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I close my eyes, feeling the sun intensely pressing down on my face. It’s midday and the sun is standing up high, around it, all clear blue sky. We clearly are not in Abuja anymore. There is less humidity in the air, I feel an arid breeze, and the sandy ground under my feet speaks of our proximity to the Sahara. In front of me, my colleague squats, his eyes focused on the camera perched securely in its tripod. Through the lens, he captures an elderly woman seated about three meters away on a prayer mat in front of her house, proudly displaying the goods she’s selling: two trays full of pulvers in small portions neatly wrapped in small plastic bags. She produces natural medicines for her community. Before the media team I am with can ask the next question, the woman stands up and gives signs to a man in the watching crowd. Moments later, he brings a small wooden stool for my pregnant colleague. Seconds later, I am urged to sit in a plastic chair that is placed into the shade next to her.
The protagonist returns to her spot and the interview continues. Her hands move swiftly, stringing together signs with grace, her fingertips decorated with henna – a tradition here, representing purity and dedication. Beside the camera, her son squats and now translates from their family language, sign language, into Hausa, the lingua franca here in northern Nigeria. Once he is finished, our driver takes over and translates one more time into English allowing my colleagues and me to follow along. The documentary we are producing is part of the closing of our project activities in this state. The woman, now showcasing how her customers buy from her only using signs, is a member of a woman safe space established by the program. These women support one another and contribute a small share of their income to a collective fund, providing grants for members to start small businesses and ensure ongoing self-sufficiency.
A couple of minutes later, we’re back to the car making our way alongside the dozens of keke – the small and buzzing yellow three-wheelers. As we pass a market, my colleague from my Abuja starts a conversation with our local team member, inquiring about the price of a sheep. Inflation, it shows, has not only hit the capital, as everybody is shocked by the high price. Still, he considers spending the equivalent 100 Euros to stock his family’s meat supply for weeks instead of doing so in pricey Abuja. Our local colleague offers to take us to his market the next day where the sheep could be conveniently butchered on-site .
We pass through several ancient gates, each of them beautifully adorned with ornaments hinting at the centuries of artistry and the historical importance of this northern city. Although we’ve driven nearly an hour since leaving the last community, we’re still within the city’s sprawling metropolitan area. Security concerns restict me from visiting more rural villages; banditry and kidnapping are on the rise in many northern states. To help prevent and mitigate, our program has empowered communities to form local vigilante groups. They not only protect their communities but also communicate with neighboring vigilante groups and resolve conflicts before they escalate.
We enter a low-ceilinged building, and by stepping in, I can see it’s a local hospital. Three simple beds are separated by fabrics and prayer mats cover the floor. We are invited to sit on them. The hospital also seems to be a meeting point in the community which is what we are here for. After a while, three men enter and apologize their delay. They’ve just left a meeting with the Emir, the state’s most important traditional political figure. As another part of the documentary, these members of the local conflict resolution committee start telling us about their daily actions. Just last week, they resolved a case of a neighbor dispute. One family had accused a solitary and alone-living neighbor of homosexuality- a dangerous allegation here, as such a trait is both illegal and socially not tolerated. The committee sat together with both parties to settle on a solution: the man would take tenants, dispelling suspicions and appeasing his neighbors.
The conversation has concluded, and the women from this community's safe space joins us. The room transforms, a sea of color and patterns flushes in alongside of confident faces. Most women wear traditional Ankara dresses, their bright colors and intricate patterns peaking from beneath an overdress that covers their arms and hair like an included headscarf. This flowing garment drapes down elegantly, guaranteeing full coverage while revealing a hint of the colorful dress from the knees down. Some others do not have this second layer and cover their hair with a headscarf matching the fabric of the dress, wrapped around their head in a more modern way. Some others cover their hair with a big light scarf full of glitter details catching the sunlight through the window. When they all leave the room, one by one slipping into their open shoes parked in front of the prayer mat, I remain impacted by the beauty of the scenario, the colors, diversity and empowerment that have filled my senses.
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