Early 19th-century West Africa.

The age of the Hausa city-states was ending.

Wars of reform swept across the land. Kingdoms fell. Thrones burned. Old loyalties shattered.

After the fall of Gobir and the rise of the Sokoto Caliphate, the royal Dogarai—guardians of kings—were hunted, scattered… or forgotten.

But some warriors survived history’s silence.

A dusty village road stretched beneath a merciless sun.

Mud houses leaned unevenly beside it, as if they had been placed there long ago and simply forgotten.

The village was alive with its usual noise.

Traders argued loudly over small coins. Women walked past with calabashes balanced effortlessly on their heads. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith hammered stubborn metal, each strike ringing sharply through the heat.

Goats wandered wherever they pleased, pushing their way through the road and market without apology.

Smoke curled lazily from cooking fires. The air itself felt heavy.

Through all of it, a boy walked calmly.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

His stick touched the ground before each step.

A wrapped blade hung quietly at his side.

Cloth covered his eyes.

This was the story of a blind Dogari… who refused to disappear.

A goat blocked his path.

Duniya stopped.

He tilted his head slightly, listening.

The goat shuffled.

Duniya stepped a little to the left.

The goat stepped left too.

Duniya sighed softly and nudged it with the tip of his stick.

The goat bleated in protest before finally wandering off.

Nearby, a trader snorted with amusement.

Duniya continued walking as if nothing had happened, his tapping stick guiding him forward.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

The market ahead buzzed with life.

Baskets overflowed with grain. Voices clashed over prices. The air smelled of roasted meat and dust.

Suddenly—

A boy burst through the crowd, clutching stolen food to his chest.

“Hey! Thief!” a trader shouted. “Stop that boy!”

Another man pointed angrily.

“Run? In my market? Catch him!”

The traders lunged forward, knocking baskets aside as they gave chase.

The boy ran blindly through the chaos—

—and slammed straight into Duniya’s back.

Both of them stumbled.

Duniya turned in surprise.

“Eh—eh?” he said, startled. “What happened?”

The boy slipped past him and kept running.

Moments later the angry traders skidded to a stop in front of Duniya.

“Get out of the way!” one snapped.

Duniya raised his hands slightly.

“I’m sorry, I—” he began. “Who is running?”

The men paused.

Their eyes fell on the cloth tied over his eyes.

“…Oh,” one muttered.

“He’s blind.”

The first trader scoffed.

“Tsk. Of all people.”

They shoved Duniya aside.

Hard.

He fell into the dust.

A kick drove into his ribs.

Two punches struck across his back.

Dust rose as the beating continued.

Around them, the market went strangely quiet.

People looked away. Some pretended to examine goods. Others simply walked past.

No one intervened.

The trader loomed over Duniya.

“You'd better learn to stay out of trouble,” he warned coldly, “before you die a wasteful death.”

The men grabbed the stolen food from the boy, shoved him aside, and stormed off.

Slowly, the noise of the market returned.

Duniya lay still for a moment.

Breathing.

Then he pushed himself carefully to his feet.

The boy lingered nearby, shaken.

“…Thank you, sir,” he said softly.

Duniya turned toward the voice.

“For what?” he asked gently.

“You stood there.”

Duniya nodded slowly, though he did not seem entirely sure what the boy meant.

A moment later the child ran off.

Duniya dusted himself off and resumed walking.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Later, he entered a small mud-walled food hut.

Wooden benches lined the room. Lanterns glowed dimly above quiet conversations.

As Duniya stepped inside, the chatter softened. People stared with cautious curiosity.

The woman running the place looked up.

“Ah… welcome, young man,” she said warmly. “What would you like to eat?”

Duniya sat carefully and tapped the table lightly to orient himself.

“…Anything warm,” he said. “Please.”

He reached for his pocket.

Then paused.

Empty.

A memory flashed in his mind—

The boy brushing past him earlier.

A light tug.

Duniya exhaled softly.

“Ah…tch.. that boy…”

He checked another pocket and found a few remaining coins.

He placed them on the table.

The woman nodded.

“Good. I’ll bring it now.”

She walked away.

Duniya set his wrapped blade gently on the table beside him.

Across the room, three rough men noticed it.

One of them smirked.

“Heh… look at this.”

Another sneered.

“Blind boy carrying something like he’s somebody.”

A third laughed loudly.

“Let’s see what he’s hiding.”

They swaggered over.

One leaned toward him.

“Hey, malam,” the man said. “What’s inside that thing you’re guarding?”

Another gestured lazily.

“Open it a little. Let us see.”

The third chuckled.

“What else would a blind man need if not a stick?”

The first man reached for the wrapped sword.

It didn’t move.

Duniya’s hand had locked around it.

His grip was silent steel.

The man strained.

“Huh?! Let go!”

Duniya spoke calmly.

“Please… don’t touch that.”

The second man snarled.

“Ah! The blind one wants to act tough?”

His fist slammed into Duniya’s jaw.

Instantly, Duniya reacted.

A sharp strike drove into the man’s ribs.

Another punch clipped a second attacker’s chin.

“Kai!” the man yelped. “He hit me!”

They rushed him.

A chair smashed across Duniya’s back.

He fell hard to the ground.

Kicks rained down—ribs, stomach, legs.

Through it all, Duniya curled around the wrapped blade, refusing to release it.

Eventually one of the men waved the others off.

“Leave him,” he said. “Stubborn fool.”

Laughing, they walked away.

The woman running the hut hurried over.

“Ahh! Young man!” she cried. “Why didn’t you just give it to them? You could have saved yourself that beating.”

She helped him sit upright.

Then she turned away quickly.

“Wait. I’ll bring new food. They ruined the first one.”

She returned moments later with a fresh bowl.

“Here,” she said gently. “Eat slowly. You’re safe now.”

Duniya nodded.

He touched the bruises along his ribs, breathing unevenly.

Then he began to eat, carefully and quietly—like a wounded animal still listening for danger.

Night eventually settled over the village.

Lanterns swayed softly in the wind.

Shadows stretched across the mud walls.

Somewhere in the distance a dog growled, then fell silent.

Duniya walked alone through the dark streets.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

His breathing was still uneven from the earlier beating.

Then—

A faint sound cut through the night.

Duniya stopped.

He tilted his head.

Listening.

Another sound.

Cloth dragging across dirt.

Muffled footsteps.

A child struggling.

Then a weak voice carried through the darkness.

“Help… please…”

Duniya’s fingers tightened around the wrapped blade.

“…That voice,” he murmured.

He turned toward the sound.