The Dog of This City

Beneath the tired gaze of crumbling buildings and rust-streaked street signs, in the heart of the city, sat a dog that belonged to no one. It did not bark. It did not chase. It only waited. Every morning, as the sun spilled reluctantly over the rooftops, the dog was there, its body curled in a question mark, its eyes wide, glassy, and lewd with hunger.

Children on their way to school saw it first. The braver ones threw biscuit crumbs. The quieter ones slowed their pace, watching it with that innocent blend of fear and fascination. It never moved to follow them. It only blinked, slow and deliberate, like it was saving energy—or hope.

Vendors passed next, wheeling carts of wares, shouting their prices into the haze. Amina, the fish seller, always tossed a smoked tail toward it. Danjuma, with his sack of groundnuts, dropped a small handful beside the well. They didn’t speak of the dog. They didn’t name it. But they gave.

The dog never thanked. Never growled. Never wagged with joy. Its ribs strained against a patchy coat. Its tongue hung lazily, even in the cool hours of dawn. It was not majestic, not tragic, just persistent. And so, it became a part of the city’s rhythm, as constant as the mosque’s call to prayer or the distant hum of generators.

No one could remember when it first appeared.

Some claimed it came after the last flood, when half the market washed away. Others said it had always been there, even before the statue of the Unknown Ancestor lost its sword. The elders didn’t say much, they only looked at the dog with tired eyes and threw their scraps with trembling hands.

Still, it had no name.

But it had a place.

And that, in this city, was something.

Adunni asked first. She had a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, one of those women who could slice a lie in half with a glance. On her way to the spice stall one morning, she paused beside the dog, clutching her basket of beans, and frowned.

“Who owns it?” she asked the meat vendor.

He shrugged, wiping blood from his blade. “Not me.”

She asked a mother balancing plantains on her head. The woman clicked her tongue. “Maybe the council?”

She asked three boys playing with tires. They laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Then she asked no more.

So did Ajalekoko, the cobbler with the crooked leg and a memory like a ledger. He used to grumble as he stitched soles near the plaza. “This dog, eh? Na who born am?” But over time, the grumbling faded. His hands kept working. His questions withered into silence.

People stopped asking.

It was easier to accept it, the way you accept potholes or flickering streetlights. The city, without resolution, turned its silence into consensus. They didn’t announce it, didn’t debate it—but slowly, without realizing, they adopted the dog.

Not into their homes, but into their expectations.

The dog was no longer a stray. It was theirs.

And so, they called it: the dog of this city.

It didn’t bark at shadows. It didn’t chase thieves or howl when the city’s generators coughed and died in the night. It didn’t guard. It didn’t guide. It merely was, a living fixture, a breathing ghost. It offered nothing but presence. Yet, still, they gave.

Amina gave, without looking. Danjuma gave, with a half-smile. The youths gave because they saw the elders give. Even strangers passing through would glance at the dog and, moved by some unnamed pressure, reach into their pockets for scraps.

No one said it out loud, but giving to the dog became a ritual of belonging. To ignore it was to be seen as selfish. To harm it was unthinkable.

Then Wabina arrived.

Wabina was different from the others. Where most of the city walked in rhythmic resignation, he carried a quiet rebellion inside him, one that seeped out in the way he observed, the way he asked questions that no one wanted to answer. He was not loud or confrontational, but his stillness made people uneasy. His silence was not passive; it was loaded with unspoken thoughts.

He stood by the well one afternoon, arms folded, watching the dog lap at a piece of bread that someone had tossed. The scene was mundane, as it always was, but something about the way the dog ate—its lack of urgency, its lack of gratitude—stirred something in him. It was the same thing he’d seen over and over: the city, ever so giving, ever so willing to provide, but never asking why. Never wondering what would happen if they stopped.

Wabina waited a moment longer before speaking.

“Why do you give?” he asked, his voice calm but piercing.

The crowd paused. Amina, who was always busy with her fried fish, looked up. Danjuma, with his millet bread, slowed his steps. The children, who had been playing near the statue, stopped running. It was as if the words hung in the air, too heavy to ignore.

“Why do you feed it?” Wabina asked again, quieter now, but still the question rang out, louder than any city sound.

Amina blinked, frowning. “Because we must.”

The simplicity of her answer shocked him. It wasn’t that he disagreed, it was that she had never questioned the reasoning. No one ever had.

“Must?” Wabina repeated, his brow furrowing. “Why?”

“It’s our duty,” she answered, holding her ground. “We can’t throw it away. It’s… it’s part of the city.”

“And what if it could be helped?” Wabina asked, suddenly daring to voice a thought that had been growing in his mind for some time. “What if it didn’t have to live like this? Like a scavenger?”

The city around him shifted. Some murmured in agreement, others stiffened as if his words were an affront. The dog’s dull eyes stared at Wabina, but still, it did not move. It simply was. This was the city’s way, its deep-set belief: the dog was theirs, and it could never be changed.

“But…” Amina started to protest, Wabina cut her off, shaking his head.

“Why not treat it? Give it what it needs, not just scraps,” he suggested. “Help it heal. Let it regain what it has lost.”

There was a pause, as the city turned this over in its collective mind. Had they ever thought of it like that? Had they ever thought it could be helped?

“But the dog… it’s been here so long…” one of the onlookers said, voice uncertain. “It is the city now.”

“Yes,” Wabina agreed. “But that doesn’t mean it has to stay like this. It doesn’t have to live like this forever.”

There was a long silence after that. Some shuffled their feet, others exchanged looks. The question hung heavily between them—Why not treat the dog?

Wabina could see the seed of doubt beginning to take root. And it was then that he spoke his final words on the matter: “I’ll call the veterinarian.”

The city froze. The idea of a veterinarian, someone who could fix the dog, was foreign to them. It was an idea so strange, so radical, that it felt almost wrong.

But there was a flicker in Wabina’s eyes. He knew that if the city truly saw the dog as theirs, then they would have to consider giving it more than food. They would have to give it care. Healing.

It was two days before the veterinarian arrived. In that time, the city buzzed with a strange energy, as if the question Wabina had posed had become a secret rumor, passing from ear to ear, carried by whispers and quiet glances. The idea of taking the dog to a veterinarian—a concept foreign to many—felt almost too grand for the city. It was something out of place, like an old memory dredged from beneath the dust of time. Still, despite their uncertainty, they waited.

When the man arrived, he was not what anyone expected. His clothing was plain—no white coat, no stethoscope around his neck—but there was an air of quiet competence in his manner. He didn’t look down at the dog like others did, with pity or dismissal. He knelt to its level, studying it with the kind of calm attention one might give a wounded child.

The crowd gathered cautiously around him. They had become so used to the dog’s presence, so used to its silence, that they didn’t know what to expect now that the spell had been broken. The dog didn’t move as the veterinarian approached. It didn’t growl or snap, didn’t pull away. It simply watched him, eyes dull, vacant: as if it were still uncertain of what was happening.

“Is this the one?” the veterinarian asked, his voice soft but firm.

Wabina nodded. “Yes. This is the dog of the city.”

The veterinarian didn’t ask questions. He simply moved toward the dog and began his examination. His hands were gentle, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the dog for signs of illness, malnutrition, trauma. There was a quiet hum of unease in the crowd. They didn’t know what he was looking for or what he might find. They only knew they had given, and they had given with what they had, yet now there was something else to be done, something they weren’t sure they could manage.

As the veterinarian worked, Wabina stood off to the side, arms crossed. He wasn’t sure what he hoped for. He hadn’t expected an instant cure, didn’t expect a miracle. But what he hoped for, in that quiet, uncertain moment, was that something would change. He wanted the dog—no, the city—to understand that they were more than just givers. They were healers.

After what felt like hours, the veterinarian stood, wiping his hands on a cloth. His face was unreadable, but there was a shift in the air. The crowd leaned forward, eager for the diagnosis.

The veterinarian looked at Wabina, then at the dog, and sighed. “It’s been neglected, yes,” he said slowly. “But more than that, it’s been broken: mentally, emotionally. It needs more than food. It needs care, training, time to recover. You’ve done well by feeding it, but you’ve only given part of what it needs. Now it needs healing.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of truth. The city had given so much, and yet, it had only given in part. The dog was no longer just a stray. It was a reflection of something larger, something broken within the city itself.

“It will take time,” the veterinarian continued. “But with care, it can recover.”

Wabina didn’t say anything at first. He had expected something like this, but hearing the words spoken aloud made the reality settle in his chest. The city was going to have to do more. They weren’t just caretakers; they were going to have to be healers. They had to commit.

The crowd murmured, some nodding in agreement, others uncertain. Wabina could see the hesitation in their faces. The idea of healing was far more demanding than giving. It was not a one-time action. It required patience, consistency, and a willingness to confront the consequences of their past neglect.

The veterinarian looked at the dog one last time, then stood up. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, “but you need to decide what happens next. The dog’s future isn’t just in my hands. It’s in yours too.”

As he turned to leave, the city was left with a question no one had ever asked: What will you do with what you’ve started?

The veterinarian came back the next day, and the next, and the next after that. Slowly, painstakingly, he worked with the dog. There were no grand transformations, no immediate miracles, but small shifts began to show. The dog, once listless and hollow-eyed, started to walk with a little more purpose. It began to respond to gentle commands. Its body grew stronger, its coat less patchy. The hunger in its eyes began to fade, replaced by a flicker of curiosity.

Yet, for all the progress, the city’s connection to the dog remained one of quiet distance. It was as though they had already given it their attention, already invested their scraps and their pity. Now that it was recovering, they weren’t sure what to do with it. It wasn’t their problem anymore. It had ceased to be the symbol of their collective guilt and charity. In their minds, it had returned to being just another stray, not their stray.

In those early days, people still watched from a distance. Amina stopped by the plaza, but she didn’t linger. Danjuma’s bread no longer held the same urgency as before. People began to forget the dog as it changed, as it healed. They saw it no longer as a broken creature, but as one that had fixed itself, and in their minds, that was enough.

The dog had become a stranger in the city. It had been born from their neglect, but now, with a bit of healing, it was different. The city couldn’t see it as theirs anymore. Not completely. And so, with time, they stopped caring.

As the weeks passed, the dog faded from their thoughts. It became a story told in passing: “Remember that dog from the plaza? The one that used to beg? Well, it’s gone now.” Some had forgotten the exact details, others the name they had given it. It was as though it had never been a part of the city at all.

And then, one day, it was gone. The place where the dog had sat was empty. No one saw it leave. No one asked where it went. The streets seemed quieter without it, and yet, the city didn’t notice the absence. It was a strange kind of peace, one born of forgetfulness.

In truth, the city had long since lost interest. Its people had given what they had to give, but once the dog no longer needed them, they had nothing left to offer.

It was Wabina, alone, who noticed its absence. The others went about their days, unaware of what had been lost. Wabina stood in the plaza, his arms crossed, his eyes scanning the empty corner where the dog had once sat. The spot seemed oddly vacant, like a scar that had faded into the skin of the city, unnoticed by all but him.

The dog was gone, but Wabina still felt its presence lingering in the air, thick with something unnamed. There was no fanfare, no memorial. It had simply disappeared, and with it, the quiet hope he had once carried: the hope that the city might have changed, that it might have seen the possibility of care over charity, of healing over giving.

He sighed, a heavy sound. Maybe they were right after all. The city could only give what it was used to. And when that was no longer enough, they would simply forget.

Weeks passed, and the silence that followed the dog’s disappearance settled heavily over the city like a blanket. The plaza, once a place of quiet activity and shared moments, now felt colder, emptier. The space where the dog had once sat, waiting for scraps, felt like a forgotten wound, covered over but not healed.

Wabina couldn’t forget. The absence gnawed at him, a constant reminder of what had been, what could have been. He spent more time in the plaza now, walking slowly, almost aimlessly. He’d sometimes stand at the spot where the dog used to rest, feeling the weight of its absence more deeply than anyone else. The city had moved on, but he hadn’t.

One afternoon, Wabina stood in the square, watching the children play. They ran, laughed, and shouted, oblivious to the quiet ache in the air. He leaned against a stone pillar, his gaze distant. He couldn’t help but wonder if they had truly helped the dog, if they really healed anything, or if they had just displaced the problem, allowed it to fade into nothingness?

The thought made him restless. The dog’s disappearance had not solved the issue, it had only shifted the burden from their shoulders to somewhere else. But where had it gone? Had the dog been healed? Or had it simply been discarded, forgotten, just like everything else the city deemed unimportant?

He walked to the edge of the square and noticed something new: a small, almost imperceptible pile of scraps. It was nothing like the scraps that had once been tossed carelessly for the dog. These were fresh, neatly stacked in a way that suggested someone had placed them with care, even intention.

Wabina bent down, inspecting the pile. There was no one around, no one to explain it. But as he looked closer, something in the pit of his stomach twisted. He had the distinct feeling that the dog had not gone far. It had moved. It had found another way to survive, another corner of the city to claim.

He stood up slowly, uncertainty creeping over him. The city had forgotten. The city had believed it had done its part. It had fed the dog, and in its mind, that was all that was required. It had given, and that, the city believed, was enough.

But in his heart, Wabina knew the truth. Giving was not enough. The city had missed the point entirely. The dog had not been helped. It had only been placated. Healing had never been an option for the city. It had been too busy giving what it knew how to give—scraps, charity, quick fixes. It had not given what the dog truly needed: time, care, understanding.

And so the cycle continued.

Wabina glanced around, the weight of the city’s indifference pressing on him. He had tried. He had believed that if he pushed them to see the dog for what it truly was—a creature in need of more than just food—they might have changed. But he had misjudged the depth of their apathy. The dog was just another part of the city’s story, not the center of it.

Wabina felt a sinking sensation, like the ground beneath him was crumbling away. He didn’t know what more he could do. What could one person do against the apathy of an entire city? What could one small voice do against a system built on neglect and false charity?

But then, just as he was about to turn and leave, he saw it: a shadow moving in the alleyway, just beyond the square. It was a small movement, so subtle that most would have missed it. But Wabina knew what it was. He knew the dog was still there.

With a sudden burst of hope, Wabina stepped forward, moving quickly but quietly toward the alley. His heart pounded as he approached, unsure of what he might find. Was the dog still in need? Had it truly found another place to survive? Or had it become something else entirely?

When he reached the entrance of the alley, he stopped, peering into the dim light. There, just out of reach, was the dog. It was sitting by a stack of old newspapers, its eyes still cloudy, but not as vacant as before. Its body was leaner, healthier, but it didn’t look like the dog Wabina had once known. It looked like something else, something that had been forced to adapt, to survive without the city’s help.

Wabina stood still for a moment, watching the dog. He wanted to call out to it, to approach it, but something stopped him. It was not the same dog anymore. It was not the city’s dog. It was a survivor, living on its own terms. It had healed, but it had healed away from the city.

Wabina turned slowly and walked away from the alley. His heart was heavy, but there was a flicker of something else in him: a quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, the dog had found what it needed. It hadn’t been the city’s gift. It hadn’t been charity. It had been the dog’s own will to survive.

As he walked back to the square, he realized something else. The dog’s story wasn’t over. It had simply taken another turn. Perhaps that was the only way change could happen: not in grand gestures, but in quiet, unnoticed ways, in the spaces between the city’s apathy and action.

Wabina knew that the city would never truly change. But maybe he didn’t need it to. Maybe all it took was one small person, one small voice, to keep questioning, to keep asking why. And in that, there was a kind of hope, even if the rest of the city never saw it.

The seasons passed, their rhythms no longer as predictable as before. Wabina continued his quiet routine, his steps carrying him through the plaza with the occasional glance at the empty corner where the dog had once sat. It no longer felt like the city was his home, but something outside of him, something detached from his core. The streets felt colder, the air more distant. He had learned too much in too short a time.

The city had never been a place for healing. It was a place of convenience, of scraps and charity, of temporary fixes that left the deeper issues untouched. People moved in their own rhythms, unaware of the deeper currents beneath their lives. Wabina could see it all now, and the realization left him with a bitterness he had not expected.

He often found himself reflecting on the dog’s journey, on the way it had transformed in silence, out of view from the people who once had cared for it. In the dog’s eyes, Wabina saw something familiar: a need to survive, to find a way to exist in a world that had never truly seen them. The city, with all its bustling life, was just as blind as the people who had once thrown scraps of food at the dog, expecting that would be enough.

But the dog had proven something to him. Healing was a quiet, solitary act. It wasn’t something that could be given, it had to be earned. And while the city had never given the dog the time it truly needed, the dog had found its own path. It had survived, not because of charity, but because it had fought for its own existence.

Wabina felt that fight in himself too. He realized that he had spent too much time hoping for the city to change, for others to see the problems that lay at their feet. But now, he understood. Change wasn’t something that could be demanded from the outside. It had to start from within.

And so, he walked the streets a little differently now. He still saw the apathy, the indifference in people’s eyes, but he no longer felt the weight of it. The dog’s journey had taught him that survival, in any form, was an internal act. You could fight for your own healing, even in a city that would never truly notice.

As Wabina reached the edge of the plaza one last time, he stopped and looked around. The city was still the same, its rhythm unchanged. But something in him had shifted. He didn’t need the city’s approval or its acknowledgment anymore. He had learned to move forward on his own terms, just as the dog had. And perhaps that was enough.

With one final glance at the empty corner where the dog had once sat, Wabina turned away. The city was not his concern anymore. His own path, his own survival, was all that mattered.

The dog, in its silence, had taught him that lesson. And for that, Wabina was grateful.