The Misadventures of Khadijah: The Old Man from Nowhere

Little Khadijah always has a knack of finding trouble...or trouble finding her.

Sep 13, 2024

The Misadventures of Khadijah: The Old Man from Nowhere — They called him “the old man from nowhere.”

Khadijah arrived home earlier than usual, the sun still high in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty streets. It was just past noon, a stark contrast to her typical sundown returns. Two years had passed since she and Jaye returned from her grandmother's village, reuniting with her father and the rest of the family in their rural town. And two years since she had disappointed her father, who had hoped her grandmother would tame her spirited nature.

Within a week of her return, she was back to her old talkative self, much to her father's dismay. Determined to be useful and driven by curiosity, she immersed herself in the life of a street vendor. A middle-aged neighbor with three children and over two decades of vending experience took her under her wing. This kind woman, Khadijah’s first and sole investor, provided the initial goods for her budding business: five oranges.

With minimal guidance but fierce determination, Khadijah transformed those five oranges into the cornerstone of a thriving small business. Her success stemmed from her persistence and outgoing personality: a friendly but tenacious little saleswoman.

Not to mention, she set herself apart from other vendors by peeling the oranges in advance—a clever trick Salmana had taught her—and meticulously cleaning them. This extra effort made the oranges gleam, attracting customers who valued the convenience of buying and enjoying a fresh, ready-to-eat snack.

Her hard work paid off. She built a loyal customer base and even started to earn enough to provide for herself and her family, including Jaye, her older brother Aliyu, her infant brother, a younger sister, and her parents.

As Khadijah entered their humble home, the aroma of dinner greeted her. The small, two-room quarters buzzed with the usual activity. Her infant brother crawled on the floor while the lively chatter and laughter of Jaye and her younger sister filled the air as they played with him. Her older brother, Aliyu, was likely out entertaining their well-off uncle with the latest knowledge he had acquired at the private Catholic school their father had somehow managed to afford. "My son," her father would always say, beaming with pride. Aliyu was his pride and joy, the only child in the family who made him grin and sing praises to his friends.

Khadijah approached her mother, who was frantically preparing dinner. It was unusual for her mother to start cooking this early without help as Khadijah was the premier cook in the family. "Why are you cooking so soon?" Khadijah asked, though what she meant was, "Why are you cooking by yourself? You know you can't cook without my help."

"Hush, child. Your father has guest. I am cooking up something for them."

Khadijah rolled her eyes at the mention of a guest. "Not another guest," she thought. Her father's "guest" usually meant someone who would crash at their already cramped place and stay for the night, a day, two days, or as long as they liked. Her father earned a reputation in their border town as the good samaritan, always offering cheap or mostly free lodging to travelers and passersby.

The guests who stayed at their place were usually poor immigrants from the neighboring country, arriving with nothing but the clothes on their backs, seeking a better life. "I know what it's like to come to a foreign place with nothing. It's the least I can do for God to bless me," her father would say whenever asked why he allowed strangers to stay with him and his family.

Khadijah sighed and joined her mother in the tiny kitchen area of their home, taking over the task of chopping vegetables with relative ease. "Do you know who it is this time?" she asked, trying to mask her irritation.

Her mother shook her head. "Your father didn't say much, just that it was someone in need."

As they worked side by side, Khadijah felt frustration brewing within her. Her father's generosity often stretched their resources thin, and the constant flow of strangers disrupted their daily life. She wished, just for once, they could have a quiet evening with no guests.

Her mother's frantic pace slowed as Khadijah took charge of the cooking, the familiar rhythm of their teamwork bringing a sense of calm. The smell of onions and spices filled the air, and for a moment, the disarray of their small home felt manageable.

“Think we'll be okay here?” Khadijah asked.

Her mother nodded, then glanced at her. “Why are you home so early?” she asked, just as Khadijah was about to walk away.

“I finished selling,” Khadijah said, pointing to her empty platter by the door. “Farid bought it all before I even hit the main street.” Farid, a successful Lebanese businessman in town, was one of her loyal customers. He always appreciated how pristine her oranges were and refused to buy from anyone else. “Anytime you have more, come to me first,” he would tell her in his thick Lebanese accent, despite having lived in their town with his family for almost fifteen years.

Khadijah's curiosity was piqued by the sight of her parents' door slightly ajar. Normally, when guests were over, her father would usher them into the room, the jewel of their small home, for conversation. But the door would always remain firmly closed. Leaving her mother tending to the kitchen, she tiptoed towards it. A peek through the crack revealed her father seated on his floor mat, a small, timeworn silver teapot and two half-filled glass cups nestled beside him.

Her father was chattering away, cracking jokes, but his guests seemed disinterested. The first guest, closest to her father and sitting on the floor mat, was an old and ragged man. His clothes hung in tattered shreds, barely covering his emaciated frame. In the stale room, his oddly shaped bald head glistened with sweat and his leathery skin bore deep creases of age. The old man chewed a kola nut slowly, his sharp, sunken eyes darting around the room but never settling on her father. His fingers, gnarled and calloused, clutched the kola nut tightly as he nodded his head, but not at her father’s words.

Next to him sat the most striking man Khadijah had ever laid eyes on. He was lanky and tall. Even seated, he towered over her father and the old man. His skin, smooth and dark as polished ebony, radiated a natural sheen akin to melted chocolate. Prominent cheekbones stressed his angular face, along with a strong, chiseled jawline and bushy eyebrows that arched above intense, deep-set eyes. Adorned in a black Kufi hat and a matching grand boubou of the highest quality, his attire surpassed even the finest garments worn by the richest men in town.

The tall man was whispering something to the old man, who nodded his head and continued to chew his kola nut. The two paid no attention to her father, who was jabbering about the town's history and what had led him to settle there with his family.

Khadijah's father gestured animatedly, his voice rising and falling with excitement. "And that's when I knew this was the place for us," he said. "This is a place where you can build a future, you know, away from the mess of the city."

The old man and the tall stranger remained engrossed in their own conversation. The old man's eyes flicked briefly to her father before returning to his companion, who continued to whisper in a voice too low for Khadijah to hear. The scene before her unfolded, and she couldn't help but feel a growing fascination with the peculiar dynamic between the pair, especially the tall stranger. What was he doing in their impoverished part of town and in their home of all places? And why was he with such a dirty and uncouth old man? Questions swirled in Khadijah’s mind, and as if reading her thoughts, the stranger abruptly stopped whispering to the old man and looked directly at her through the ajar door with piercing eyes that seemed to see right through her. He flashed a row of perfect, marble-white teeth at Khadijah, causing her to blush and the hair on the back of her neck to stand up.

“Rude girl!” the old man shouted, angrily pointing at the ajar door. Khadijah’s father stopped his conversation, initially confused by the old man’s outburst. But as his eyes followed the old man’s pointing finger to the door, his expression turned to one of fury.

“Assiatou!” Khadijah’s father yelled at the top of his lungs. “Get this girl out of here before I do something I regret!”

Khadijah's body froze, paralyzed by fear. Her father did not make empty threats. Eavesdropping was one of the seven deadly sins in their household, punishable by ten swift lashes. He would have implemented such punishment immediately if not for the presence of his guests.

Suddenly, she felt a firm grip on her hand, yanking her away from the door. "You can't hear, little girl,” her mother said in a weary tone, pulling her swiftly into the kitchen.

As she was being pulled away, Khadijah glimpsed the only person in the room who didn’t seem angry at her. He flashed his bright smile at her again, causing her to shudder.

At supper, Khadijah and her family gathered around a large dinner platter filled to the brim with jasmine rice and chicken in the living room area/children’s room/guest’s room/dining room of their tiny home. Joining them were their guests.

The old man attacked the food with alarming ferocity, shoveling rice and pieces of chicken into his mouth, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk hoarding its nuts. Bits of rice fell from his mouth, and his slurping and chomping sounds filled the room. Khadijah and her siblings exchanged glances. Their father always said you could tell a lot about a person based on how they ate in front of others, even predicting the type of life they would have in this world. Even Khadijah’s usually composed mother was visibly taken aback, pausing mid-bite to stare at the old man’s voracious appetite and eating etiquette, which painted a picture of a long and miserable life.

Khadijah’s father remained unfazed, continuing to eat as if nothing unusual was happening. His focus, though, was not entirely on his food. Khadijah could feel the heat of his anger directed at her, his eyes burning from her earlier eavesdropping. She knew that look all too well—her father was still seething, feeling disrespected in front of his guests. No doubt that she would face her punishment as soon as their guests had left.

In contrast, the tall stranger hardly touched the food in front of him. He continued his quiet conversation with the old man, leaning in to whisper in his ear. The old man would nod occasionally, his mouth still full, not breaking his rhythm of eating. After finishing his own meal, the old man even began to eat the food of his companion: an act met with no objection from the latter.

Khadijah observed the stranger intently, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling within her. Why was such a refined-looking man here, whispering to this old coot as if they were equals? The thought of a familial relation crossed her mind for a moment, but she quickly dismissed it. There was no way this stranger and the person next to him, eating like a demonic toddler, could be related. They were complete opposites in appearance and demeanor. These thoughts filled her head, but she knew better than to voice them. For now, all she could do was sit in silence, dreading the moment the guests would eventually leave and her father would deal with her.

For the next few days, the old man and his tall companion stayed at Khadijah’s home. They slept in the cramped living room area alongside Khadijah and her three siblings. Like previous guests, neither the old man nor his companion seemed to mind it. The companion’s indifference puzzled Khadijah the most. Each night, it was a strange sight to see the tall, elegant man, dressed in the finest attire, laying on an undersized cot. His legs and arms sprawled on the floor like a long-legged spider. His attire, suited for the grandest homes in town or even the finest residences further inland in the capital city, seemed out of place in their tight home. The whole situation felt unnatural to her. She couldn’t fathom why a man of such apparent wealth would subject himself to such a lowly condition.

The days passed slowly, each one blending into the next. In their temporary home, the tall stranger and the old man established a routine that stood out starkly. They rose earlier than anyone else in the household, even before Khadijah’s father—a rare occurrence by itself. No guest had ever stirred before her father roused from his slumber, before the crack of dawn. By the time the family gathered for breakfast, the tall stranger and the old man had long departed, venturing into town under the dim light of early morning.

In contrast to their early rising, the two men would not return to Khadijah’s home until late in the evening. Her father, who had already returned from his day’s wanderings, would gather with the family, ready for dinner. The men would arrive just in time to join the gathering, slipping into their places as the dinner platter was served. Their mysterious whispers and erratic eating habits persisted, only deepening the enigma surrounding them.

As Khadijah observed closely, bits of food often spilled from the old man’s mouth as he devoured his meal, while the tall stranger barely touched his own portion of the platter, engrossed instead in their subdued conversations. Like clockwork, after finishing his own food, the old man would move on to his companion’s side of the platter, nodding occasionally as he continued to eat.

After dinner, the two would step outside, continuing their conversations in more private detail until the night grew late, and it was time for bed. This pattern repeated itself perfectly, without deviation, for the entire duration of their stay.

Since the first day he invited him, Khadijah’s father had observed his reserved nature. Unlike previous guests, the old man was not the talkative type. Normally, after dinner, her father had a routine of inviting guests to his room for tea and companionship. However, he soon recognized the man’s preference for privacy and desire for solitude. After a few attempts, he ceased extending the invitation.

Khadijah's curiosity grew with each passing day. The tall stranger, with his polished appearance, and the old man, with his coarse manners, made for an odd and fascinating pair. Their presence in her home was both intriguing and unsettling. From the crowded mattress she shared with her siblings, Khadijah would open her eyes early each morning to watch them slip out, wondering what they did in town all day.

After her business dealings with her customers, she was always eager to head home and wait for their return each evening, hoping to overhear snippets of their whispered conversations.

Despite her curiosity, Khadijah knew better than to pry. The punishment still loomed large in her mind, and she dared not risk intensifying her father’s wrath. She observed the two guests in silence, her questions piling up with no hope of answers.

Eventually, the stay of the two guests at Khadijah’s house did come to an end, though not as expected. Unlike previous guests who left with gratitude and farewells, their departure was abrupt and unceremonious.

It began on a Friday evening. The family gathered for dinner, as usual. Khadijah’s father had made it a habit to leave the front door open, sparing guests the inconvenience of knocking and waiting to be let in. The open door also allowed a much-needed cool breeze to circulate through the house, a relief after the day’s scorching sun. However, as the family sat down and began eating, the old man and his tall companion did not appear.

Puzzled glances were exchanged, but everyone continued their meal. The old man and his companion were conspicuously absent. Portions of food sat untouched on the platter like a deserted island. After everyone had finished eating, Khadijah’s father instructed her mother to save the portions with the expectations of a late arrival.

Moments later after this instruction was given, a young boy, not much older than Aliyu, rapped on the open door, announcing his presence breathlessly. Khadijah’s father hurried to answer the boy’s call. The entire family could hear the boy’s conversation with her father. Panting as if he had sprinted all the way, the boy relayed the news without mincing words: the police had apprehended the old man.

Khadijah’s father’s face tightened as he listened. The boy continued, explaining the reason for the arrest. But before he could utter a word, everyone in the family already knew what he was going to say. These were harsh times where economic woes bred strong anti-immigrant sentiments. Local police, also feeling the economic pinch, were more than eager to target anyone who seemed out-of-place in town, in the country. They swiftly arrested, processed, and deported any out-of-place foreigners.

Khadijah’s father knew this all too well. He himself had become a target of the police force, with some officers accusing him of harboring illegal immigrants. Some had even attempted to arrest and deport him, but he had narrowly avoided this fate by presenting his citizenship certificate. As a result, he kept his papers with him at all times.

After the boy finished relaying his message, Khadijah’s father thanked him and bid him good night, closing the front door with a heavy sigh. There was nothing the family could do about the old man’s predicament. “It’s in God’s hands now,” he said aloud.

Khadijah’s mind raced with thoughts about the tall stranger. Had he also been apprehended? Perhaps he was working with powerful connections to secure the old man’s release? Surely a man of his status must know someone influential enough to intervene. Their xenophobic town police did not know who they were dealing with. This wasn’t some poor, vulnerable immigrant; this man carried an air of authority and status that seemed out of place in their rural, stagnant town.

That night, piercing screams that sounded like a woman in distress abruptly awakened Khadijah and her family. The still air filled with the pounding of heavy boots on pavement, the shouts of men, and the shrill blasts of police whistles. “Look for them! They’re not far!” voices could be heard yelling repeatedly amidst the blaring whistles.

Initially, the family huddled in the living room area, confused and trying to make sense of the commotion outside. But it was another sound that sent a wave of dread through their hearts—the sharp, unmistakable crack of gunshots. The barrage of shots lasted only a brief moment, but for Khadijah and her family, huddled together as low as possible in the living room, it felt like an eternity. The noise reverberated through their small home, shaking its very foundation.

As the gunfire subsided, Khadijah’s father motioned silently for everyone to gather in his room. The family quickly and quietly hurried over there, closing the door tightly shut. In the dark room, Khadijah could see the fear etched on her siblings’ faces, and she knew her own mirrored theirs. Her mother held the youngest ones close, whispering reassurances that sounded hollow even to herself. Like their father, Aliyu had his ears perked and eyes sharp on the door, as if he could see what was going on outside.

They stayed like that for the entire night, wide awake and listening to the ruckus outside. The shouting and whistles continued unabated. No one in the family could rest; they were too alert, too aware of the lurking danger just beyond their walls. Fresh memories of a past civil war were entrenched in the minds of everyone, except the youngest. Memories of rioting, looting in their town, shooting and a Molotov cocktail thrown into their neighbor’s home, engulfing it in flames, as they navigated the chaos and escaped to the village: memories Khadijah, Aliyu, and Jaye most of all would never forget.

As the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the window, the noise outside abated. The family remained huddled together, exhausted but unable to relax. The fear still hung heavily over them all.

When it was finally quiet enough to risk it, Khadijah’s father slowly opened the door and stepped into the main living area. The rest of the family followed cautiously, their eyes scanning the room as if expecting to see remnants of the mayhem they had heard during the night. But there was nothing. The children’s mattress and the guest’s cot were undisturbed, exactly as they had been left.

Outside, the street was silent. Khadijah peered out the window and saw an empty street and intact neighbors' homes and shops against the backdrop of an unsettling calm.

Khadijah’s father spoke softly, breaking the silence. “It’s over for now. Let’s go with the day.”

Following their morning prayers, as the family gathered around to eat breakfast, a hard knock at the front door startled them. Khadijah’s father cautiously got up to answer, gesturing for everyone to remain where they were. Opening the door, he exhaled heavily. “Thank God, you’re safe.”

The entire family spun their heads toward the door. Standing in the doorway were the old man and his tall companion. Khadijah could make out their short and tall silhouettes as they contrasted starkly against the morning light. Eyes widened and mouths agape, the family stared as if they were seeing the dead. No one had expected to see the old man again.

“I came to get my things,” the old man said irritably, barging inside. Khadijah’s father stepped aside, allowing the man to collect his belongings, which were cluttered and stored in two large white plastic bags lying beside the guest’s cot.

Khadijah watched as the old man, acknowledging no one, hurriedly grabbed the plastic bags. He turned and headed back toward the door, his tall companion trailing behind like a loyal, silent shadow. Biting off and chewing a kola nut, the old man exited their home without a word of goodbye or any pleasantries.

Khadijah, her mother, and siblings joined her father at the doorway, watching in silence. Khadijah watched as the old man’s hunched figure and the tall stranger’s towering form slowly disappeared into the distance.

“What’s a rich man doing with that dirty geezer?” Khadijah blurted out.

“What rich man?” Aliyu asked, looking puzzled.

“The rich man with him. He follows that geezer everywhere. I wondered if they arrested them together.”

Aliyu sighed. “Khadijah, there’s no rich man with the old man.”

“Yes, there is! The tall, dark rich man. He was staying with us the whole time. You didn’t see him?”

“Kha—”

“Crazy Khadijah seeing things again,” Jaye said, making a face and sticking out his tongue.

“I am not crazy, stupid boy!” Khadijah pointed emphatically. “How could you not see the tall man in the black gown? He’s taller than even Alhaji Mamadou.”

“Crazy Khadijah!” Jaye continued teasing, causing Aliyu to chuckle.

Khadijah turned to her father. She was about to ask him to tell her brothers that she wasn’t crazy and that there was indeed another guest staying with them besides the old man. She was on the verge of asking him, but the familiar intensity in his gaze stopped her short—the same look she’d received when he caught her eavesdropping. At that moment, Khadijah said nothing as Jaye continued to tease her. From then on, she would mention nothing about the old man and his companion… the tall man in the black gown.

They called him “the old man from nowhere.” At least, that’s what two friends of Khadijah’s father said a few weeks later, when they joined the family for dinner on a Thursday evening. Before then, the two men, known as the town criers, had avoided visiting their friend’s house as long as the old man was staying there. In fact, as Khadijah, her father, and the rest of the mature family members—Khadijah’s mother and Aliyu—reflected during dinner, nobody had ever visited them while the old man was in residence: neither friends nor family.

“Ballou, you escaped a big calamity,” one man said to her father. Then, the two men recounted the night when gunshots startled Khadijah and her family: the night the family huddled together in a dark room until dawn. A jailbreak at the police station had caused the night’s chaos. Eleven prisoners had escaped, ranging from petty criminals like pickpocketers to serious offenders like murderers. These ten escapees wreaked havoc in the town that night, looting small shops and committing armed robberies in some homes.

One prisoner had a gun. Along with two fellow inmates, he stormed into the home of a wealthy Lebanese family. The husband attempted to resist, and the intruders viciously beat him in front of his terrified wife and three children—a son and two daughters. The men would have likely beaten him to death if the police hadn’t arrived in time.

Hearing this part of the story, Khadijah froze. Farid, one of her most loyal customers, was the husband attacked. Imagining his battered face and the terrified eyes of his friendly children made her stomach churn. She dropped her food, unable to eat another bite for the rest of dinner.

Continuing their story, the two men detailed how the police’s arrival caused the three prisoners to scatter. The officers managed to capture all three, but only took two of them alive. The prisoner with the gun, determined not to return to jail, engaged in a fierce firefight. Outgunned, he was shot to death not far from Khadijah’s home.

A more heartbreaking detail also emerged: a little boy had died in the crossfire. A stray bullet entered one of Khadijah’s neighbor’s homes, killing the boy instantly as he slept. His parents, particularly the mother, were inconsolable upon discovering the lifeless body.

The police captured five prisoners alive, while five prisoners remained at large, likely having fled to nearby towns. Thus, they were working with local forces in those towns to track down and apprehend the fugitives. Despite their efforts, the entire incident had significantly tarnished the reputation of the town’s police.

The two men abruptly stopped eating and leaned in, their faces shadowed. “He caused all this,” one of them whispered. The statement brought Khadijah’s father, mother, and brother Aliyu to a halt, unable to touch their food.

The men weaved their tale, describing how, upon being captured, the prisoners had told the police that the old man was the reason for their escape. According to the prisoners, the old man had been placed in their cell earlier that day. To them, he was a filthy, silent, old presence that was initially ignored.

But as midnight passed, the old man suddenly stirred and began waking the other inmates, asking if they wanted to escape. At first, they dismissed him as mad and paid no attention. However, his insistence grew louder and more fervid until he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

The lone officer on night watch, irritated by the disturbance, stormed over and ordered the old man to shut up at once. The old man fixed him with a stare, and to everyone’s shock, the officer collapsed as if struck by an invisible force, his head hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

Without missing a beat, the old man then glanced at the cell door, which swung open instantly. The prisoners, stunned and bewildered, took their chance and fled.

The police chief, woken from his sleep to aid in the pursuit, initially dismissed the prisoners’ account as nonsense. But when he and his officers returned to the station after an exhausting night, they found the scene exactly as described: their comrade unconscious on the floor, the cell door wide open, and the old man calmly sitting inside, chewing a kola nut, utterly unperturbed as the moonlight streamed through the barred window.

This scene shook the entire police force, including the previously skeptical chief, to their core. The authorities promptly released the old man under the pretense of good behavior for not escaping, but the true reason was fear. Terrified of another potential jailbreak, they wanted him gone as quickly as possible.

Khadijah and her family listened in stunned silence. Even Jaye and her younger sister were quiet. Not even her baby brother, held in her mother’s arms, made any sound. The room felt colder, the rice and beef stew on their dinner platter forgotten. The old man had been more than a mysterious lodger. They had housed him and, with that, welcomed danger in their midst.

As the story ended, the two men exchanged wary glances, their voices hushed as if the old man might somehow hear them.

“Ballou, you and your family escaped a big calamity,” one of the men said.

“Yeah, Ballou, that old man is trouble everywhere he enters.”

“Hee yee, he’s Satan.”