Jos, the city that raised me

Image credit: CometoNigeria.com

I think losing a loved one in a crisis is one of the differences between having and losing hope in humanity. Imagine going to work and returning home, cut up into tiny pieces, in a sack to your family. How about being surrounded by an army of men shouting while feverishly pouring petrol around your home with your family in it. As the lighter comes on, you watch your past, present and any possible future, go up in flames before you shut your eyes for the last time. I had witnessed unforgettable experiences during the 2001 crises in Jos, Nigeria, but despite this, I never lost hope in humanity but I think most people did.

The first and only time I’ve seen a bullet was when my father boldly took a stroll a few blocks from our house. The crises had been brewing for days and all residents were relegated to a 24-hour curfew. We had been indoors for a week and my father was curious to know the status of things after the fight the night before, as there hadn’t been electricity to watch the news. He returned home with a souvenir; a shiny bullet, glistening like a piece of jewelry that holds a lot of promise, a visual representation of what my Jos town used to be.

Jos has always been a peaceful town with a reputation for communal living. Popularly known as the London of Nigeria, Plateau State has the best weather with little hailstorms that serve as snow to young children who come out with their palms open to catch them when it begins to rain. My siblings and I were raised there. I also remember my neighbors, Amani, Tola and Rahab who I used to climb the Guava tree in my veranda with. My mum hated it because she felt girls should not climb trees but we thought it was fun and easy. How could I forget the huge tree in front of my house that had inedible red fruits with long green sticks that looked like microphones? I also remember Alhaji, a tailor who stayed beside my mother’s shop. He let me use the left over pieces of fabric to make dresses for my doll.

Everything was peaceful and calm until the land attacks began. Tribes began to fight over ownership of land and just like fire, wars spread fast.  Some said it was a religious crisis, others said it was political while the news said it was a tribal war. I think it was simply a case of inhumanity, selfishness and greed at play. Churches were bombed during church services, Muslims were killed on their way to pray.

Shortly after, when we thought the trouble had stopped, my mother and I were on the way to her store to open for the day. As soon as we opened and began to clean up, Alhaji, ran and started to shout “Amfara’’ which is a Hausa word for ‘start running’’. We quickly locked up the shop, got into the car and sped off, but could not make it out in good time and we found ourselves hiding in a warehouse. To escape the area, we jumped the fence into the teaching hospital in the next compound. There was a woman there sitting quietly in tears. Her name was Amina. We both sat beside her and watched the huge black smoke taking over the sky blue color of the sky where we had just come from. She sent her son Usman to that area and till we left, Usman did not return.

As the crisis went on, and I watched my mother do her best to protect us, like keeping a hoe beside the door in case they came for us, even though we knew it could do nothing other than dig up soil on our corn farm or dig our graves, I drew strength from her. As I watched the people of Jos still come together to pray, share resources and encourage each other, despite religions, I saw hope in humanity. It could be because I suffered no close loses. I don’t think people who suffered loses can say the same because for most of them, the core of their existence was taken away from them.

Till this day, I wonder if Amina ever found Usman. I hope she did. I hope like me, the thick black smoke did not consume him and his dreams were not cut short.