Tukur Tukur

Tukur Tukur

The following story is from my earlier days as a school boy before I became a doctor. It is a tribute to a person that I have had a great deal of admiration and respect for, the late Mr. Khalil Mahmud, (3/7/1929 to 1/29/2006). He was a great man, and this is just one of my many fond memories. May he rest in peace.

I had grown up in the small town of Zaria in Northern Nigeria in West Africa. My dad taught at the local university there.

Our primary school was within the University, but when we moved to secondary school in seventh grade (which we called Form one), we had to go to a local school in town.

Our local school was called Barewa College. It was a school originally built as a boarding school for the male children of ‘Elites’ in Northern Nigeria. It was designed in the best traditions of a British public school. By the time we started going there, it had lost a lot of its luster, but we still took pride in the fact that several of Nigeria’s leaders had graduated from there.

I became a day student there, and a car pool was made to ferry myself and other classmates to the school and back. It was a good 30-minute ride away. I would be crammed in a car with four other boys. Two of those boys were American brothers.

Their Father grew up in Boston, Massachusetts. He was an extremely smart African American man, and got a full scholarship to Harvard in the 1950’s. He however chose to go to the smaller Brandeis University. They had a better program on Islamic studies and he was a convert to Islam.

In the 1960’s, he moved to Nigeria in West Africa with his wife. In Nigeria, he eventually had four sons, the older two would be in the car pool with me. He had become the University Librarian, which was a very senior position in the University.

He was very distinguished in appearance, with a full beard and an extremely soft voice. I can still hear him speaking in that authorative but very soft New England accent. He was a very kind person.

He drove a white Peugeot 504 station wagon which had an extra back seat and was more comfortable than the smaller Volkswagen Beetle my dad had. His driving style was different too. He was a very good driver, but in complete contrast to his very sedate appearance, he could drive quite fast.

I recall one particular day about 35 years ago. We were running late. He was driving fast. As was his habit, he had his window rolled down. Normally in warm West Africa, this would be a good thing, but this was the Harmattan season, which was our winter. Cold air would come down from the Sahara creating a dusty haze in the air. We felt really cold.

Mr. Mahmud did not seem bothered with the cold air. He had grown up in Boston, and when I visited Boston in winter many years later, I realized that our Harmattan was probably just like a balmy day for him.

As I mentioned earlier, we were running late. This could have consequences for us. If we did not get to the morning assembly in time, we could be called to the Principal’s office and be punished.

It was at this point someone suggested taking a shortcut. Instead of going down the highway, we could cut through the village of Tukur Tukur. This was a typical village in Northern Nigeria. A haphazard collection of mud houses just north of our school. It had a large rocky hill (also called an Inselberg) overlooking it. I thought this was a bad idea as I was not even sure there was a road going through the village.

Mr. Mahmud did not give it a second thought. He swung off the highway on to the dirt track leading to the village. While he was absolutely calm, my heart was in my mouth as we sped towards the cluster of mud houses. It was early morning and the village was deserted.

Tukur Tukur village from the Inselberg in the 1970's

We were rapidly driven through the narrow spaces between those village houses. The only way I can describe that experience is that I was reminded of it when I later saw stock car racing in the United States. We darted in between the narrow spaces expertly with plumes of dust in our wake, and finally got to the school.

We got to school on time. We ran to the assembly and stood up to say the national anthem. The village of Tukur Tukur still exists as does my old school Barewa College, but I doubt if anyone can drive as quickly or as expertly through that village as we did on that morning many years ago.