The Quiet Growth of Nasara Tanko

Nasara Tanko Looks to the World with Hope

By Ojonugwa Yahaya

A reflection on childhood, displacement, and the quiet resilience of becoming.

There are children who grow loudly.

And there are children who grow like dawn.

Nasara Tanko grows like dawn.

Each time I see her, I pause. Not because she calls attention to herself, but because something about her gently insists on being noticed. A soft transformation. A steady unfolding. A quiet becoming.

When we began the Bonding Session at the Internally Displaced Persons Camp in Durumi, Abuja, Nasara was among the very first children under our care. She was tiny. Calm. Reserved. Yet there was a boldness in her stillness. A smile that arrived before her words ever did. Ebony skin that glowed against the dust and sun, as though light had chosen her deliberately.

I often tell her she has grown so much that one day she might be taller than me. She never argues. She simply smiles shyly, her eyes lowering for a second, as though growth itself is a secret she carries quietly.

Nasara is not loud. She does not compete for space. She does not rush to the center. Yet she is never absent. She plays with the other children, sometimes laughing, sometimes observing from her own small corner of the world. Even in stillness, she is present.

Over time, she has learned the language of gratitude. When you stretch out a hand of kindness, she receives it with care and responds without delay. Thank you. Soft. Clear. Certain. It is a simple act, but in a place where so much has been lost, gratitude feels sacred.

And then there is the way she greets me.

From a distance or up close, the moment she sights me within the camp, her voice rises above the ordinary sounds of the day. “Aunty, welcome!” she calls out, running toward me with open arms. That embrace carries more than affection. It carries trust.

Nasara may not yet understand the full meaning of struggle. She may not comprehend the weight of displacement or the reality that stretches beyond the boundaries of the camp. But her feet have walked roads her age should never have to measure. She has older siblings who hawk pepper and tomatoes to support their family. Here, childhood and responsibility often grow side by side.

And still, she smiles.

As we continue this journey through the Bonding Session Program, it remains our earnest hope that Nasara, alongside many other children and families within the Internally Displaced Persons community, will experience comfort, dignity, and freedom again. That one day their stories will not only speak of survival, but of restoration.

We extend hands of hope not as a gesture, but as a commitment. A commitment to stand in the gap, to nurture possibility, to remind each child that they are seen.

Nasara’s growth is quiet.

But quiet growth is still growth.

And sometimes, the softest becoming carries the strongest promise.

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About the Author

Ojonugwa Yahaya is a humanitarian and reflective writer whose work explores childhood, displacement, and the unseen strength within ordinary lives. Through her work with internally displaced families in Abuja, she documents stories of quiet resilience and becoming. She believes storytelling is a form of shelter.