On Wednesday, two young female suicide bombers detonated in a crowded market in Kano State.
"Oh, she does well,—even remarkably well for a woman," admitted Kano.
The last of his race was Kano Indara; the last of a mighty line of artists.
He came whenever Mata summoned him to meals, and ate them with old Kano, observing all outer semblances of respect.
For a full hour, now, Kano had delighted in the morning-glories.
The Zeg-zeg troops had one French fusil, and the Kano force forty-one muskets.
Being merely a woman, old Kano did not think of presenting her.
The Kano men, as soon as they fired their pieces, ran out of bowshot to reload.
He had hoped for and received from Kano the highest confirmation of this belief.
Behind the Kano cottage the rise of ground for twenty yards was of a grade scarcely perceptible to the eye.