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stomach, in my chest, in my head, everywhere.
    I rinse the plates by the mosque taps and take them in to Malam Abdul-Nur. He is sitting with Sheikh Jamal. They look up at me.
    â€˜Yes, he’s the one I was telling you about,’ Malam tells Sheikh Jamal.
    I give him the plates and say I am grateful.
    â€˜Sit,’ he says.
    I sit slowly trying not to bend my knees. Sheikh Jamal looks into my eyes searching—for what, I do not know. I look at him at first but can’t stand the weight of his eyes. Suddenly I am aware of all the sounds in the room: the whirring of the fans, someone washing at the tap outside, the revving of cars about to set off on long journeys, the bus conductors outside screaming to potential passengers, someone laughing loudly in front of the mosque. Perhaps he can hear the beating of my heart, because I can, in spite of the many sounds.
    â€˜By what name are you called?’ Sheikh Jamal’s very formal tone breaks through all the sounds and blocks them out.
    â€˜Dantala. But my father named me Ahmad.’
    During the very long silence all I can hear is his heavy breathing and the crunching of the fresh lobe of white kola nut which Malam Abdul-Nur has just popped into his mouth. There is something about the Sheikh which makes my heart beat faster. Faster in a good way, not faster like when I broke Umma’s large mirror and heard her coming into the room. I can’t tell what it is.
    He pulls at the tip of his beard freeing entangled strands of hair. I want a beard like this. Maybe not with the grey hairs, but I like the way it covers most of his face and neck.
    â€˜You have a good name, the name of our Prophet, sallallahu alaihi wasallam.’ He dims his eyes when he says, ‘Peace be upon him.’
    I nod.
    Then Malam Abdul-Nur speaks, holding up his right palm like a slate, turning between me and Sheikh. ‘But Dantala . . . Dantala is not a name. To say someone was born on a Tuesday, is that a name? A name should have meaning. Like Ahmad, the name of the Prophet, sallallahu alaihi wasallam. You should stop using that Dantala.’
    I keep nodding.
    â€˜Where is your home, the home of your father?’ Sheikh continues.
    â€˜My father died, but he lived in Dogon Icce with my mother.’
    â€˜Allah is King! May Allah grant him rest. May Allah forgive his bad deeds and remember his good ones. May Allah reward him with aljanna.’
    I say amen after every prayer.
    â€˜So what do you intend to do now?’
    â€˜I want to go to my mother in Dogon Icce. I fell sick when I came back from being an almajiri in Bayan Layi and was taking injections with the fair man on the other side of the motor park. Chuks.’
    â€˜Aha, the Igbo man. He is good. Are you feeling any better?’
    â€˜Yes. Very much.’
    He pauses again and whispers something to Malam Abdul-Nur.
    â€˜What is the name of your teacher in Bayan Layi?’ he asks.
    â€˜Malam Junaidu.’
    He turns to Malam Abdul-Nur and asks, ‘Is it our Junaidu?’
    â€˜I am sure it is,’ Malam Abdul-Nur replies and then turns to me and asks: ‘Isn’t he very dark with a mark across his cheek?’
    I nod. Sheikh Jamal takes out a phone from his front pocket. I am afraid. If he calls Malam Junaidu, then he will probably hear that I joined the kuka tree boys, who smoked wee-wee and didn’t pray. He raises the phone to his ear and my heart beats faster, not in a good way.
    He starts to talk and asks Malam Junaidu how he is, how his farm is going, and they go on and on about the rains and then about the violence and curfew in Bayan Layi. Then as if the question doesn’t matter he asks if he ever had an almajiri named Ahmad who is also called Dantala. He describes me as quiet, not too dark, not too tall and very thin. As he listens to the reply, the ground on which I sit gets hotter and my stomach suddenly feels like my intestines are being tied together very tightly.