At the borehole, children and married women were fetching water, as is common in every village. An eleven-year-old girl was on top of the iron pipe, operating the pump, while her two siblings collected the water and poured it into containers they had brought. They carried the water into a small mud house. Their clothes were soaked from the water that splashed back into the containers. They poured the water into a clay pot, whose mouth was cracked and had been repaired with cement. There was a neem tree standing beside the water pot. Inna Yar Kulu came out of the mud house, bent with age, seemingly about to collapse. But this was how Yar Kulu lived, in the house, with her four orphaned children: Hafsat, Fatima, Mariya, and Abdul, who they called Datti, named after their paternal grandfather. “Oh Hafsa, you got the water quickly today,” remarked Inna. Hafsat replied, "Inna, it’s the work of your daughter, Fatima. Our line beat Kubura’s; she said we were ahead by twenty people, so we were allowed to fetch water without waiting in line." Fatima came into the house carrying a large container of water on her head, panting for help to unload it. Inna Yar Kulu helped her down, "Oh Fatima, this container is too heavy for you, it might harm you. Did you take Asiya’s container before she came to fetch water? Please, child, stop carrying such heavy containers; we don’t have money for medical bills." Fatima hurried back to return the container she had taken for fetching water. Inna finished serving tuwo and gave each child their portion. Abdul had his own separate bowl, and Inna ate alone, squatting by the hearth on a small wooden stool, adding more soup to the children’s bowls. Despite their poverty and orphanhood, Inna Yar Kulu didn’t neglect the children’s religious and modern education. They attended their classes regularly, and God helped them through their small business
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