The Man from Zaria

They say Zaria is a really friendly town. Coming from the warmth and welcome of Kano, I expect much. I am not to be disappointed.

I got a share taxi (a form of public transport) from Kano to Zaria on Wednesday 14 September. I got chatting to the well dressed guy sitting in front of me, Fulshim. He was just passing through Zaria, but, surprised that I had no-one to meet and greet me in Zaira, Fulshim endeavoured to get me a contact there.

After a few minutes of negotiating his two mobile phones he calls out “you’re in luck!”

On arrival in Zaria there is the man, Nasiru, waiting for me I have no idea what to expect from this man whose friend I have just met 15 minutes earlier. But, I get everything.

Jumping into his car, I ask if we can go and check out a couple of hotels. On our way, after a couple of minutes, he asks if I want to stay at his place: “my wife is out of town so I’m a bachelor now!” Never before have I been placed in a bond of trust with a stranger so quickly. I accept his invitation without hesitation.

I have about 20 hours in Zaria, and I want to see as much as possible. Nasiru, a 35 year-old, recently married, aviation technology teacher, recommends we do the sights and then return to his place which is a bit out of town.

I want to visit Hamza’s leather shop, whose products my guide book says would “give Louis Vitton a run for his money” and the red, green and yellow dye pits in the old town. Nasiru, not knowing either of these places, elicits the help of every passer-by as we drive around this dense mud-walled, corrugated iron-ceiling town. We find ourselves navigating narrow avenues, which are dissected by foul smelling, slimy open drains, searching for the dye pits and modern cloth dyers.

Kids are playing everywhere – they shout batauri (Hausa for white person), beaming with a huge smile and hiding behind the leg of an adult, cautious of my response. Older people sit on the plastic chairs and warmly greet me in English and Hausa – I reply with baraka (hello) or yaya dai? (how are you?) to initial amazement and subsequent approving nodding.

I suppose we were walking around what foreigners call a slum. But at that moment, I liked it. I even managed to get a quick kick around with some kids and a friendly goat keen to get involved as a deviation from the pile of refuse he was nosing around.

Nasiru, selflessly gave his afternoon for this mini-adventure, despite the seeming wild goose chases in the dry scorching heat. The tour included a visit to the colourful Emir’s palace. The guards were more relaxed than those in Kano. As an old guard, dressed in his red and green robes, showed me around the multicoloured ancient buildings, he apologised about being unable to meet the Emir, because "the Emir is resting now".

We went to Nasiru’s house, via the Amadu Bello University a huge university whose campus walls run for miles and miles.

The house is a two-bedroom, two-front roomed (one for when both “I and the wife want guests round”) well furnished bungalow. It has, however, the trappings of Nigeria, no running water (you need to use the huge tank sitting in the corner of the cramped bathroom to fill up a bucket for washing, brushing and to fill the cistern tank) and temperamental electricity. Fortunately, Nasiru has a generator, but cannot afford to keep it on all night, so the night is hot and sweaty – made doubly worse by the out-of-place pink fluffy, faux-sheep skin bed and pillow cover I slept on.

Nasiru is apologetic about Nigeria, particularly Nigeria’s poor leaders who are responsible for the lack of basic amenities in his bungalow.

In the evening we ate in a local café. I had jollof rice with beef my best meal so far. The beef is cooked to a tenderness rare in Nigeria, this is because Nigerian’s, Nasiru told me, judge a dish not only by is taste, but also by how hard you have to work at the food – the harder the better. This explains the universal appeal of isiewu, a nothing-removed, smashed-up goats head in a rich vegetable pepper soup.

Later we join up with some friends of Nasiru and visit the Sabon Gari (literally this means foreigners – it is the non-Muslim area) district. The Sabon Gari district is where you can openly drink in this Sharia city.

I spend some time explaining Nasiru's friends that I am just travelling in Nigeria, rather than here for family or business reasons. Once I got the concept through, they lamented that, in Nigeria, it is impossible to save for travelling, let alone for a rainy day. An interesting and revealing discussion ensued, in proper Nigerian style – i.e. at a volume far higher than necessary.

Nasiru and his friends are all 30-something professionals – a university lecturer, a civil servant and an accountant. They earn on average about N35,000 (₤135) per month. A third goes on rent and bills, a third goes on food (which is very expensive here), which leaves around N12,000 (₤46) for petrol (whilst Nigeria is one of the world’s largest exporters of crude oil and a member of OPEC it imports most of its petrol at exorbitant rates), mobile phone bills and any luxuries for their family (Nasiru is paying for his wife’s student fees, one of the friends has a two month old baby).

This conversation over a couple of Stars (locally brewed beer) brought home an article I had read in a national tabloid daily, the Daily Sun about the death of the Nigerian middle-class. In the past two decades the middle classes – professionals who can secure a stable living environment for themselves and, importantly, for their children – have “been wiped out”.

These graduates, one with a Masters degree, exist in a vulnerable state, thinking about what tomorrow brings rather than being able to plan for their family’s, their community’s and their country’s future.

The conversation was emphasised by Nasiru’s story of having to recently go to Bauchi (his home city) for a funeral of an Uncle. The cost of petrol for the round trip was N9,000 (₤25) and this had ruined his finances for the rest of the month. This reality brought him visible embarrassment as I paid for our food and even a small about of petrol for him.

This man from Zaria, wears the scars of Nigeria’s turbulent history on his weary face. Intelligent, friendly, welcoming, resourceful and creative, he is common in Nigeria. But he and the millions like him have been outdone by Nigeria’s politicians and business-leaders who work in cahoots with exploitative multinational corporations for their personal benefit. However, as Nigeria begins to turn a corner (it is six years into its current democratic phase and is registering healthy economic growth) Nasiru is also the hope for a brighter future.

It seems to me that for Nigeria to succeed (Nigeria, due to its immense natural and human resources, could be a global economic force); it needs to ensure that people like Nasiru flourish.