20/05/2026
*THE FRAGILITY OF MY CULTURE AND IDENTITY*
Almost a week ago, when heat pressed down with unsettling intensity. I sat at my small business stand along Hadejia Road in Yankaba, near Mata-zalla, dressed in three-quarter jeans and an armless shirt, attending to customers. It was only a temporary setup, but it served its purpose.
A man approached evidently a customer, perhaps over fifty years of age. He carried himself with quiet grace, fair in complexion yet faintly troubled. When he spoke, a thin smile flickered across his face, like lamplight trembling against the wall of a sepulchre.
“Excuse me,” he said, glancing toward my POS machine.
I paused, studying him with a trace of confusion. How could he notice my attire? Why would he choose “excuse me” instead of the familiar sallama, as our Islamic tradition prescribes? Rather than responding immediately, I said,
“I am a Muslim, just like you. Why didn’t you offer sallama instead of saying ‘excuse me’?”
He looked at me with mild curiosity before replying in a subdued tone:
“Oh, I’m sorry. From your appearance, I assumed you were not a Muslim. I lived in the southern part of this country for over twenty years, and you resemble many people from there. But thanks be to God you are Hausa by tongue and a Muslim. I came to withdraw ten thousand naira.”
His words did not only wound; they settled quietly, and their weight was undeniable. In that moment, I felt a subtle yet piercing humiliation not merely personal, but cultural. Still, I proceeded with the transaction. I took his ATM card, processed his request, and even waived my service charge. He thanked me and left.
I remained there, unsettled not because of what he said alone, but because of what it revealed: that identity, once thought visible and secure, can be misread, reshaped, or even erased by appearance. In that quiet misunderstanding, I sensed not just a personal slight, but a fragile crack in the continuity of my culture itself.
*✍️M. U. Gandu*
*20/5/202
