I stand Rejected ( safinatu's challenge)

Safinatu’s Challenge. When the messenger informed me that I had a friend waiting for me at the reception, I thought it was really a friend. But when I saw the woman from the VVF Centre, I almost laughed. “Madam say make you come for Friday,” she relayed the message in Pidgin as quickly as she could and was on her way. I smiled on hearing that Sis. Irene wanted another meeting for us to brainstorm as she normally puts it. Our plan had been clearly mapped out but we had the challenge of finding a reliable ally that would not squeal. I had kept the plan secret from my colleagues and producers at the station; it was not something you could discuss in a place that could become volatile in a minute. We needed a voice. I couldn’t act as the voice because it was against the ethics of my profession as a journalist to be involved in a story and the Nun of course could not be used as she was only being tolerated in Zaria because she was with the cursed ones. The women at the centre could not be trusted as they would be the first to inform the Almajiris or Area boys that believed they were the soldiers of Allah and could cause mayhem within a second. I was being very careful because I had seen the horrible effects religious crisis have had in Zaria. I covered a Guinea worm eradication programme flag off before making my way to the centre on the Friday I was invited. The centre was a little bit at the outskirts of Zaria and getting transportation to the place was kind of herculean. The only means of transportation was by commercial motorcycles popularly called Okada and they charged exorbitant fares. I made it anyway and on getting to Irene’s office, I met a cutely dressed young girl. My heart bled again as I thought she was another victim of the scourge. “Good afternoon,” she greeted. I replied and asked after the Nun. “She just stepped out, she will soon be back,” she replied. I saw she was reading a concise elementary sciences textbook. Instantly I knew she was different from the girls the centre was meant for. “You must be the journalist,” she stated rather than asked. “And who may this pretty girl that knows me be?” I asked jokingly. She blushed and smiled in a shy way before introducing herself, “I am Aisha, Amina’s friend.” “Oh, finally you have come to fulfil your oath of friendship,” I asked, trying to making her to feel guilty a bit. She smiled further. Sr. Irene came in at that moment. “I can see you ladies are already friends,” she said smiling. “Where did you get this beautiful girl from?” I asked mockingly. “She found us, a long lost fried and she is the voice we have been looking for,” the Nun supplied. I was startled and did not hide it. The white lady was always carefree about our plot; she didn’t understand the fire she was playing with. I asked the young girl to excuse us and stepped outside with Sis. Irene. “She is too young for this risk,” I blurted out. “You mean too young to relay the message and experience girls her age are being put through?” She asked defensively. “Irene, this is the North, we have Sharia in this land. It is dangerous,” I said trying to make her understand the gravity of bringing a small girl into the plot. “Aisha has volunteered to do it and if what we want to do is risky and worth doing, let’s do it,” she argued. I knew she was stubborn naturally but never knew she could be difficult. “Can she read?” I asked though I think I knew the answer. “Yes,” Irene replied. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said. “Thank you Safinatu.” I heard Irene say before I felt her bulky frame enveloping me in a hug. The next day, I came with my tape recorder and the script we had earlier prepared. Aisha was there before I came. Amina was with her and by mere looking at her; I could tell she had the details of our plan. Irene gave a copy of the script to Aisha. “You need to read these words passionately,” she instructed her, “let it radiate emotion. Let it hit them like a sucker punch so they can think twice otherwise all our efforts will be in vain,” Irene explained. Aisha took the paper and glanced at it; there were two versions in English and Hausa. “My name is Amina and I am 14 years old. I am a daughter, a sister and a child with a bright future. I had the dream of becoming a teacher when I grow up. But that dream is gone away. I was made to become a wife when I was a child. At 10 years, I carried the pregnancy meant for a woman. I went through the pains of labour and I could not deliver my baby because my body was not ready for child bearing. My baby died and I cannot deliver now or in the future because I have damaged my body. Now my future is now a bleak one. I am a victim of Vesico-Vagina Fistula (VVF). Eighty per cent of girls under 11 years that try to deliver end up as VVF patients. I ask you to please allow the next child to become a woman before she becomes a wife so that our future will be bright. Help us protect our future .” I knew it would happen and it did; Aisha was filled with tears as she read between the lines. Amina smiled and put her hand on her shoulder, she was also in tears. “Aisha, can you do this?” Irene asked her. “Yes, I will,” she answered amidst her running nose and tears, “Yes I will.” She got it right after so many attempts and we had the voice for the plan. “What is the rate for the jingle to be announced six times a day for one month?” Irene asked. “Two hundred and fifty Naira,” I replied. She left and came back with the fee and handed it over to me. They walked me off to the junction from where I departed back to Zaria town armed with the plan.