They sat around the tables as the Imam led the Dua for Iftar. Quietly conversing, eating fruits and drinking inside the church when I entered.
I noticed my Ward Councillor and a few other Community leaders were already there. Paused briefly to say my greetings then moved in and sat beside the #BAME team.
“I can see you already broke your Fast” I jibed at Adam, a White British guy who was eating chunks of Watermelon. Layered across the tables were platters and bottles of Watermelon, Dates, Yoghourt, Sorrel, water and some more indigenous drinks
“Oh yes, I have” He laughed good naturedly.
A cursory glance around and I took in nationalities – An elderly Far-Eastern couple who looked Japanese in my eyes, bunch of British men and women, a few blacks. Another look to the left of the hall and I felt myself freefalling back to Kaura Namoda.
Kaura Namoda is the quaint town I grew up in Zamfara state. An extremist Muslim state in Nigeria’s Far North. I was living in Kaura well before my teenage years arrived. And was there when they moved on. So you can tell that Kaura was the base of my formative years.
Kaura was the place where my mind stored up Ramadan as a time for feast. Feast of tables arrayed with Sweets, Savories and an assortment of foods. Tables of food were placed in forecourts and anyone could walk in to eat. It was a time of fellowship. Communion and Community.
Your Faith or lack of it did not matter during Ramadan. You had an open invitation to a feast and it does not matter in whose courtyard you stepped in. The only password you required was an “Assalam Aleikum” and you were made welcome.
Kaura was the place where I learnt to eat Dabino [dates]. 
Where I went to the house behind us and watched Alhaji Mai Shanu’s wives make Fura Da Nono [Millet-based Yoghourt and Goat’s milk]. 
It was where on my way to Junior School daily, I would stop by and watch Hussaina and her sisters milk the cows and goats, before they came to School.
It was Kaura that taught me tolerance. A love for humanity across the external separators of cultures, regions, languages and beliefs.
Therefore, when I agreed to come and join this Iftar session, it was the beautiful memories of my childhood which led me here. To come sit at the Table and break bread with my fellow Africans who are Muslims. And as anticipated, all the memories surged out of my repository, suffusing me with feel good hormones.
Meanwhile, head covered in hijab, I sipped my Bissap [a spiced-hibiscus drink],
reading the room and wondering. This pheromones floating across this room – causing laughter, banter, men calling themselves brother, niqab-clad women sharing food with those in pants, burqa-covered teenagers speaking British English with their peers – why is it not strong enough to permeate our divisive walls?
