends’ accusations, brought out a small picture of the hero-governor from his pocket, and held it high for everyone to see. But Lukman and Musa insisted and in fact swore that they would never fight against Christians with Jubril on their side.
“Dis boy na souderner,” Musa said. “Inpidel.”
“Enemy widin,” Lukman said. “How we go pit make war wid dis barbaric Christians when one of us be one of dem?”
This was when it actually dawned on Jubril that the crowd was heading toward Kamdi Lata, the exclusive Christian quarters, and Shedun Sani, the mixed areas, to wage war with the Christians. The accusation his friends made against him became even more painful. He immediately swore by Allah that he was a real Muslim, but that was not enough. With the tension in the land, it was a terrible time to accuse someone of apostasy or of coming from the south. Jubril tried to tell the growing throng that his accusers actually owed him money and had refused to pay, which was true. But Lukman and Musa insisted that Jubril was not one of them, even though he spoke Hausa with the proper accent. Jubril wanted to talk about his brother’s death, but they stopped him. He wanted to show his cut hand, but they threatened to accuse him of stealing another goat and warned him to stop the delaying tactics and to confess. Seeing how things were going, Jubril tried to explain his roots as his mother had told him, a story that he did not know well and did not care about until now.
“Jubril, dem no baftize you as small baby?” Musa asked, a mischievous smile dangling on his lips. “We know you, we know your baftism story.”
“Answer quick quick,” one of the bystanders said.