How Youths of Minna Are Using Car Drifting Stunts As a Tool For Brotherhood

How Youths of Minna Are Using Car Drifting Stunts As a Tool For Brotherhood

The city is known for social events like a horse race, commonly known as Hawa; often organized to celebrate things like a sister’s wedding, a brother’s walimah, a friend’s graduation, etc. The most spectacular and grand Hawa however, occurs only during Sallah celebrations. The whole city meets to watch, and the King is usually part of the horse riders; not racing, but making a royal appearance. But another social event Minna is known for is Car drifting stunts.

Car drifting is the process of overly accelerating a car around a stage, causing it to release a cloud of exhaust fumes in its trail. This is done for fun and competitions and is becoming increasingly popular amongst youths of Minna, the capital city of Niger State.

Wikipedia defines car drifting as,

“A driving technique where the driver intentionally oversteers, with loss of traction in the rear wheels or all tires, while maintaining control and driving the car through the entirety of a corner. Car drifting occurs when the rear slip angle is greater than the front slip angle, to such an extent that often the front wheels are pointing in the opposite direction to the turn (e.g., the car is turning left, wheels are pointed right or vice versa, also known as a reverse lock or counter-steering)”

Car drifting stunts first started in Japan in 1970, by a man named Kunimitsu Takahashi. He was first a motorcyclist and then a driver. He would go on to win major awards for car drifting competitions.

The end aim of car drifting is usually to produce exhaust fumes from the burning of car tires.

Keiichi Tsuchiya, another Japanese, known as the “Drift King” came into history upon encountering Tahakashi’s drifting techniques. Sometime in the late 90s, particularly in 1996, Drifting began to gain more popularity outside of Japan, in places like California.

Drift League presents Tokyo Wedding Party

On 10th February 2019, Minna car drifters converged at 3-Arm Zone to have Drifting stunts in celebration of a sister of one of their top members who recently got married. They called it Tokyo-Wedding Party from the Drift-league. Before this, they had made a flyer and shared it across social media, inviting people to come to to to to watch.

The bride was in attendance with two of her friends to witness the fun celebration. Her hands and feet had henna, and her face was heavily made up. She wore a black hijab.

At 4:30 pm, the stage was still mostly empty and exuded a serene, peaceful atmosphere, even though the event had scheduled for 4:00 pm.

Soon, drifters and spectators started to arrive in trickles. Some of them had customized t-shirts. Most casually dressed in t-shirts and jeans.

When the first car arrived, it did so with a grand announcement; tires were screeching hard against the cemented inter-locked ground as people cheered.

In about an hour, the arena was full of drifters and watchers alike. And so the fun began. As spectacular as the view often was, it sometimes left fear in the mouth of watchers especially first-time viewers. But not for the young men standing around the arena and cheering loudly as each car began its show.

In about an hour, the arena was full of drifters and watchers alike. And so the fun began. As spectacular as the view often was, it sometimes left fear in the mouth of watchers especially first-time viewers. But not for the young men standing around the arena and cheering loudly as each car began its show.

A small car first drove into the arena and began to accelerate round and round in a way that made eyes dizzy. And then it drove off the cemented road into a corner filled with sand. Once there, the driver began to press hard on the accelerator, while at the same time steering the wheel in a direction opposite the direction the tires were headed. This sent the tires rolling hard against the sand in one direction and then breathing loads of sand in, and leaving clouds of dust erupting into the air. Once this was achieved, the car veered back onto the road and accelerated hard, leading the tires into burning smoke out in spirals and spirals of fumes that drove the crowd into cheers.

Several cars did this in turns, each trying to outdo the one before it, producing more and more smoke.

As night drew closer, the bride and her two friends, who had been mere viewers before now, were invited into one of the cars whose turn it was to drift. They went in. Once the car started, they began to scream in what could have been terror, or excitement, or both. But the driver did not stop. He drifted until the tires burned and there were thick clouds of smoke. By the time he finished, and the three women alighted from the car, they each clutched their chests in obvious terror and tried to gain their breaths back. The crowd cheered.

Towards the end of the show, word went round that there was to be a Hawa on the 24th of February, in honor of a member’s brother who had recently done his Qur’anic graduation.

There is a fabric that binds the youths of this city together, and it is called brotherhood.

This article is a collaboration between Writer, Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu, and Photographer Victor Adewale.

This project is part of a final assignment to conclude my time at That Green Tea. I am available for any future literary collaborations as needed. Follow me on social media on IG: @waasishafii and Twitter: @waasishafii

All images are the original work of Victor Adewale on IG: @victoradewale_ and Twitter: @victoradewale_

  1. Drifting (motorsport). (2019, January 22). Retrieved February 13, 2019, from



We talk about finding beauty in the mundane, but also about whether or not we can afford to write about the little things while a fire rages in our backyard, burning things like gender equality, religious tolerance, and peace.

There has been the age-long argument on whether as writers, we can afford to listen to the voice of the heart when it is not speaking about the political. But then again, what is political? I’ve been thinking about these cages, and I’ve decided the little things are just as worthy of writing.


the fierce resistance of the sky
when the sun begins to sink
forcing it to spill,
i believe in the kindness of truth to call that beauty.

the width of my sister’s smile
and the tenor of my best friend’s laughter
the love song that exists between rain and a window
and the tender spot that is midnight
the dirge of silence, truth.

the weakness in my chest when i begin to miss the people i love.
scars and their lineage
the assent of a family of laughter taking off by the same sheet of time
the curse that soaks my country like a towel would blood
the glint in my brother’s eye when he wants to prank.

i believe in the curl of hair
the anguished cry of a half buried hurt.
the slight smirk of nature over greenery kissing harmattan
i believe in hands.

in the fabric of friendship.

Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu is a final year law student at Bayero University, Kano. A poet and essayist, her work has appeared online and in print on platforms such as Ake Review, The Bitter Oleander, Afridiaspora, Brittle Paper, The Kalahari Review, Selves, and elsewhere.

She is a 2018 fellow at the Ebedi Writers International Residency and interning here on That Green Tea blog.

All images sourced from Canva are free. Any copyrighted image will be rightfully mentioned. We don’t have litigation money so we keep it simple. 🙂




The thing with words is that sometimes, a word isn’t just a word, especially when you have come to attribute it to a person. More radical is the transcendence when said person is one that owns a home in your heart. The word becomes many things; a scent smelling strongly of human, a roomful of emotions, a house accommodating people and places. I have come to see that the only way for the existence of a medium where moments and memories cohabit seamlessly, is where the medium is a word you have come to attribute to a beloved. And so the word becomes a warehouse of memories and moments so that both cannot be told apart unless you or your beloved dies. And death here often has nothing to do with mortality, just an absence that cannot be corrected. It is what has happened to me with the word,


The word Durbar, in the ordinary sense, would bring to mind a picture of colorfully and traditionally dressed men on horses, blowing trumpets in a way that for some reason always makes me think of religious fanatics even though culture and religion are two different things, and shooting local guns into the evening sky.

In this picture, there would be clowns on foot accompanying the men on horses; there would be men and women and children. Circling, bending, swaying, weaving themselves into one another and out again, mindless yet assured, and seemingly effortless like smoke, to the delight and great admiration of the audience.
Some dressed ridiculously, others artfully, and some others dangling on the thin line between what is ridiculous and what is art. There would be the last group too, whose choice of clothing would make you wonder whether there is no such line that is universally accepted, that is only a construct of the individual minds of people according to the various degrees of their tenderness. There would be singing, and there would be the emir passing after much of these people have displayed enough to herald his arrival.
He would be on a horse, the emir. Decorated uniquely under a large, dancing royal umbrella, smiling to the people who have gathered to watch, raising a fist in respect to all, and on some occasions throwing kola nut into the crowd. There would be only smiles and excitement and laughter.

But for me, for my family, Durbar is, was, all these doubtless but much more, too. Durbar was first, the spending of the third day of Eid-el Kabir at Ma’s house every year. Durbar was a short journey with my parents and siblings in the car from our home to Ma’s. It was food and drinks, and laughter and so much gossip passed between my sisters, myself, and Ma’s children. It was spending time with Ma. It was reminiscence, happy reminiscence. It was the weaving of memories into time, like the exercise of knitting to one who loves knitting. It was all of us; children, parents, including Ma herself leaving the house at 4 pm afterward to watch the Durbar that exists on an average day to other people. Durbar was Ma’s home and her children on the third day of Eid el Kabir. Durbar was Ma.

And so the first Eid-el Kabir after Ma dies, after that death alters the smiles and lives of all the people in her home forever, nobody in my house would make a mention of Durbar. And when my younger sister summons the courage to ask if I’d go with her as she cannot bring herself to go alone, I’d shake my head no.

Because for me, there is only one Durbar, and she has died.

Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu is a writer whose work has appeared online and in print on platforms such as After The Pause journal, Ake Review, The Kalahari Review, The Bitter Oleander, Brittle Paper, Afridiaspora and elsewhere.

She is currently pursuing a law degree, is in her final year and a blog intern for That Green Tea. She writes from Nigeria.

Follow Hauwa on Twitter (@waasishaffii) and Instagram (@waasishafii) or send an email to for any collaborations.