I missed The Whispering Trees, the woods down hill where we took refuge to flee our mothers’ whips when we were guilty of one mischief or the other, which was quite often. We would play hide and seek there and build a tent and imagined we were explorers from another world. We grew up in those trees. But the romance came to an abrupt end when Hamza, one of my childhood friends, fell into a shallow spring in the woods and died. It was rumoured that there were Iskokai in the trees that made them whisper. It was said that the spirits took Hamza and sucked his blood and I agreed because the spring was incredibly shallow for anyone to drown in. So, everyone stayed away from The Whispering Trees ever since.

            It was in those days that I realised how I had taken everything for granted. My health for instance, it came so naturally I never thought there was anything to it; my mother, who had always been there that I hardly noticed how important she was and how fortunate I was to have her; my dreams, my hopes, which I assumed came so naturally with my potential; even my sight, my vision, I never thought how fortunate I was not have been born blind like so many other people who were no less human than I. How I now miss all those things, things for which I have never once deliberately said, ‘Thank you, God’ because I had taken them for granted.

            In my depression, Faulata was the only person who understood what I was going through. Jamila, when she was not too busy with her bevy of boyfriends, spared a minute to think of me as the lousy, pissed off, wet blanket she just had to live with.

            An uncle of mine came and said, “This boy has gone nuts. Maybe we should take him to the psychiatrist.”

            His big mouthed wife said, “See, malam, he is downcast. Maybe he wants to start begging for alms by the roadside. That would fetch him some money, you know.”

            I would sit with my cat, Sinnoor while Faulata did my laundry. She would iron my clothes, do the dishes and sweep the house. Faulata cooked my meals. Saint Faulata fed me, Saint Faulata sang my lullaby, Saint Faulata did everything. It was difficult to imagine what life would have been like then without her. I do not know how she coped with her academics, for at that moment, she was writing her final exams but somehow, she managed to do everything all at once.

            The image of a blind man in the north is that of a dirty, unkempt old man, holding his walking stick in his left hand with his right hand outstretched, begging for alms by the roadside, singing songs even he, sometimes, does not understand. I could not bring myself to imagine myself like that. I did not want to be like that. So, one day, I mustered courage and said, “Faulata, maybe I should go to…that school.”

            She dropped the dishes in her hand and came over and hugged me. She heaved a sigh of relief and began to sob.

            The rains came and went. The grasses grew lush green and faded into a pale, hungry brown. I could hear the dry, cold harmattan winds blowing through the hungry savannah grass. The weather now grew unpleasantly chilly. Everything was cold - including my heart. Faulata was gone. She had been posted to Ilorin for her mandatory, one year, National Youth Service after obtaining her university degree. I was happy for her but I felt sad because I should have been a graduate by then. So, my life, once more, was a gloomy mess.

            There were periods of sunshine of course, when Faulata came back by the weekends just to see me. She would come every weekend without fail despite calling every week day. I tried not to miss her much but found that impossible. My only solace was in throwing myself whole-heartedly into my studies. I learnt well and I learnt fast. I learnt the Braille and surprisingly discovered a universe of books for people just like me. I learnt cane-weaving and was becoming good at it. I weaved a basket for Faulata and God! How she loved it. I weaved a bag for Jamila and she was delighted. When she served me my dinner that night, as she had been doing since Faulata left, there was an unusual bustle about her.

            I was rediscovering life and the process was exciting. I manage to navigate myself around the neighbourhood with some success. I rediscovered a whole new world of numbers and was as excited as Columbus must have been when he stumbled upon America; the mathematics thrilled me. I knew exactly how many paces would get me to the street from where I would board a motorcycle to school; I knew the paces to the toilet, to the living room, to the kitchen, where I kept Jamila company while she cooked. I went for walks, I visited friends but sometimes, I would just sit under the big mango tree outside and listen to the children playing in the open fields.

            Faulata got too busy in Ilorin that she could no longer call every day. One day, she called and said she could not come over by the weekend because she had some work to do. I had, in fact, been pleading with her not to bother too much about me but for some reason I had been looking forward to seeing her that weekend, to show her all these wonderful things I had woven for her. I swallowed my disappointment and assured her that I understood.

            Next weekend she came but was in too much of a hurry that she could only stay but an hour. She sounded rather nervous and disorganised. I thought it was the stress. I told her I was getting the hang of the thing and she need not come every weekend.

            She said, “Oh no, Salim, I am just stressed out right now but I will be fine. Coming is not the problem really.”

            Next weekend, Faulata did not come neither did she call. I was so worried I called her and she said she was just too busy and I said it was okay. The episode continued for a couple of months and I managed as best I could.

The next time she came, she had something important to say. She was restless and uncomfortable. She said, “I … am getting married, Salim.”

I felt the stab in my heart and blood started gushing out, soaking my skin, my shirt and then trickling down to the floor where it collected into a pool. I gasped.

She was still talking, “…I know it will hurt you but I thought I should…tell you…personally. I am really sorry…”

For the second time in my life, I died.

I cannot explain how I felt then but I knew that my mind felt deprived. It climbed up to the gates of heaven once more, seeking admittance, pleading, begging, weeping and coercing. It did everything to gain admittance without success, so, it lodged outside the gates just waiting and hoping. My body longed for a reunion with my mind – not here though, on this cruel earth but up there so much so that I became oblivious of my daily necessities such as eating and sleeping. Time became of no essence as I lost track of it. I lost track of everything as my mind became enshrouded in a blanket of agony. People came and left and I was never aware that they had come in the first instance.

Faulata had pinned me to this world when I had wanted to die and just when I was coming to terms with my new fate, she broke my heart into a million fragments. I longed for death. I longed for freedom – freedom from pain, from anguish, freedom from this world but death abandoned me in my hour of need and nothing, no one, could set me free. Perhaps the only thing that reminded me of life was Jamila’s constant plea by my bedside. She would talk and weep until blessed sleep stole her away.

My uncles came and bathed me with herbs – my first bath in nearly a month.  They smoked me with all sorts of ritual herbs so much that they smoked every miserable insect in the room dead and still I did not flinch. They concluded that it must have been Iblees, the devil himself, who had taken possession of my soul. Then they came with a renowned exorcist, whom they called Malam Nagari to exorcise the great Iblees. The malam had me seated on a sheepskin and drenched me with a pungent smelling perfume. Then he proceeded to recite the Holy Qur’an over my head. At first he sounded aggressive, harsh and frightening but fatigue crept in and slowed his tempo before driving him out of breath and still, I did not flinch.