There are two incidents that happened at my tender age while I was growing up that I've been unable to forget. One happened around the year 1965 while I was just four years old and the other occurred the following year, in 1966, while I was five years old. Both happened before I began my primary school education in 1967.
My father was commissioned then as an agent to buy groundnut and cotton for a Licensed Buying Agent, like my grandfather was. The Licenced Buying Agents, in turn, were buying those commodities for the big multi-national French and Italian companies such as John Holt, CFAO, UAC, L. Ambrosini, etc. My father decided to go to the hinterland into the villages where those commodities were grown. In the villages, there were designated market places called "Fuloti" where produce inspectors were assigned to select, weigh, grade and bag those commodities for onward transportation to the multi-national companies.
In 1965, my father moved to a village called Kakumi, about 30 kilometers of untarred road in order to make those purchases. All members of the family subsequently moved to that village and stayed there for several months until the buying season ended.
It was during our stay in that village that one day, my elder sister, Umma, was sent on an errand. She invited my brother, Abdulrahman Barau and I to accompany her. Close to our house then was a small local market called "Ƴar Yara". And close to our footpath was where the local butchers roasted meat (Tsire). The previous day was market day and they had roasted the meat and left, not quenching the fire. But it was difficult to detect at that time that there was fire in the place, which was covered by ash. While passing the place, my sister showed us that place and said if we put our legs in the middle of that ash, we would enjoy such ecstasy that we had never experienced in our life. Eagerly and stupidly, my brother and I were willing to try it. However, she advised my brother not to try it as he had a wound on his leg. So, she told me to try it. Without hesitation, I plunged my right foot in the middle of the covered fire...
The moment my foot was buried in the simmering hot ashes, I gave out a loud, bloodcurdling, chilling, shout and clinged to her shoulders. She had to carry me on her back all the way home, while I cried in pain. I was laid on the bed while my mother prayed and rubbed some medicine on my leg. I couldn't walk for several days.
What angered me for a long time after the incident was the fact that my mom was prevented from beating up my sister. I had wished that she had been beaten mercilessly for that.
The second incident happened the following year. In the 1966 buying season, my father decided to relocate to the next village near Kakumi. It is called Ruwangodiya, where, this time around, he was going to purchase cotton, and not groundnut like he did the previous year in Kakumi.
From Bakori, we were loaded into a lorry that had wooden body, with all our belongings and we passed through Guga to Kakumi on a dusty, untarred road. From Kakumi to Ruwangodiya, there was no road, only a narrow footpath and there was a river to cross in between. So, my brother, Abdulrahman and I were put on one bicycle; he on the carrier while I was put on the crossbar. My legs were divided and each was placed on the shock absorber knob, while the crossbar was directly grinding my tailbone and it was painful as we bumped into the rough road. As we went down to pass across the river, I raised my bottom a bit to shift from the agonizing pain on my tailbone. My right foot slipped and got entangled in the spokes that twisted and sprained my ankle. I cried throughout that eventful ride.
I could remember vaguely it was while we were in Ruwangodiya that the Premier of Northern Region, Sir Ahmadu Bello Sardaunan Sakwkwato was assassinated in a Coup D'état on January 15, 1966.
Those were the two incidents I could never forget in my life.
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