Hassan

HASSAN Ɗan Arewa*** From the red clay farms where the hoe strikes deep, To the mosque at dawn where faithful hearts weep, Hassan runs with barefoot grace, Sunrise dancing on his smiling face. He is joy in motion, laughter’s sound, Leaping over puddles on thirsty ground. Torn trousers, yet a royal stride — He is his *uwa’s* (mother’s) prayer, his *uba’s* (father’s) pride. With millet grains and dusty feet, He greets the world on every street. From *Almajiri* books to chalk-stained slates, He learns, he dreams, he writes his fate. His heart is gold, though his coin is few, He wears no crown — yet kings bow too. His mosque, his school, his family’s field, Are the kingdom where his strength is sealed. *“Sai dai mu yi dariya,”* he says with a grin, “For struggle is heavy, but I still win.” He shares *kosai* under mango trees, And hums old songs on the northern breeze. Through harmattan’s cold and market cries, Hope still twinkles in his eyes. No palace gate or western shine Can dim that light — that spark divine. Oh Hassan, child of dusty lanes, Of whispered hopes and distant rains, The future hides within your smile — Stretching from Sokoto to the River Nile. So sing your joy, and laugh out loud, For even in rags, you make us proud. You are proof — in every stride and stance — That happiness needs no circumstance. 6d