The Second Path

Chapter 2

The moment they got to the gate, I shut it and took them into the house. Once we got inside the living room, I shut the door and they both removed their slippers because the living room floor was covered in red carpet.

The two of them were soaking wet, like clothes removed from a bucket of water. She held her daughter really close to her but yet the little girl was still covered with the black pashmina all over her face.

"Na gode sosai yar'uwar. Allah ya albarce ki." The woman said the moment I shut the house door.

I looked at her, knowing I didn't understand anything because she spoke too fast. Plus, I wasn't fluent with Hausa either.

"I'm sorry I don't know what you just said." I replied.

"Kina jin harshen Hausa?" She asked.

There were so many ways people have asked me this question in Hausa, but every time I heard 'Kina jin' and 'Hausa', I assumed they were asking if I can hear or speak Hausa. And my response was always the same.

"No." I shook my head.

"My apologies. I just said thank you very much my sister and God will bless you." The woman said with her thick Hausa accent and looked at me with so much empathy.

Looking closer at the woman, she looked way younger than expected. Somewhat in her early or middle twenties. She was dark and skinny and wore a grey hijab over her body. Her eyes were traced with thick black kohl (eyeliner), like most young women in Mansur put. Her right cheek was bruised and her mouth was very dry. She looked like she has been suffering from beatings from a hard fist.

"No problem." I said, having little trust in this woman, especially with her looks. "You can sit down."

She smiled pleasefully and took her daughter with her to the long couch and they both sat on it while I left the opened umbrella to rest by the door.

I walked into my room, hoping they don't steal anything. I opened my bed side drawer and brought out two candles and walked all the way to the indoor kitchen to light them with matches.

Once both candles had fire, I walked back into the sitting room with the woman, and her daughter just staring at me throughout. I dropped one of the candles on the table beside them, and held the other one with me. Besides my useless kerosene lamp, this was the only source of light we had in the house because there was no light and since it was evening, the clouds were getting really dark fast as it rained.

"Menene- sorry." The woman stopped herself, probably remembering I did not speak Hausa, then asked, "What is your name?"

"Miriam." I replied, while sitting on the rough brown single sofa opposite them.

"My name is Hauwa." She smiled, "But you can call me Uwar Maiya."

I frowned in confusion, "What does Uwar Maiya mean?"

"Mother of a witch."

I looked at her dumbfounded. I didn't know whether to laugh, thinking it was a joke, or act serious. Why would somebody want to be called the mother of a witch? I mean, I knew people called her daughter 'Maiya' (witch) because of the story of how dangerous she could be, but that didn't mean they needed to carry the names on their head.