Beloved

I was drawn to her.

This woman with her back bent over an allo, writing.

It was mid-night and the crescent moon shone bright, illuminating her as she sat there, her gown flowing like an indigo river.

Crickets chirped constantly and subtle winds sourced from deserts far away drifted by.

I moved closer; stepping on soft earth and smooth pebbles with my bare feet.

Still, she was writing and as I drew near I heard the humming of a melody that seemed so familiar, and yet, so unknown.

She paused to dip her straw quill into a clay ink pot and then I spoke.

‘Assalamu alaikum.’

‘Wa alaikum assalam,’ she replied, turning. There was a smile on her face, in her moon-lit eyes and she said, ‘So, you have finally come.’

I creased my brows, unsure of what to say.

‘I’ve been waiting for you. Come,’ she patted the earth beside her, ‘Sit.’

Compelled by her presence, I sat.

She smelled like musk and the moments before rain.

‘I do not mean to be rude,’ I started, ‘But who are you?’

‘Me? I am Asma’u,’ she replied simply. ‘And you? Who are you?’

My name was on the tip of my tongue but I could not say it. She looked at me in an amused sort of way, all-knowing in the way that she smiled. She knew who I was. This was about something more than my name.

And so I asked, ‘Why am I here?’

‘You were reading about me before you fell asleep,’ she picked up her quill and continued writing. I looked at the wooden slate; the words were in Arabic.

‘Yes,’ I said, suddenly remembering. ‘I was.’

‘And what did you read?’

‘That you were the daughter of Usman Ɗanfodio. You wrote over ninety books in your lifetime and that you were an educator of men and women.’

She smiled.

‘Yes, that is all true. But there is something that they will not tell you in their books.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘That I was a woman who loved Allah.’ She looked at me again, ‘Do you love Allah?’

Like my name, the answer would not come.

‘Everything I ever did was for Allah,’ she said. ‘Whatever you read of me, remember that.’

She put down her quill, her fingers blotched with ink.

‘What are you writing?’ I asked.

‘A song,’ she replied. ‘I used to write songs for my people. But this one, this is for you.’

‘For me?’

She picked up the allo and blew over it, her breath as subtle as the wind itself.

‘But I cannot read…’

Then she started to sing – and in that endless night, even the crickets paused.

‘All you’ve ever needed has always been with you,’ she said, finally.

And so she left me in that boundless plain; with a quill and an inkpot, with an allo and a song.

With God.