BORN TO BE FIRST

BORN TO BE FIRST: THE SOUND OF THE COUNTDOWN

The return journey from the hills was always slower, a cooling-down period where the adrenaline of the "Zone" evaporated, leaving behind the stark reality of the day. As Amina jogged back into the heart of town, the indigo sky had surrendered to a hazy, humid yellow. The village was waking up, and with the light came the noise, the rhythmic thump-thump of pestles hitting mortars as women pounded yam for breakfast, the screech of rusted gates, and the chatter of children preparing for school. To anyone else, these were the sounds of home but to Amina, they were the sounds of a countdown.

​ She slowed to a walk as she approached the main market square. Even at this hour, Mama Sade was already at her stall, stacking pyramids of oily oranges and deep-green plantains. The old woman looked up, her face a map of deep-set wrinkles and kindness.

​ "Amina! You are back from the bush again," Mama Sade called out, her voice carrying across the dusty street. "I saw you flying past my window when the moon was still up. Do you not get tired, child?"

​ Amina forced a smile, though her calves felt like they were made of lead. "The race doesn't wait for the sun, Mama Sade."

​ "Ah, the big race in the city," the woman said, leaning over her counter. She reached into a basket and pulled out a small piece of ginger, tossing it toward Amina. "Chew on this. It is good for the chest. Everyone is talking, you know. They say the daughter of the house of Zubairu is going to make us famous. They say you will run so fast the city people will forget their own names."

​ Amina caught the ginger, the skin cool and spicy in her palm. "I will try my best, Mama."

​ "Best is not enough," Mama Sade laughed, though her eyes remained serious. "You bring back the gold. This town needs something to celebrate that isn't a funeral or a broken pipe. We are counting on you."

​ 'Counting-On-You'. The words felt like stones being dropped into a backpack Amina was already struggling to carry. She thanked the woman and hurried away, the weight of the town’s collective hope pressing into her shoulders. It wasn’t just Mama Sade. It was the headmaster who had waived her late fees because of her "athletic potential." It was the boys at the football pitch who stopped their game to watch her lap the field. In a place where opportunities were as scarce as rain in the Harmattan, Amina was the local lottery ticket, a chance for a tiny, overlooked town to feel significant.

​

When she reached her front gate, the smell of woodsmoke and frying bean cakes(akara) greeted her. Her mother was crouched over a small charcoal stove in the courtyard, her wrapper tied tightly around her waist. She didn't look up as Amina entered.

​ "You are late," her mother said, flipping an akara ball with a long metal spoon. "The water in the bucket is getting cold. If you don't bathe now, you will be late to help your father with the accounts before you head to the station."

​ "I ran an extra three miles today, Ma," Amina said, leaning against the doorframe, trying to catch her breath without looking exhausted. "I needed to test the hill."

​

Her mother finally looked up, her eyes scanning Amina from her dusty sneakers to her sweat-soaked hair. There was no praise in her gaze, only a weary kind of pragmatism.

"Testing hills won't put food in the bowl, Amina. Your father is worried. The bus fare to the city... it was not easy to find. If you go there and come back with nothing but stories of how 'nice' the stadium was, it will be a heavy thing for this house."

​ Amina felt a sharp pang in her chest. "I’m not going there to look at the grass, Ma. I’m going to qualify."

​ "Then eat," her mother said, gesturing to a small plate. "And pray. Grit is good, but the road in the city is not the road in the village. It is harder. It is colder."

​Amina took the plate and went inside. The house was small, three rooms that echoed with the history of a family trying to stay afloat. On the wall of the main room hung a framed photograph of her grandmother, the woman who had planted the seed of "first" in Amina’s mind. In the photo, the matriarch sat tall, her posture unyielding, her eyes fixed on something far beyond the camera’s lens.