Hauwa
Hauwa was born on October 9, 1996, in Shuwa near Bali in what is now Taraba State, in Nigeria’s North East. The military government of General Abacha was in power, and in her village this meant local government councils, police checkpoints, and chiefs who settled disputes. Her family spoke Hausa at home and in the market. They were Sunni Muslims. Prayer marked the day even when nobody kept it perfectly.
Her father, Alhaji Sani, farmed rainfed plots and carried small goods to market when he could. Her mother, Binta, worked the farm too and ran the household. Alhaji Sani had two wives; the other was Hajiya, who kept her own rooms and cooked for her own children. Hauwa grew up in this polygynous compound, with separate cooking areas, a shared grain store, and a yard where children slept outside on hot nights. She was the second of Binta’s children. Zainab, born in 1994, came first and acted like a second mother when the adults were busy. After Hauwa came Aisha in 1998 and Hadiza in 2001.
Hauwa learned early that adults counted food. She stood on tiptoe to watch Binta scoop millet into a calabash and level it with her hand. Some mornings her father left before dawn for market, and by the time the sun rose, Hauwa had already carried a small basin of water from the stream, fetched firewood, and watched Aisha while Binta weeded. She was tall for a girl, and people commented on it in a way that embarrassed her. She answered back quickly when teased, even as a child.
When Nigeria returned to civilian rule in 1999, men in the compound argued about elections and new officials. Hauwa did not understand the names, but she understood what changed: police and local tax collectors became bolder some months, then disappeared other months; a road project was announced and then abandoned; the market had days when traders arrived late because of checkpoints. At home, rules stayed the same. Hauwa prayed when Binta was watching. When she wasn’t, Hauwa sometimes rushed the words and watched the door, restless.
Maryam was born in 2004. Hauwa was eight and had already learned to recognize sickness by the way a baby’s cry thinned. Maryam died in 2005 after days of fever and diarrhea. After that, Binta checked children more often—at night, after meals, whenever someone coughed. If a child coughed at night, Binta lit the lamp and checked the child’s forehead. Hauwa began doing the same, waking in the dark to listen for breathing.
School did not hold her. Fees and distance mattered, and her days were crowded with chores. She learned a few letters from children who went longer than she did, but reading never became something she could do. Qur’anic lessons came in the form of listening and repeating, and sometimes cleaning the teacher’s space, but she did not leave with the ability to read Arabic or write Hausa. She carried knowledge another way: remembering who sold fertilizer on credit, which neighbor had a cousin with a motorcycle, which clinic scolded less.
Her grandmother, Kaka Rabi, kept order with a sharp voice and a stick. She also kept stories—short Hausa tales told in the evenings when heat faded and the yard filled with talk. Hauwa liked those evenings and the first bite of tuwo when the soup was still hot. Kaka Rabi died in 2010. The compound’s balance shifted. Arguments between women grew louder, and Hauwa, now a teenager, got pulled in as both worker and witness. Zainab married and left; when she visited, she brought gossip and small treats for the younger girls and spoke to Hauwa as if Hauwa was still ten.
From 2012 onward, farmer-herder clashes and communal violence in parts of Taraba disrupted ordinary routines. Some market days thinned out after rumors of fighting on a road. Hauwa learned to keep her eyes moving when she went out: who was in the shade by the stalls, who looked angry, who had been drinking. She avoided strangers but talked easily with women she recognized. At home, she could be blunt. If Aisha took more food, Hauwa called it out in front of everyone.
In 2015, when Hauwa was eighteen, her family arranged her marriage to Musa. He lived not far away, in another community within Taraba, and he already had a wife, Kande. The move was short in miles, but Hauwa felt the distance. New water points, new neighbors, a different arrangement of rooms. Musa brought her to the compound with a practical tone, showing her where grain was stored and where to cook. Kande watched her closely. Hauwa met the gaze and did not drop it. That first year set their pattern: cooperation when the work demanded it, sharp words when food ran low or Musa paid attention unevenly.
The 2016 economic shock landed in the market first. Fertilizer prices jumped. Transport cost more. Hauwa argued with Musa about spending on medicine, soap, and kerosene. He said there was no money. She counted out what she had and said, “Then we will eat less.” She was not gentle about it. When she was anxious, her mouth moved faster than her judgment, and she pushed arguments until she won or until somebody shouted. Sometimes she won. Sometimes she paid for it with a slap or days of cold silence.
Safiya was born in 2017. Hauwa watched Safiya constantly. She checked Safiya’s skin for rashes every morning and refused to let other children carry her too far. When Safiya ran a fever once, Hauwa paced the yard and demanded transport money. Yakubu, Musa’s brother, brought his motorcycle, and Hauwa sat behind him holding the child while the wind dried her eyes.
That same year, the household’s long caregiving began. Musa’s mother fell ill and did not recover quickly. The illness dragged on month after month. Hauwa cooked for her, bathed her, and cleaned her bedding. When money allowed, she and Yakubu took the older woman to a clinic where Nurse Esther measured blood pressure and handed out tablets with firm instructions. Hauwa listened hard and asked questions, then worried she had misunderstood. At home she asked Kande to repeat what the nurse said. If Kande laughed, Hauwa snapped back. Then she apologized later with a bowl of food, because the sick woman needed quiet. When the medicine did not seem to work, Hauwa walked to Mallam Abdullahi’s house and asked him to recite prayers over a bottle of water. She brought it home and gave it to the old woman, hoping.
Rabi was born in 2019. Hauwa’s body recovered slowly, and she snapped more easily. That year the rains came poorly. The harvest disappointed, and crop prices shifted in the wrong direction when they tried to sell. The next two years became a sustained crisis. Hauwa sold a small goat and then her best cooking pot, replacing it with a thinner one that burned food if she looked away. She borrowed small sums from Aunty Ladi, a market woman who advanced goods and demanded repayment on time. Hauwa hated owing. She still went, because children needed grain. She reduced meals, cooking thinner porridge and stretching soup with leaves. When Musa complained, she told him to eat at his mother’s room if he wanted more. The words came out hard.
In 2020, Hauwa’s cousin Halima died after a short illness, leaving behind a young son, Ibrahim. Hauwa took Ibrahim into her household. She fed him from her own pot and assigned him chores as soon as he could carry water. The extra mouth made every cup of grain matter more. But Ibrahim told jokes learned from older boys, and Hauwa laughed despite herself, a short burst that surprised Kande.
COVID-19 disruptions in 2020 and 2021 made markets uncertain. Some days fewer traders came. Some days prices spiked without warning. Hauwa kept a tight watch on her stored grain and woke at night to check that the storage lid was still in place. She made Musa wash his hands after market, then scolded herself for sounding like a nurse.
Sani, her son, was born in 2022. People congratulated her loudly. Hauwa accepted it with a stiff smile because her mind was already counting: soap, cloth, food, clinic fees. That year Binta’s joints began to swell, and she could no longer walk to the farm without stopping to rest. Hauwa added her mother to the list of people who needed care. She walked between households carrying food, washing clothes, and arranging transport when Binta’s knees locked up or Musa’s mother’s breathing worsened in the rainy season. She did not talk about fatigue; she showed it by snapping at Aisha when Aisha visited and asked harmless questions.
By 2025, Hauwa’s days run in a tight loop. She rises before the sun, prays when she can, and lights the fire. She sends Safiya to fetch water, keeps Rabi close until chores are done, and balances Sani on her hip while she cooks. Before midday she walks to Binta’s compound with food and checks on Musa’s mother, wiping her face and straightening her mat. She works on family plots when the season demands it, weeding and harvesting, and she processes grain when she stays in the compound. She still talks easily with women at the market, and she still carries a running list of debts, favors, and who can be trusted. When Musa mentioned trying new seed varieties that an extension worker promoted, she said no. She had seen her mother’s methods work and did not trust change. At night she checks the children’s foreheads, listens for coughing, and lies awake longer than she wants to. In the yard, with bowls rinsed and stacked, she sits near the doorway and sorts grain by hand while Ibrahim tells a story badly on purpose to make the younger ones laugh. Hauwa corrects the details, then laughs once, quickly, and goes back to counting.