Covered, Not Caged

I didn’t want to leave Ilorin. That morning, I sat on the small plastic chair in front of our house, watching the driver tie our bags to the top of the car. The sun had not fully come out, and everything was still. A few birds sang in the trees nearby, and I could hear the faint call to prayer from the mosque down the street. Ilorin was all I had ever known. We lived in a small but peaceful neighbourhood. Almost everyone on our street was Muslim. My hijab was never strange. Nobody stared at me or asked me silly questions. Life was simple. Normal. Safe. But now, we were moving. My father had been transferred to Lagos. He worked with the Ministry of Works, and the letter came suddenly. At first, I thought maybe he would go alone, and we would join him later. But my parents decided we should all go together. My mum said it would be easier that way. I understood. But I didn’t like it. --- “Don’t Cry, Rukoyyah” That’s what my mum said when she saw me looking quiet. I didn’t cry—but my heart was heavy. We had already packed our clothes, books, pots, and everything we could carry. Our neighbours came to greet us that morning. Some gave us prayers. Some hugged my mum. Some gave me small notes and sweets. As we entered the car, I turned around and looked at our house one last time. I didn’t want to forget it. The walls. The flowers near the gate. The big mango tree where I used to sit with a book. It wasn’t just a house. It was home. --- Welcome to Lagos The journey was long. I slept for some hours, woke up, ate puff-puff, then slept again. We finally entered Lagos in the afternoon. The road was rough, and the traffic was something else. I had never seen so many people in one place before. Noise was everywhere—cars honking, people shouting, music playing from shops, buses moving with half their doors open. Lagos was fast. Very fast. We arrived at Agege. That’s where we were going to live. My dad had already found a flat there—a small two-bedroom in a face-me-I-face-you compound. It wasn’t big, but it was what we could afford. The woman living next door smiled at us and said, “Welcome, new neighbour.” She had two children who were jumping up and down. Everything felt different. Ilorin was calm. Lagos was loud. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I missed my room back in Ilorin. I missed the quiet. I missed knowing everyone. I missed the feeling of being normal. --- New School, New World Two days later, my dad took me to my new school. It was a government secondary school, not too far from the house. The gate was painted blue and white. There were many students at the entrance, wearing uniforms of different sizes and styles. Some wore hijab, but most didn’t. I clutched my bag tight and followed my father. He spoke with the principal, then someone led me to the Vice Principal’s office. They placed me in SS1B. As I walked to the class, I could feel eyes on me. Maybe it was because I was new. Or maybe it was my hijab. I wore a white scarf that day. I pinned it neatly, just like my mother taught me. When I entered the classroom, the teacher stopped teaching. “This is the new student,” the man said. “Introduce yourself.” I cleared my throat and said softly, “My name is Rukoyyah.” The class was silent for a second. Then someone coughed. Another person giggled. “Sit down,” the teacher said. I found a seat at the back, beside a girl who didn’t smile at me. --- First Day The teacher continued the lesson. I tried to listen, but my mind was racing. I kept thinking about Ilorin. I kept thinking about how everyone in this class seemed loud and free and confident. I didn’t fit in. Some girls looked at me from time to time and whispered. “Why is her scarf so long?” one girl asked. “She looks like an alufa daughter,” another replied. They laughed. I didn’t say anything. I just looked down at my notebook and wrote the date at the top of the page: Monday, September 8th My first day in Lagos school. --- Alone in a Crowd During break time, I stayed in class. Others went outside to eat, laugh, play. I didn’t know anyone. And I didn’t want to force myself into any group. So I brought out my water bottle and took slow sips. I ate quietly—just bread and egg. My mother had packed it for me. A few boys walked past me and stared. One said, “Is she mute?” Another replied, “She probably doesn’t speak English.” They laughed again. My chest tightened. Not because of what they said. But because I felt invisible. Nobody saw who I really was. They only saw a quiet girl in a scarf. A girl who didn’t talk. A girl they thought wasn’t smart. But they didn’t know me. Not yet. --- Going Home When school closed, I walked home alone. My father had given me directions. I walked past small shops, boys playing football, and women selling fruits by the roadside. As I walked, I talked to Allah in my heart. “Ya Allah, give me strength. Help me stay true to myself. Help me not feel small.” When I got home, my mother was waiting. “How was school?” she asked. “It was fine,” I said. I didn’t say more. Not yet. I didn’t want her to worry. That night, I sat on the floor in our new room. I opened my books, tried to revise, but the words danced before my eyes. My mind was tired. Then I closed my eyes and whispered again: “I am covered… but I am not caged.” And deep inside, I knew— my story was just beginning.