Season of Crimson Blossoms by Abubakar Adam Ibrahim

returned, when it had first started on September 7 th , 2001. She still thought about it, about how they said Zubairu’s corpse was butchered and burnt in the street. She thought about it, all the time. ‘Not any more, child. Life is too short to dwell on things that have already happened.’
    Fa’iza nodded. ‘But you still think about him, don’t you?’
    Binta sighed. ‘I do. All the time.’
    Fa’iza patted the book under her. ‘You must have loved him a lot.’
    â€˜Love?’ The word felt strangely heavy on Binta’s tongue. ‘I don’t know, really. But when you have lived with someone all your life it doesn’t matter whether you love him or not.’
    â€˜How can you live with someone you don’t love?’
    â€˜In my day, we lived by what our parents taught us. We obeyedwhat they said. Now, things are different. Little girls like you are talking about love. And what good has that done to the world?’
    Speechless, Fa’iza lay still and listened to Ummi’s steady breathing, as the chirping crickets inscribed their own stories on the desolate night.

8
    An elephant’s tusks are never too heavy for it to carry
    There was a shadow hanging over San Siro. Inside, in one of the rooms the boys shared, the stream of ganja fumes reached up to the bare rafters, where some of the youths had taken to stowing their personal effects: snakeskin amulets procured from shifty marabouts promising protection from the evil eye; bundles of medicinal bark reputed to cure ninety-nine ailments acquired from itinerant medicine vendors who cavorted with live crocodiles and displayed photos of people with disease-ravaged genitalia; and sometimes stashes of cash wrapped in plastic bags.
    Dan Asabe lay on Babawo Gattuso’s dingy mattress, staring up at a package squeezed into the thighs of the rafters. He seemed unmindful of the horrified faces looking down at him. When Reza pushed his way through the half dozen bodies and examined the huge machete gash on Dan Asabe’s head, he saw that the blood had soaked up the black powder that Dogo the resident herbalist had administered to stem the bleeding.
    â€˜This thing is poisoning his blood.’ Sani Scholar was squatting over Dan Asabe’s prone figure with a bowl of warm, salted water and a piece of cloth. He still fancied himself the doctor he might someday become, should he ever go back to school.
    â€˜Don’t you lay a hand on him.’ Dogo was sitting against the wallwith angry eyes, puffing on a joint. ‘Don’t waste my medicine, you hear?’
    The damp cloth in Sani’s hand hung between the bowl and Dan Asabe’s battered head. ‘Your herbs will give him an infection.’
    â€˜What the hell do you know, boy? I said leave him alone.’ Dogo stood up and slapped the dust off the seat of his trousers. ‘That is the problem with this place. Nobody listens. When Dogo says take this for tauri , take this for protection, people say Dogo is high. Now see what has happened.’
    â€˜Dogo, don’t start now.’ Gattuso glared at him.
    â€˜Why not? Before we left for this rally business, I said take this, take this. Reza said no, that nobody would attack us. Now see.’ Dogo had offered, for a fee, of course, some charms and amulets for protection against all sorts of weapons. He had extensively investigated the potency of amulets procured from various mallams, often using himself as the guinea pig. He had dedicated himself to the pursuit of tauri , which would make his skin impenetrable to metal, a useful asset considering the occupational hazards of their existence. The procedure was never clear-cut as Dogo was prone to experiment with mysterious herbs and decoctions of questionable origin and intent, but his dedication to these pursuits had earned him a reputation as the resident herbalist of San Siro, and he was often consulted when there were