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<p>By Yusuf Danjuma Yunusa</p><div class="0TLN7BWp" style="clear:both;float:left;width:100%;margin:0 0 20px 0;"><script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>

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<p>In the bustling heart of Mararaba, a satellite town known for its relentless energy, the usual pre-festival buzz is unusually subdued. With just days to go until Eid-el-Fitr, the air is thick not only with dust from the busy streets but also with a palpable sense of anxiety. The holy month of Ramadan, already a period of sacrifice for many Muslims struggling with the country’s economic hardship, has been made even more challenging by a recent and significant hike in fuel prices. The celebration that marks the end of fasting—a time for joy, new clothes, and communal feasting—now looms as a day of difficult choices for many residents.</p>
<p>On a street lined with small shops and busy pedestrians, our correspondent spoke to five Muslim residents to understand how they plan to navigate this celebration amidst mounting hardship.</p>
<p>For Aliyu Mohammed, a taxi driver, the fuel hike has directly slashed his earnings, forcing him to redraw his Eid budget entirely.<br />
“Before now, it was tough, but we were managing,” Mohammed said, leaning against the bonnet of his taxi. “But this fuel price increase has finished our little remaining strength. I spend almost everything I make on fuel, leaving nothing for my family. For Eid, I had hoped to buy new clothes for my three children, but now I will be lucky if we can afford a good meal of rice and chicken. The celebration will be just in prayers. The joy is gone from it.”</p><div class="cXR4LNgW" style="clear:both;float:left;width:100%;margin:0 0 20px 0;"><script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>

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<p>A few meters away, Aisha Garba, a mother of four and food vendor, expressed her worries about the rising cost of food items. Her small business, which usually thrives in the week leading up to Eid, is struggling.<br />
“People are not buying food like they used to,” she explained, stirring a large pot of stew. “The money they have is for transport to their villages or for small essentials. For my own family, Eid will be very simple. I planned to prepare traditional dishes like Masa and Taushe, but the price of rice, oil, and even sugar has gone up since the fuel hike. Everything is transported by road, so prices must rise. We will cook what we can afford and be grateful to Allah for seeing us through Ramadan. There will be no new furniture or special treats for the children.”</p>
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<p>For young men like Ibrahim Sani, the prospect of Eid is a painful reminder of his circumstances. He spends his days helping out at a friend’s phone-charging kiosk.<br />
“Eid is supposed to be a reward after a month of patience,” Sani said, his voice low. “But what reward is there when you can’t even afford henna for your hands or a new pair of slippers? I cannot travel to see my family in Kano because transport fares have doubled. I will attend the Eid prayer at the central mosque and then probably spend the rest of the day here in Mararaba. The feeling is one of deep sadness. We are being squeezed from all sides.”</p>
<p>The hike has also affected community dynamics. Malam Yusuf Idris, a tailor, has seen a sharp decline in customers bringing fabric for Eid outfits. His shop, once a hub of activity, is quiet.<br />
“This is usually my busiest time of the year,” Idris said, his measuring tape hanging idly around his neck. “But this year, people come, they ask for the price, and they leave. They can no longer afford to sew new clothes. I have also had to increase my prices because thread and other materials cost more now due to transport. It is a cycle. I fear many children in this neighborhood will go to the prayer ground in old clothes on Eid day. We will still celebrate, but the spirit is broken by this hardship.”</p>
<p>Yet, amidst the despair, there is a resilient focus on the spiritual core of the festival. Hajiya Fatima Abdullahi, a grandmother and respected elder in the community, embodies this quiet fortitude.<br />
“The essence of Eid is not in new clothes or lavish food,” she said, sitting on a mat in front of her home. “Yes, the hardship is great. The fuel price has made everything more difficult for my children and neighbors. But we are Muslims. We have spent the last 30 days learning patience and gratitude. We will give our Zakat-ul-Fitr (obligatory charity) so that even the poorest can join in the celebration. On that day, we will put on our best clean clothes, even if they are old. We will go to the mosque to thank Allah for giving us the strength to fast. The celebration is in our hearts and in our prayers. We will not let hardship steal our faith.”</p>
<p>As the sun sets over Mararaba, the stories from the street paint a clear picture. The Eid-el-Fitr celebration this year will go ahead, but it will be a more somber, introspective affair. The double blow of persistent hardship and a fresh fuel hike has forced families to strip the festival down to its bare essentials: prayer, charity, and quiet gratitude for survival—leaving the traditional trappings of joy as an unaffordable luxury for many.</p>
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