28/02/2026
Amina: Daughter of the North
In the quiet city of Jalingo, where the hills rest like ancient guardians and the evening call to prayer echoes softly across rooftops, lived a girl named Amina.
She was known for her calm eyes and quiet strength.
At seventeen, Amina carried herself with dignity. She helped her mother grind millet in the mornings, assisted her aunt in the market, and dreamed of becoming a teacher one day. She loved the smell of fresh suya smoke drifting through the streets and the rhythm of Hausa songs playing from small radios in the evenings.
But one evening, the peace of Jalingo felt different.
The sky darkened faster than she expected as she left the market. The street that usually buzzed with okada riders and traders was unusually quiet. Her sandals scraped softly against the dusty road.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps behind her.
Not the relaxe steps of someone walking home — but slow… deliberate.
Her chest tightened.
She didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, she remembered something her grandmother once told her:
"A strong woman thinks before she reacts."
The footsteps grew closer.
Fear tried to swallow her, but Amina refused to let it control her. She adjusted her scarf, straightened her back, and walked toward the direction of a nearby mosque where a few elderly men were still talking after evening prayers.
Suddenly, the footsteps quickened.
Amina’s heart pounded so loudly she thought it could be heard. But instead of freezing, she did something brave — she screamed.
Not a weak cry.
A bold, powerful shout for help.
The sound cut through the silence of the street.
Doors opened.
Voices rose.
Men steppe out.
The presence of witnesses change everything.
Whoever had followed her disappeared into the shadows.
Her hand tremble, but she stood firm. The elderly men escorted her home. That night, she cried — not because she was weak, but because she had felt danger and faced it.
And the next morning, she refused to stay silent.
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