Late in 1947, my train was slowly climbing up the steep hill to the Bauchi Plateau in Northern Nigeria. It was a cold morning. I had been traveling in third class for two full days and two sleepless nights. There was hardly any space to stretch my legs. I felt very bored and just wanted the journey to end.
The people in the train were from different places. Most were Hausa men. There were also some Birom people from the Plateau. A few Yoruba traders filled the carriage with their goods. In one corner, two schoolboys sat talking excitedly about their coming holiday.
In such a mixed group, it was hard to talk freely. Jokes often went wrong and sounded like insults. So I decided to stay quiet.
Nothing could take away my boredom. I had already read my book and magazines many times — they were no longer exciting. The scenery outside was the same old hills and trees I had seen before. My mood was too bad to feel happy.
I sat looking straight ahead, feeling empty, when the man sitting opposite me did something.
He pulled a small bag from under his seat. He took out a small flat blue book — a passport.
He looked at it with a gentle smile, like it held a special memory. Then he put it back in the bag and turned to look out the window again.
It seemed normal. The passport belonged to him. He had paid for his ticket like everyone else. But I started to really notice his face for the first time.
He was an old man with a beard and weak, watery eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks quietly. Even sitting down, you could see he was very bent. His arms and legs looked small and weak.
What surprised me most was how dirty he was. His skin was cracked from the harmattan — that cold, dry wind that blows from the Sahara and dries everything. His hands were rough and broken. His clothes were gray with dirt. His face looked like it had not been washed for a long time.
Yet this dirty old man had a passport — an important document from the British government that said people should let him travel freely and help him if needed.
In my young mind, I thought only important, clean people should have such a thing. How did this poor-looking man get it?
I was so curious that I almost asked him a question.
But before I could speak, someone interrupted.
"Hello, Hassan," a voice said. "Are you going to the tin mines?"
I looked up. It was a dark-skinned man in a dirty brown coat. His face looked familiar, but I was annoyed by the interruption.
"I'm sorry," I said coldly. "I don't know you."
He smiled shyly and started telling stories from our past.
"Don't you remember? We used to play together at Jebba, near Juju Rock. And the day you left for college, you were crying for your mother. Captain Plowman gave you a new shilling to make you happy. Don't you remember?"
I did remember, but I lied.
"I don't," I said.
He looked sad for a moment, then said, "Sorry. I thought if you're going to the mines, maybe you could help me get a job there."
Now I remembered him fully. His name was Kofi. He used to tell us exciting stories about the first white men who came to Nigeria. His stories were so good that they felt real to us kids.
But that was ten years ago. I was not in the mood for old stories now.
I turned away and looked back at the old man — the Mallam with the passport.
I spoke to him in Hausa with respect, because of his age.
"Greetings! I hope you are well on this journey."
The Mallam looked up slowly. His eyes opened wide, as if he was surprised someone was talking to him after two days of silence.
I quickly added, "I see you have traveled a long way."
"Yes," he said in a hoarse voice. "I have traveled very far."
"Mecca?" I asked, thinking of the Holy City many people dream of visiting.
"Yes, Mecca... and beyond."
He looked out the window, as if remembering hurt him.
I studied him quietly. His clothes were torn. His beard was long and untrimmed. Even the small cap under his turban was worn out.
Kofi tried to talk to me again about his problems and getting a job in the mines. I told him to ask the Mining Engineer.
Then I turned back to the Mallam.
"What did you do in Mecca?" I asked.
"I went to pray and show respect," he said.
"And beyond?"
"I was with the army. Among other things, I was their doctor."
I was shocked. "You were an army doctor?"
He smiled without teeth. "I should say a doctor of the body and the mind — in our African way."
I understood. "People came to you with their problems — body problems and heart problems — and you helped them."
"Yes, a kind of medicine man," he explained.
"That passport I saw..."
"Oh, that! I got it in 1927. It's twenty years old now. Time flies."
"Yes," I said.
"Twenty years... but Allah be praised. Those years were not wasted. I almost missed him."
"Missed who?"
He looked around quickly, like he was afraid someone heard.
"Sorry, I was talking to myself. Would you like to see the passport?"
I said yes.
He opened it to the photo page.
The photo showed a young man — strong, handsome, wearing a white turban and a nice velvet gown with gold edges.
But the old man in front of me looked nothing like that.
"You have changed a lot," I said.
"Twenty years is a long time," he said. "But it was worth it. I did not give my life for nothing."
"Give your life? What do you mean?"
"You are too curious, my son. First the passport, now everything."
"A student is always curious," I said.
"Please, spare me the pain. My breath is weak. I cannot talk much."
He looked behind him carefully, then spoke in a low voice.
"Look at this."
He lifted his dirty robe.
I almost shouted.
Under his heart was a long, deep wound. It had stopped bleeding, but the cloth was stuck to it.
He quickly covered it and smiled weakly.
"You see, I cannot talk much. It will soon be over. I have also taken some of this..."
He showed me white powder.
"Just to be sure. When I was in charge of army medical supplies, they told me a small amount on a sixpence can kill a man in about eighteen hours."
He started coughing hard. When he stopped, I asked:
"But why do all this?"
"Nothing," he said, shrugging. "I just want to die."
I could not understand. What could make such a wise man want to end his life?
He coughed again. I looked at the passport.
It said: Mallam Alhaji Ibrahim Ilia. Born 1882. Five feet six inches. No tribal marks. Traveling for trade to Mandara, Marua, and Fort Lamy. Signed in Kano, May 1927.
"I cannot understand why," I said.
"No, you cannot."
He smiled gently.
I realized I was sitting opposite a dying man — a man who had lived a big life but now chose to end it.
He talked about his death so calmly. His eyes were more glassy now. He was restless but too weak to move much. Sometimes a bad cramp grabbed his arm or leg, and he cried out in pain.
"You are a tough old man," I said. "You have suffered quietly all this time..."
"Toughness has limits," he said. "I wish I could tell you my story. I think you would understand."
"Don't try if it's too hard. But if it helps you..."
"It will. I must! I must!"
Sometimes he seemed normal, but his voice was so low I had to guess what he said. I used gestures, and he nodded when I got it right.
That's how we spent the last few hours before Jos.
Near the end, he got very emotional. I had to tell him to stay calm so he could finish.
About twenty miles from Jos, he closed his eyes.
Then he said, "Check the notes you wrote on those pieces of paper. Make sure I did not miss anything."
I read them back. He listened and nodded.
What follows is what I wrote down. The words were not always clear because of his pain, but this is his true story in the main parts.
I kept his own way of telling it. That grand old man was a great storyteller and a true follower of the Prophet.