I plan to donate whatever I earn here to this man

I still remeber the lanky good-natured Mallam Nasiru, as he then was, when I was an innocent but rascally girl of four. He used to come to our village house bi-monthly, selling hand woven and raffia-made goods Hausa traders (in Nigeria) customarily said.

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A tall, thin dark man with a big nose and thin lips, he seemed very old in my childish eye. However, as he unrelentlessly continued to call, until I got to the right age of thirty, i realized he could only had been middle age.

Years after, when I had the opportunity of seeing him again, he really was a weather-beaten, frail old man leaning heavily on his walking stick as he limped helplessly itno the compound.

Compared with those of other Hausa traders, his low quality goods were second rate, but my generous and sympathetic mother bought only from him. He was exceptionally polite and very humble, never pressing us to buy, as other overnbearing hausa traders did. He had always repacked his scattered wares cheerfully, without having sold even a woven fan. Even then, in his largeness of health, he would often gladly fish out from his worn dirty bags, some little appreciable gifts for us delighted children.

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