KILLING GOD (PART ONE)

I do not know who God is but Imam Abdulfatai knows.

He is a sullen fellow with dark solemn eyes, long black beards with some sprinkling of gray and had a tiny scar that ran down from the left side of his small lips black lips, down to his bearded chin. His teeth was white, very white and accentuated his smile against his dark features. And he smiled a lot, when he recites the Koran, reading the surahs in a unique sing-song voice that blared over the loudspeakers, inviting the faithful towards Massalaci. He even smiled with his eyes closed

We came to him in droves, usually young boys filled with zeal for Allah seeking knowledge from a book we cannot read as understood by a man we all love and love him we did.

He was a man of peace then and lived in great harmony with the Christians who often invited him in their churches during their thanksgiving or other ceremonies. He ate and drank with them quoting the Quran in defense.

"Surely those who believe, and those who are Jews, and the Christians, and the Sabians -- whoever believes in God and the Last Day and does good, they shall have their reward from their Lord. And there will be no fear for them, nor shall they grieve"

“Islam means Peace” He said “The Followers of Allah must be peaceful for Allah said You who believe! Enter absolutely into peace which also means Islam”

We often flocked around him chanting excitedly, parts of the Koran which he had taught us and then afterwards he would give us ‘Kwuli Kwuli’ and a cup of ‘kunu’ and usher us out of the mosque while some older men, similarly bearded and often reeking of marijuana waited for him behind, chatting in soft tones and sometimes swearing.

“Na rantse da Allah” They would swear.

“Da taimakon Allah, zan kashe dukan kafiri” I could hear one of them promise one day while I left after the session with Iman Abdulfatai. These men were often a feature in Imam Abdulfatai’s mosque and always came in after dark when Iman would be sending us home. I worried about his safety at first before he made me to understand that they are part of the lost souls that he is trying to save for Allah. He must be very successful for none of them had hurt him with the daggers they hid under their Jalabiya or even shot at him with some of the guns they carried, guns that I can only see in certain occasions when I climb the Mango tree outside the mosque and look into the compound. I did that mostly out of concern for the safety of our amiable Iman Abdulfatai but partly because I was suspicious of the new found love he shared with the sinners.

When I raised the issue with him after the Prayers one day, he told me that recognition of one’s imperfection before Allah is the height of humility.

“Ahmed.” He called me “Do you know that Prophet Muhammed Sall Allah o Alleh e wassallam, once called himself a sinner?”

“Really?” I asked, my high-pitched voice displaying the depth of my surprise.

“Yes…” He said, dragging me closer to him, into the crook of his arm. “Even Him who was favored and blameless in the eyes of Allah recognized that he is a sinner who is dependent on the mercies of Allah”

“Who are we to decide who qualifies for the mercies of Allah” He said, dragging me down to sit down with him on the pavement. He offered me some debino and chewed on some himself. I took the fruit, seven of them and chewed on one while he patted my back gently.

You see, Abdulfatai was like my father, I had not seen my real father because I was told that he had gone missing thirteen years ago when I was only five and since then, I have spent more time at Imam’s mosque than I did with my poor lean fair mother and my three sisters in our two-room hut and corrugated zinc sheets for a roof. I grew up thinking of the gentle Abdulfatai as a father and I became close with his five children; as close as only a brother would. We drank fura di nunu together and bit on our suya and massa with similar gusto. Through the years, I stayed with Abdulfatai and merely visited home when it was time to sleep.

My heart spoke to me sometimes, confronting me with the reasons why I ran away from home, why I detested the loneliness, detested the sight of my mother scraping the dregs for survival, detested the tears of my sisters crying out in the dead of the night for the warmth of their missing father, their tears shed in my stead.

Thankfully, the darkness enveloped us most of the nights in its comforting cocoon and no one could see my tears or my heart. Every morning, since I was five until I turned eighteen, I woke up with first light and ran away; from home and to Abdulfatai’s mosque.

However, when I turned eighteen, I started noticing some changes in my adopted father. He started asking me to stay behind after the evening’s prayers. He insisted that I sat with the bearded men that reeked of marijuana and sometimes glue.

The teachings in these clandestine meetings were different from the calm, singing sessions and prayers we held with the light of the day. It featured more verses than I had ever heard during my long association with Abdulfatai. It was caustic and intolerant and was delivered by another man in Abdulfatai clothing. This preacher was called Ibrahimi Jihadi and replaced Abdulfatai’s solemn eyes with fiery ones that gleamed as he spoke to the group of a score of men who sat cross-legged, their daggers and guns lying in its latent danger, threatening in its silent capacity to wreak havoc and leave tears in its wake.

It was in one of such meetings that my life changed.

It was a Friday, right after the Afternoon Prayers.  Abdulfatai had asked me to wait after the prayers as the Mumunin filed out of Massalaci.

“Wait” He told me patting my shoulders gently from behind. His touch was gentle but the message was abrupt, spoken in a hurry without caring to explain why I should. It was the first time he had asked me to wait after the prayers because I often left to ply my okada. I was a commercial motorcyclist, an occupation that helped put food on the table for my mother and three sisters.

I waited. I had no choice. As confusing as Abdulfatai may be, he was still Allah’s messenger and mouthpiece and also filled the role of a father for me. The bike I use to fend for my family was a gift from him when I turned sixteen.

As I watched, a lot more people waited behind, my agemates with vacant, unreadable faces, impressionless as if they are zombies waiting to be told what to do. Minutes later, I saw the same group of bearded men that had always cradled weapons trooping in after the prayers. I did not see them during the prayers. They had not joined the prayers.

They are still sinners. Abdulfatai had not succeeded in converting them.

Shortly after, Abdulfatai emerged. People had dispersed from the mosque, even the hawkers at the entrance had been dispersed probably by the bearded, hemp-reeking sinners.

He had entered his house as Abdulfatai and emerged as Ahmed Jihadi. His clothes had changed from his simple white flowing robe to a black Danshiki. He held a dagger that gleamed against the sun in his right hand and on the left he cradled a rifle which he had slung over his shoulder with a rope. His eyes were fiery and he looked furious.

People muttered at his entrance, probably some who were seeing him like that for the first time. On my own part, I was too stupefied to even blink.

He raised the dagger, pointing it at the roof and deathly silence overtook the place. One of the boys coughed and it echoed for two seconds before he spoke.

“And kill them wherever you find them, and turn them out from where they have turned you out. And Al-Fitnah is worse than killing” His soft tone had been replaced by a harsher, more commanding one, like that of a Judge reading a death sentence. All around me, his congregation, a quarter of the ones that had left the prayers twenty minutes ago listened with rapt attention.

“And Allah said fight them until there is no more Fitnah because worship is for Allah alone”  His voice boomed again, his fierce eyes searching through the crowd, stopping for some seconds on me, unnerving me and probably seeing into my soul before it passed me to other silent followers.

“These are the words of Allah, unchanged through ages and forever.” He said with evident anger manifested in harsh tones.

“Today a woman despised Allah by cursing the name of His Prophet, Muhammad Sall Allah o Alleh e wassallam”

“Our leaders are infidels actively against the words of Allah and we the servants of Allah, led by the injunctions of his Prophet Muhammad Sall Allah o Alleh e wassallam will fight this blasphemy and more”

The mosque erupted with people raising their daggers and guns and sticks.

He bid them to calm down with with another raised dagger.

“We are not going to stop there. We are going to take this fight to them in their shrines. We are going to burn their churches and the idols they worship.” He started walking amongst the followers and they made way for him by shifting aside.

He presented the dagger in front of me. Scared, I left it in his hand. I had never used a dagger on another human before and Abdulfatai had condemned killing during the days in his teachings. Allah detests murderers, he had said.

Sensing my hesitation, he spoke these words.

"Fighting is prescribed for you, and ye dislike it. But it is possible that ye dislike a thing which is good for you, and that ye love a thing which is bad for you. But Allah knoweth, and ye know not."  He forced the dagger into my grasp and sealed my hands himself until I was strongly holding on to the dagger as if I was trying to strangle it by its metal hilt.

 “These words are the words of Allah as given to us by his Prophet in the Holy Quran. They are not my words.” He grabbed me gently by both shoulders and looked into my eyes, the softness and kindness that identified Imam Abdulfatai had resurfaced. His next words were calm and steady and devoid of that maniacal anger that had started the speech.

"Fighting is prescribed for you, and ye dislike it. But it is possible that ye dislike a thing which is good for you, and that ye love a thing which is bad for you. But Allah knoweth, and ye know not." 

 His voice rose again and he declared "Then fight in the cause of Allah, and know that Allah Heareth and knoweth all things." 

Pandemonium broke loose and men clanged daggers. Someone shouted “Shege… Mutuwa ga kãfirai.”

“Sosei.” Another responded.

“Yusufu Jihadi will lead and Jihadi Ahmed will assist.” Abdulfatai said, pointing at me. I swallowed nervously.

Yusufu, a haggard looking tall boy of around twenty, with kinky uncombed hair and broken red lips walked past me with a shotgun slung over his shoulder. I meekly followed trudging towards a path that I did not know towards murdering a woman I had never met.

However that is what God wants and I have never seen God but his words in Quran are steadfast through eternity.

I may not be able to read the Holy Quran too because I had never learnt to read Arabic or even English but I am sure that Iman Abdulfatai could and he is the living embodiment of the words of the prophet.

As I left with a throng of new followers, I could hear The Imam’s voice booming off another verse of the Quran.

“Therefore, when ye meet the Unbelievers smite at their necks; At length, when ye have thoroughly subdued them, bind a bond firmly on them. Thereafter either generosity or ransom: Until the war lays down its burdens. Thus are ye commanded: but if it had been God's Will, He could certainly have exacted retribution from them Himself; but He lets you fight in order to test you, some with others. But those who are slain in the Way of God, - He will never let their deeds be lost.”

With these words behind us, spurring us, we set out to exact the vengeance of Allah.

At the market, they pointed at a middle-aged woman with a heavily painted face. Jihadi Yusufu gestured me forward and asked me to bring him her head.

“That is the will of Allah.” He said. He does not look like a follower of Allah and even then wore amulets on his neck, evident through the unbuttoned shirts he wore. He also puffed on a marijuana. But in his voice I heard Imam. He would be disappointed if I failed him.

I took the dagger and approached the woman. The Market was silent and the crowd had already gathered, like sprits of death anticipating bloodshed and ready to watch it. I wished they would stop me or hit me over the head. I wished that the ground could open and swallow me whole with the dagger in my hands.

I approached the woman whose face was heavily painted in an array of colours from red on her face and under her eyes. Her eyelid were painted in shiny blue.

She cried as I approached, her tears mingling with the red paint to create the illusion that she was shedding blood instead of tears. Behind, the followers cheered me on, urging me on towards the murder of a woman I do not even know.

“Submission is the meaning of Islam…All must submitted under the will of Allah” I ranted, the quote coming from somewhere within me probably implanted by Ibrahimi Jihadi.

I raised my dagger over the woman’s breast, my eyes gazing into the teary pools of hers and …