Like a victim of a ghastly accident, Kano went into a coma last January
when it recorded the most elaborate bomb attack yet in the country. The
scale was as devastating as it was elaborate. Over 150 people were
killed and hundreds injured that afternoon. The city was thrown into
uncertainty about its future. Some felt it was its version of 9/11. Many
feared it would go the line of the northeastern states of Yobe and
Borno, where all activities remain in constant state of paralysis for
more than one a half years. Few – and I was not one of them –
entertained the hope that it would overcome the shock and not only forge
ahead but also regain its vibrancy in the few months ahead.
That was the physical and mental states of Kano when I visited it last
February for the first time after the bombings and before I continued on
my tour of the bomb-affected areas of the North then. The old Kano of
traffic jams at junctions, of two-million okadas polluting its air, of
hundreds of thousands of richly packed shops, of several supermarkets
that remain open until midnight, of seven million people each waking up
every morning to one commercial activity or another, of clubs and
cinemas, “of women and vehicles”, as Shata would put it, was
pathetically absent.
The new Kano I met three weeks after the attack was totally strange. It
was a patient in the intensive care unit. It was a Kano that very few
traders would visit, of few opened shops, empty streets, scarce and
difficult movement, checkpoint in every hundred meters, few commercial
vehicles, and people trekking on its roads. There were no customers for
the few shops that opened even in the large Sabongari market. Few Igbo
traders remained after sending their families back to their hometowns in
the East. At Kantin Kwari, there were no traders to buy the bulk textile
materials. They hardly came. Those who came arrived late due to
checkpoints, and leave early to avoid spending the night in their buses
and trucks due to same reason. The market had to close at 4.00pm and the
scamper for the few buses to convey people to their homes would
immediately start. Many would start to trek. At the bus stop along the
nearby Ibrahim Taiwo Road, I saw many men and women compete in joining
the one or two buses that arrived after a long wait, some getting in
through the booth, some through the window, and only few through the
door because it was blocked by disembarking passengers. Life, with all
the vastness of its space and time, was reduced to few hours and places
.My heart appealed to my eyes for tears. I restrained them and allowed
it only to share in the sorrow of the departing passengers. I took few
snapshots of the scene of despair and confusion at the bus stop before
starting to trek back to the hotel.
Back in my room, I sat down to review my experience of that day. My mind
remembered Uzair, the prophet who once passed by the ruins of an ancient
city and wondered, asking, “How long would it take God to revive this
city after its death.” The same question readily came to me: how long
would it take the city of Kano to regain its normalcy? And would that
path be littered with blood, rape, arson, summary executions and other
human right abuses that characterized the path of Maiduguri? How long
would the distress last?
The following day, I gave my advice to the authorities before I headed
for the epicenter of the crisis, the two states in former Borno State.
My experience there made me pray that Kano be spared from the pain and
horror of their unending trauma.
Less than six months after the first attack, God in his mercy seems to
have answered our prayer. As I now sit in the hotel to write this
article, I can hear that the noise of the old city has returned,
including that of a train that is filling the air with its siren. In the
past one week I have been in the city, I have seen almost everything
return to normal except for those things that would require time to
heal. I have gone round in the mornings to witness children going to
school like it was before and just as in other cities. All schools are
open. I have witnessed vehicles take over the streets at dawn and
continue to build up their presence as the days grow. Throughout the
town, I have seen shops open – all shops, except those that are near
police stations. At the peak of activity, I have visited the Sabongari
and Kantin Kwari markets, as well as the numerous Igbo spare part shops
in the neighbourhood of Ibadan Street. I could breathe freedom and calm
in the surrounding atmosphere.
I interviewed a number of traders, each of whom expressed delight at how
quick the recovery took place. In particular, I met the family of
Ugochukwu, the satellite parts dealer, in his shop. His daughter,
Chidimma, told me that they returned to Anambra after the January
bombings. Now they are back. With little reservation, she agreed that
there is little to worry about now, except that business is still not as
much as it was before the bombings. At France Road where last February I
listened to traders complaining about the closure of their shops in the
whole segment of the dual carriage street where a police station is
located, I found all shops opened, though traffic is still controlled on
the side of the station.
“We are happy that traffic now flows freely, unlike before”, said Auwalu,
a dealer of ceramic plates and other kitchen wares at Sabongari market,
when I interviewed him. “Our only remaining problem is the 6.00pm ban on
motorcycles”, he complained. Though he corroborated Chidimma’s
assessment that business has not fully returned, he nevertheless
expressed delight that it is picking up, especially from the past one
month. “Auwalu”, I tried to remind him, “when you wake up from illness,
it takes time to fully recover your apetite and vigor. Let us hope that
the trend continues and very soon you will see your customers return
fully.”
Across the road and on the recently rehabilitated overhead pedestrian
bridge, I took the photographs of the mass of people below who were
preoccupied with their businesses on both sides of Murtala Mohammed Way.
I took the steps down and as I walked up Bello Road, I found myself
greeted by hundreds of small and large trucks, each loading bulk
household items like flour, biscuits, soaps, etc. This is the centre of
bulk commerce in Kano. On the eastern side of Ado Bayero Street that
cuts across Bello Road, I found trucks of Alhaji Harisu and other
traders from Niger Republic that come to Kano for trade every Saturday
and Tuesday. “Are things okay now, Alhaji,” I asked him. “Wallahi”, he
replied, “we are grateful to God. Things have normalized and all my
colleagues have resumed their weekly trips.”
I took Ado Bayero Street to Kantin Kwari. It was a fascinating scene.
Kano is really great. Sometimes I just wonder how these traders, most of
whom we deride as ‘illiterates’, successfully coordinate their
transactions hitch free so much so that we take for granted the
availability of the little items they provide in our neighbourhoods. If
we the elite had shown similar commitment in our various offices, this
country would have been great. On that street, all shops were opened and
everybody was consumed in business.
At its southern end, the street ushered me into Ibrahim Taiwo Road,
which I crossed to embrace the famous Kantin Kwari market. The
spectacular sight of thousands of shops stocked with wrappers and other
textile materials was just overwhelming. This is the lake that would
quench the thirst of every Nigerian girl interested in traditional
dress. I doubt if a better collection of wrappers and brocades would be
found anywhere in the world. As I walked on one of its lines, a voice
shouted at me, “Stop Malam.” I turned back to notice a familiar face. It
was Hamisu, my guest when I visited the market in February. He asked me:
“Wasn’t it here where you stopped some months ago, bought us oranges and
asked us some questions? You were holding the same camera.” I nodded. We
chatted for a while and I asked him about the position of trade now.
Hamisu sounded pessimistic. “Still, things are not back to where they
were”, he said. I concurred, but persuaded him to appreciate the
development: “But there aren’t those many checkpoints you were
complaining about the other time, neither is the curfew now 4.00pm. In
fact, except for motorcycles, you can now stay outside until midnight.”
He agreed, but, again, he was quick to express how the limitation on
motorcycles hampers the activities of small traders. He said, “Not all
of us have cars. Every major trader has boys who travel by bike. So once
it is time, they have to close shop and head for home before it is too
late. Wallahi, once it is six you would find it difficult to ride your
bike in some areas beyond the major roads. I wish the ban (doka) will be
shifted to say 8.00pm.”
That evening, I went out to see how the city looks like at night. From
Suleiman Crescent, I left to visit a friend at New Site, Bayero
University. I noticed a congestion of traffic along Post Office Road.
“That is always how it is because of the ban on motorcycles once it is
six,” said Muhammadu Auwalu that I found selling engine oil by the
roadside. I made the mistake of passing through the Emirs palace where
the checkpoint also creates another jam at dusk. As I drove up towards
Kabuga, I realized that there were more roadblocks in the city at night.
During the day, however, they are reduced to the barest minimum. If you
were to enter the town from Hadejia, you will meet only one check point
from the first roundabout you hit on the eastern ring road up to Kofar
Nassarwa. That would be the one on Ahmadu Bello Way, just after the
railway crossing. And if you were to go straight through Murtala
Mohammed Way, until you reach Babban Titi after Rijiyar Lemo, which is
like traversing the entire city, you would not find a single checkpoint
during the daytime. This is a tremendous relief. At night, one would
meet several such checkpoints.
I arrived at New Site, stayed there late, and returned to the hotel just
before 11.00pm midnight. I wanted to assess the city by the traffic on
its streets that late. On my way back, I admired the bright traffic
lights that illuminated my path immediately I reached Kabuga Gate and
all the way back to the hotel through BUK road. Many motorists could
still be seen on the streets.
The night, if I will summarize it, has almost normalized. Large
supermarkets and restaurants now open until late, as it was the case
before the bombings. I often take my dinner late at Sultan Restaurant
along Sani Abacha Way. The atmosphere in the sleeping hours of the night
is peaceful. I am only awakened every morning by the call of the dawn
prayer from the nearby mosque of Sheikh Ameenuddeen Abubakar.
In all, one has every cause to rejoice. The patient is discharged,
though he is still under observation. It will be wrong to think that all
is okay and the crisis is over. Though there are still complaints about
harassment of citizens by security personnel at checkpoints and about
the ban on motorcycles after six as my various guests have pointed out,
there is a lot of difference between how government has handled the
security situation in Kano from that of other areas. Elders, like the
Emir of Kano, have spoken on a number of occasions on such abuses. The
state government too has not let the work of the Joint Task Force to
paralyze the state. The removal of most of the checkpoints as well as
withdrawal of the curfew has contributed in no small measure in
stabilizing the situation and give citizens of the city a sense of
relief. This may not apply to Maiduguri and Damaturu. There too, elders
have spoken but it may be a different situation all together.
Despite expressing this reservation, when all is taken into
consideration and the situation is assessed dispassionately, we cannot
fail to commend the people of Kano for the courage with which they have
faced the challenge. They did not shrink into their shell, like snails
in face of danger. They have endured, as I appealed to them in the
concluding words of my article, “Weep not, Kano. Be Innovative.” The
city might have wept in the moment of the attack – as the Capliph Abbad
of Seville wept when his forces were once defeated at Cordova – but it
has not allowed the tears to last long. Truly, the great endures great
calamities.
Also, the innovation I expected might have come from both the state and
federal governments. We may never know the secret. What is however
certain is that the treatment they applied to Kano appears to be more
effective than the one they gave other cities afflicted by the same
plague. Did the two differed in kind or regime, or in both?
As I was editing this article, I received an invitation to interview the
state governor along with a team from Newswatch magazine. I asked him
what is the secret behind the fast recovery of life in the city. And he
modestly answered:
"Kano is a centre of commerce. People of Kano really love peace because
they know that without peace there will be no business. When the attack
of the 20th happened, people were shocked... We placed a 24 hour curfew.
Later we reduced it to 18 hours, then 12 hours, and now 6 hours. We are
considering ensuring that there is no curfew in Kano. When you came then
you might have seen many checkpoints. As the situation is improving, we
kept on reducing the number of checkpoints. Now we have few of them and
each one is there for a reason. And very soon we will make sure that
they are removed from our streets... Security is the paramount
responsibility of any government. And while people are working very hard
to ensure that there is security in Kano, at the same time I am calling
on everybody to come together and work with us in the interest of the
state. This not withstanding, let me say at this juncture that Kano is
the centre of knowledge also. We have people who are praying across the
state 24 hours a day. In fact, that was why on 29 May instead of
celebrating we went to the mosque to pray to Almighty Allah for peace
not only in Kano but also throughout the country. The same thing took
place in all local governments and wards in the state that day. And you
know God is great. We are beginning to see peace coming back in Kano."
From the modesty of the governor we will now express the caution of his
predecessor. I posed the question to Malam Ibrahim Shekarau two days ago
at his Mundubawa residence when I asked him to evaluate the performance
of Governor Kwankwaso in the past one year. “Your Excellency," I asked
him, "don’t you think that your successor and the federal government
deserve some commendation on how they handled the security situation in
the state?” His reply was both honest and cautious:
“Well, I commend the effort of both governments – state and federal –
particularly the security agencies for being up and doing in terms of
trying to restore peace. But I am sure if you crosscheck, you will find
that the one day bombing was one big thing that happened at a time and
attracted attention. Naturally, that would send the people underground
but thereafter the threats have been on. It is almost a daily affair
now. There is hardly any forty-eight hours in Kano without you getting a
report of some shootings here and there, some people attempting to bomb
one place or the other, or police finding a bomb about to detonate, and
so on. So the scare is still there. The tension is very much around and
people are still completely not at ease.”
True. The shootings and the bombs may not be over. Nobody ever claimed
they are. As I write this paragraph, by coincidence, some shootings are
reported at FGC Kano. Yet, like other citizens of Kano, I look forward
to the day soon when this tension would disappear and that ease would
return. Meanwhile, the city, I believe, has bounced back, with its
streets free, its markets open and all its traders back to their shops.
It should continue to trust in God and remain vigilant. The chance of
relapse is always there hanging over patients that suffer such severe
strokes. The doctors must not relent in observing the patient. Slowly,
he may be completely relieved of his condition, we pray. And may God
answer our prayer.