The Boy with the Hole in His Heart - by Ibn Abdullah 🦁

THE BOY WITH THE HOLE IN HIS HEART The boy with the hole in his heart wants to play. But I cannot let him. He has a hole in his heart. Not a metaphorical gape symbolizing a void punctured by loss. Not a cavern dug by the seizure of a broken heart. A hole. A part of his physical, fleshy heart where nothing takes reign. A pit that does not follow the rhythm of his heartbeat. A hole in his heart. I stood as a spectator, watching a game of football—our school league. The sun was fiery with heat, bathing everything in that almost-noon brilliance. My face was awash with the excitement of a triumphant coach as my boys, FC Hives, decimated my brother's FC Bees. Then came a tug at my shirt. Little Fadil looked up at me with eyes that glistened with reflected sunlight and reflected excitement. "Uncle, I want to watch." "Okay, Fadil. You can come and watch." I reached for his hand. His forearm felt no thicker than a candlestick, and equally as brittle. I turned to my brother, who was yelling instructions that could do little to salvage a 5–2 scoreline. "He's thin," I said. "Oh, Fadil?" My brother looked at the boy. "He recently went through surgery... He has a hole in his heart." My eyes widened. My heart sank. I looked down at the boy. Then I looked up at the sun. And when my eyes returned to him, the sun no longer felt warm. It felt dangerous. At that moment, it seemed a villain I suddenly felt responsible for shielding him from. So into the shade I went, grabbed a chair, and sat the boy with the hole in his heart upon my lap. Another dayAnother match. FC Wasps versus FC Hornets. The boy was again seated upon my lap. Then came the principal, marching onto the field. "Uncle Farouq." "Ma?" "Since your team isn't playing today, help us supervise the primary pupils' match." "Yes... Ma." I rose reluctantly. "Come." I took the boy by the hand. Gently, I steered us away from the fanfare of excited onlookers. We made our way to the primary field, though moments earlier I had been quite invested in the match. Alas, even the proprietor's son must obey instructions. "One more thing." The principal turned. "Don't let him play." Her eyes fell on Fadil. "He's too weak." On to the primary football field we walked, the boy at my heels asking why he couldn't play like the rest of them. There are questions children ask that have no satisfying answers. So into the shade I went, grabbed a chair, and sat the boy with the hole in his heart upon my lap. The boy with the hole in his heart wants to play. But I cannot let him.The time for rehearsals arrived. Our annual Founders' Day celebration was upon us. As was tradition, we held cultural and occupational displays. For culture, I was put in charge of the Arabs. Why are we presenting Arabian culture even though it isn't a Nigerian tribe, you ask? Well... I haven't a clue either. Anyways, anyways... let's talk about the boy with the hole in his heart. It could have been an error, a mistake, an oversight—I don't know—but little Fadil was selected to be among the soldiers, a group I was also put in charge of. Drill Sergeant Farouq was every bit as merciless as the soldiers I danced with at NYSC orientation camp, wailo. I drilled them as though they were cadets in a military academy. Parade drills. Quick march. Slow march. Right wheel. Halt. Attention. At ease. Push-ups. Squats. They did them all. Why was I being so thorough with pupils and students over a simple career presentation? Well, dear reader... I'd say I'm a bit of a perfectionist. ...a bit. I bellowed commands—sometimes harsh, sometimes soft. I demanded excellence. I asked for perfectly executed manoeuvres. I pushed and pushed, almost to the limits of exertion (a slight dramatic exaggeration). I pushed everyone. All except the boy with the hole in his heart. "Give me five push-ups!" "Not you, Fadil." "Ten squats!" "Not you, Fadil." "Quick march!" "Not you, Fadil." "The sun isn't too bright anymore." He looked up at me hopefully. "Can I go back?" "No..." The word tasted bitter. "Not you, Fadil." So into the shade I went, grabbed a chair, and sat the boy with the hole in his heart upon my lap. The boy with the hole in his heart wants to march. But I cannot let him. Dance rehearsals had progressed far. Little Fadil, now part of the Hausa cultural display, stood among his more able-bodied peers beneath the bared claws of the sun. He swung his scrawny arms in what could barely be called dancing, defiantly ignoring both rhythm and coordination. His movements were heavy. Awkward. Unrefined. But he looked... Happy. He wanted to be there. For a while, I simply watched. In the world of children, there is a particularly poignant kind of pain: the pain of missing out. There is an incredible joy in simply being allowed to participate. But the price here was too high. Fadil's mother had had more than a few quarrels with teachers who forgot just how fragile her son was, never failing to remind them of the lengths they had gone—and the money they had spent—to save his little heart. So gently, I pulled him away from the sun's bloodlust. "You won't be part of the Hausa group anymore," I told him. "Uncle... why?" "You'll join us with the Arabs." At least there I could keep an eye on him. Make sure he didn't exert himself. Children suffering is something I find very difficult to stomach, and every time I looked at Fadil, I feared the worst. His little sister, Maryam, came to school alone one day... Without Fadil. The thought froze my heart before I even knew the reason. I wanted him to have all the fun in the world. I truly did. But not at the expense of tomorrow. He would join us. He would sit with the other children. He would sip tea on stage while the others performed. But he would not dance. Not with any noticeable vigour. And certainly not while the sun watched. So into the shade I went, grabbed a chair, and sat the boy with the hole in his heart upon my lap. The boy with the hole in his heart wants to dance. But I cannot let him.

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