As Mallam Isa* draws near to the end of his talk, tears fill his eyes.

Sadness mixed with a tinge of embarrassment makes me lower my gaze. We have done a good number of these interviews in the North and I’ve never seen a man cry. He doesn't appear to mind though.

Mallam Isa* is the chief in one of the villages we ran our program for girls.

About fifty girls in his village signed up for the training, a year-long initiative that educates and equips young girls on entrepreneurship, personal hygiene, financial and personal development.

When we arrived at his palace an hour ago, I couldn’t wait to be done with the interview.

The sun was scorching and without a fan, the palace’s interior offered no respite. We settled down on a colourful woven mat laid on the floor. The zonal coordinator offered to get us water.

Thirsty but distrustful of the source, I graciously declined.

The meeting which was set for two o’clock, starts nearly thirty minutes later. The chief arrives late and apologises profusely. He is also a politician and was at an emergency party meeting.

As he begins to speak, I wonder if we shouldn't ask him to speak in Hausa and have our colleague interpret. His English, though not pidgin, is very broken.

“Thank you for having us,” my colleague starts off the conversation. “As you know, we’re here to check on the girls...

and the progress they’ve made since they finished our program.”

“I thank you as you come here to see me and my daughters,” Mallam Isa* replies.

“Before we speak to the girls, first, we would like to speak to you as the chief. What did you think of our program?”

The question has to be repeated, this time slowly. Mallam Isa nods in understanding, clears his throat and begins to speak.

“Make I tell you truth. The first time that I hear am for your program, I not want my daughters to go. I no want my daughters to learn what I don't know.

But when them start to do their meetings, I say let me join them, make I hear what my daughters is learning.

“And did you like what they were learning?” asks my colleague.

Mallam Isa nods his head vigorously. “Yes! I like it well well!

Your coordinator teach my daughters to stay clean, bath every day, wash clothes and their body in their woman time every month.

Them learn to do soap, sew cloth, and do small small business. She teach them to keep their money so them no use it to buy everything.

From the money them save, they help their family.”

“Did you attend all their meetings?” she asks.

“Yes. After the first meeting, I now know that my daughters is learning good things. So, every Wednesday as time near three o’clock, I go their house and call them for meeting.

I make my own daughters that I born, to join the program.”

My colleague poses another question.

“What would you say are the results of the program? Would you say it has made a good difference in their lives?”

Mallam Isa gives an emphatic nod.

“Is good. Is very good. As the time pass, as my daughters are learning, in my very eyes, my daughters change. No more dirty—they clean every time. My daughters carry shoulders up, how you say it…,”

“They’re confident?” I chime in.

“Yes! They confident well well.

Them do business, have money and still humble to help their parents. And one thing that I see that make me happy; my daughters no carry belle for my sons again.

Go inside village, ask them. Before, my daughters are pregnant every time. But now, no pregnant. They wise well well.”

At these words, my colleagues and I smile at each other. This is the kind of feedback we love to hear; to know that the program's impact has extended beyond our beneficiaries.

But across from us, overwhelmed by emotions, Mallam Isa takes a deep breath and releases a heavy sigh.

“Any problem sir?” my colleague asks, looking at us and back at the chief.

“I no too happy,” the good Mallam replies. Tears fill his eyes. This is when I look away, abashed. He goes on speaking, oblivious to our questioning gazes.

“Now my daughters are very good. They are up here,” he says, raising his right hand above his head. “But my sons are down here.”

He indicates this by placing his left hand at the same level with his stomach.

“The problem is that my daughters live for this village. They will marry my sons for this village. But now I no want my daughters to marry my sons because my sons no good.

Please, I’m begging you people. Come and teach my sons, make them know good things like my daughters.

If you no do it, my daughters go come marry them and all the good work will spoil. But if two of them know good things, together, them good."

My colleague says she wishes we had one for boys. She suggests that he teach the boys the same thing the girls have learned.

It's as if a light bulb goes on in his head. He gives a wide smile and promises he'll do so.

As we pack our equipment and head to the car, I ponder on his words. I think of the many programs in these vulnerable areas that target the girl child and leave the boys with nothing.

I wonder who will pick up the mantle and teach our young boys. For sure, it is a vicious cycle to educate one and leave the other illiterate in the things that matter. Especially if they run in the same circles.

For water, no however high the tide, will always return to the sea.

Are there any initiatives in Nigeria that cater to boys' education and skills acquisition? If you know any, please tag them below.

If you can start one, please don't hesitate. There's a dire need for this kind of program, especially in villages and impoverished areas.