Abdul’s Promise - by Trust Egbegi

In the heart of Northern Nigeria, in a town swallowed by sun and silence, lived a boy named Abdul. His home was a house of knives—literally. Daggers hung on cracked walls. Cutlasses rested like sleeping beasts beside doorways. Screams sliced through the night like broken hymns. But no one asked questions. No one knocked. The town knew, and the town kept quiet. Abdul was the last-born. But unlike his brothers—men hardened by brutality and madness—Abdul chose a different path. He picked scraps. Dirty plastics, bent tins, torn sandals. He scavenged like a ghost. He became a babanbola, a street picker. His hands were blackened, his feet blistered, but his eyes never stopped searching. At first, Abdul tried to sponsor his education through simple barter trade. He would swap plastics for pencils, old tins for exercise books, broken glass for notebooks. But discouragement came fast. The hunger, the mockery, the exhaustion — it all made him wonder if escaping was even possible. But he kept going. One day, he found an old English reader in a pile of trash. Torn at the edges, stained by time, but the words still danced. While his brothers fought, Abdul whispered vowels to the moon. From babanbola, he became a proper trader — bartering scraps for coins, coins for bread, bread for books. He sold plastics. Saved his earnings. Enrolled himself in a small English school. No one at home noticed. They thought he was wasting his time — mad, like the rest. His mother watched in silence. Until one day, Abdul, still just a boy, knelt before her and said: “Mama, I can’t grow here. I need to breathe. I will not become like them.” She looked at him—her youngest, her last spark of hope. Tired, but not yet broken, she gave him a worn scarf and whispered: “Promise me, Abdul… when you become somebody, you’ll buy me a car… buy me new clothes… and treat your brothers. Maybe their madness will bend before your wisdom.” She smiled through her tears and kissed his forehead. Her final words before letting him go were in Hausa: <blockquote> "Ka zama likita. Allah zai kula da kai. Kai Abdul dina ne. Ka kawo matarka mini idan ka girma. Kuma idan ka dawo na mutu, kada ka bayyana kanka. Na fi son ka rayu. Allah yana tare da kai."</blockquote>(Become a doctor. Allah will take care of you. You are my Abdul. Bring your wife to me when you grow. And if you return and find me dead, don’t reveal yourself. I love you. Allah is with you.) Then she did something no one expected. To protect him, and to hide his escape from his violent family, she lied. She told the others that Abdul had been killed in an accident — buried quietly, nothing left. With a bold heart, she let go. Her brother dropped Abdul at an orphanage in a town far away. There, Abdul became “the dirty black Hausa boy.” But insults didn’t stop him. He read. He helped. He led. He loved. He never forgot his mother’s words. One day, a wealthy merchant came looking to adopt. He saw Abdul’s eyes — eyes filled with both silence and storm. He adopted him and lied to the world, saying Abdul was a long-lost son they had hidden for years. Money was exchanged. Papers were signed. The orphanage stayed silent. But Abdul never forgot the orphanage — his second home. He studied hard. Passed his exams. Went to the best schools. He was both a doctor and a businessman. He grew the merchant’s empire — bought shares, expanded networks — but always remained quiet. Not out of fear, but because he didn’t crave attention. Then, through merit and character, he was admitted to Harvard. There, he met Amina. She was brilliant — tall, graceful, with eyes that knew pain but refused to break. They clicked immediately. What shocked Abdul most was that she came from the same hometown. How did she escape? How did she rise? She smiled and said, “A plant can grow in dirty water.” Without knowing who he truly was, she began telling him a story — his story. She said his brothers had once sold her to a trafficker. A man who tried to use her for rituals but abandoned her, claiming her blood was bad luck. She was considered useless to their trade. Untouched, dumped, discarded. But fate smiled on her. She found herself in the care of an old English man and his wife. They raised her as their own. Gave her love. Gave her books. Gave her light. > “You’re not a curse,” the old man once told her. “You are a calling.” She vowed to become a lawyer and was now studying international law. They graduated from Harvard with First Class degrees — side by side. Instead of staying abroad, they returned home. They married. But promised to chase their individual missions, together. Abdul returned to his hometown — this time, not as a broken boy, but as a man with answers. He searched for his mother. As he had promised, he bought her new clothes — the best. She saw him and instantly knew. Her eyes welled with tears. Her heart full of joy. She had lived with pain, but now saw the reward of her sacrifice. Abdul embraced her. And for the first time, he understood — his mother, too, was a victim. A young woman who had been abused, silenced, and surrounded by darkness. He didn’t just love her; he cared for her deeply. Nurtured her. His brothers — the ones who haunted his past — were caught. The law finally found them. Years of trafficking, abuse, and murder were laid bare. They even tried to kill Abdul — but failed. His father, still alive, watched from the shadows. Proud but bitter. Angry that Abdul showed love to his mother more than for him. He called Abdul and said in Hausa, “I forgive you and your mother… for your betrayal.” Then, burdened by guilt and shame, Abdul’s father took his own life. Amina stood by Abdul through it all. She took care of his mother too. With patience and strength, they helped her heal from years of emotional wounds. After a difficult kidney transplant, she survived for a few more years — just long enough to see her first grandchild. She passed peacefully, with her son at her side. Amina, now a fierce advocate for justice, fought tirelessly. She made sure Abdul’s brothers were sentenced for their crimes. Abuse. Trafficking. Murder. They were hanged. And Abdul — once the “dirty Hausa boy” — became a man of purpose. A doctor. A merchant. A husband. A father. A promise fulfilled.

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