‘So, I will have to find another way in next time,’ he laughed.
Binta, too, laughed. Then she got out of the bed. ‘I hope they have hot water here, I need to shower now.’
Jos: August, 1995
She first heard rumours that Yaro was hanging out with the boys at the junction; the boys who ran the black market selling petrol to motorists by the roadside. She heard that they were making good money because there was a shortage of petrol at the filling stations.
She raised the issue with Zubairu several times but he had only grunted. He was preoccupied with the new suya spot he was struggling to keep afloat. The first, which he had started back in ’82, was destroyed in ’85 by the government task force that seemed determined to demolish anything it did not like the sight of. For years he went to the majalisa, where jobless men sat and argued all day, drank fura da nono in the afternoon and returned home at night with dark faces and limp pockets.
It was Binta’s paltry salary as a schoolteacher that kept them afloat in those days until Zubairu started another suya spot. It prospered for several years until he got into a fight with a police sergeant. The officer wanted Zubairu to buy a ‘licence to operate’ from him, except there was no receipt for the transaction, and the fees were renewable each time the officer got broke. The negotiations ended in a fist fight, with Zubairu knocking out two of the sergeant’s teeth.
The police confiscated his goods and locked him up. It took a week and some significant payments to get Zubairu released. He then tried his hand at several trades: selling used clothes; running a motorcycle taxi (that ended when he crashed the bike and was left with a limp for months) and a failed trade in onions procured from farmers in the villages. In the end, he went back to his suya business and had just got another spot up and running at Angwan Rukuba Junction. He was struggling and Binta’s salary had not been paid in eight months. Teachers had been on strike the last six.
Finally, she decided to do it, to have this talk with the son she had been brought up not to acknowledge. She had meant to talk to Yaro that day because she had heard the rumours of the rolls of ganja under the black marketeers’ tables, she had heard how they leered at and harassed passing girls.
But it was Munkaila who came at dinner time, smiling broadly, a bulging plastic bag dangling from his hand.
Binta looked up from the lesson notes she had been updating for whenever schools resumed. There were talks going on between union leaders and the government. But there had been talks before. Binta was not certain that this round of talks would be any different from the previous ones.
‘Where is that coming from?’
Munkaila’s smile broadened as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of notes and held them before her eyes. ‘My GCE registration fees.’ He beamed.
‘What! Registration fees! Your father must have come into some money.’ She raised her hands heavenwards with a smile in her eyes.
‘Not Father. Yaro.’
Her hands dropped. ‘What do you mean Yaro?’
‘He gave me the money and the things in the bag. And he gave me this for you.’ He pulled out a smaller wad from his other pocket.
She looked at the money and thought of Hadiza’s worn shoes and Hureira’s aching tooth. ‘Put it on the table.’ She knew that she would hate herself for saying that.
She started to perceive the smell of ganja lingering about Yaro each time he returned. He came back very late and left early, after he had come to say good morning to her, always squatting down, supporting himself with his fingers on the floor. Each time she would grunt and look the other way. Sometimes he lingered, as if waiting for her to say something or wanting to tell her something. Because she never looked in his eyes, she would never know. And each time he rose and left, she would feel her heart clench three times – always three times.
But the money kept coming, and the shopping bags too. And Zubairu’s shame no longer loomed as large because this time, it wasn’t from his wife’s purse they fed. It was from his son’s, his first son.
But one dawn in December when the harmattan rattled the windowpanes, Binta had come out to perform her ablutions for Subhi prayers when she noticed the smell. For some time she stood still, her nostrils filtering the cold air. She allowed her nose to lead her towards Yaro’s door. She stood, her heart racing. What she had always feared was true. The smell of ganja slipped out from the chinks of his door. She rapped on the door and felt the panel rattle under her fist. She pounded until he opened.
The men, their co-tenants, had already left for the mosque so only the women in the compound were left to peek through their curtains. She slapped him and he bowed his head.
‘Under my roof, Yaro? Is this what you want to teach your brother, you useless boy? Men are at the mosque praying while you are here smoking your useless life away, under my roof!’
He looked her in the eye, briefly. She slapped him again. And then rage gave her hands a life of their own. They moved frenziedly, left and right. Left and right. He retreated from her into the narrow room, until he tripped and fell backwards onto the mattress. She stopped, looking down at him. He was panting, as she was, his eyes were angry, and hurt. When he looked away, it was the hurt that she remembered more, it was the hurt that endured in her mind.
That was the last night Yaro spent under her roof. It was also the last time she saw him alive. He packed his things in a small bag and left. Munkaila reported that he had moved in with one of his friends from the junction.
That was where the police found him. They had been looking for Yaro’s host on suspicion of robbery. They broke down the door and opened fire.
When his friends brought home his bloodied corpse, Binta held him in her arms and called him by his given name. Her wailing voice dazed the soaring birds and pierced the underbelly of the heavens.
17
An old woman is always uneasy when dry bones are mentioned in a proverb
There was something appealing about the bunch of strawberries topping the fruit bowl; something about the shape and the redness and the yellow speckles on the skin. Reza wondered what they would taste like, these exotic fruits, arranged exquisitely, the green tufts facing the ceiling. He watched as Senator Buba Maikudi’s hand hovered over the bowl and settled on one. He watched him chew, observed the expression on his face and wondered what sensations his taste buds must be experiencing.
‘You didn’t bring me a birthday present, Reza.’ The senator took another bite. ‘I just turned seventy, you know.’
He was reclining on the plush rug, supporting his elbow with an ornate leather cushion, an impressive ensemble of snacks and the fruit bowl arranged before him. Beside the strawberries, there were apples, apricots, avocados and grapes. On a side plate, there was steamed groundnut.
Reza swallowed. ‘Senator, I didn’t know.’
‘See all the cards I have recieved,’ the senator gestured expansively at the array of assorted cards. Some were small and dainty. One was as big as a small child.
Reza nodded in admiration.
The senator sat up and reached for one. He picked up his thin-framed glasses on the rug beside him and put them on. ‘Your life has been a blessing,’ he read in English and paused to clear his throat, ‘and that is why I pray God multiply your years. Happy birthday, Grandpa.’
Not knowing what to say, Reza nodded again.
‘That was from my granddaughter,’ the senator’s voice resonated with pride. ‘She’s just five you know, very smart girl.’
‘Yes, she seems smart.’
The senator scanned the display before him with obvious satisfaction and chose an apple. He reclined again, the fruit hovering before his face. ‘You know, it is because of these small ones, eh, these little children, that we work so hard to make sure their future is not mortgaged by incompetent idiots who want to rule this country by whatever means.’ The crunch came and a huge chunk of the apple disappeared.
‘Exactly, sir.’
T
he senator gestured at the fruit and nodded to Reza to make his choice. He pushed the bowl towards the young man and nodded again, watching as Reza eyed the strawberries.
‘You know, you people are just killing yourselves with all these useless chemicals you consume.’ The senator waved the apple before his face. ‘Our fathers lived on fruit and see how long they lived. My father, may Allah rest his soul, as far back as 1937, used to walk from Azare to Kano carrying all these goods on his head. He was a big trader, you know. He bought the best zanna caps from Maiduguri and sold them in Kano, travelled to Zaria and bought the best embroideries and sold them in Kano and Maiduguri. It made him pretty rich, wallahi.’
‘He trekked from Azare to Kano?’ Reza marvelled.
‘Oh, yes, he did. And he lived well into a ripe old age, my father. You know, he ran into some bandits once. He was walking with heaps of money tied around his waist when he noticed someone trailing him. He pretended he had stepped on a thorn and managed to get a good look at the bandits, how they were positioning behind him—’
Musa the tea man came in with an exotic tea set. Reza admired the dainty porcelain cup with intricate powder-blue floral designs; and the teapot in the centre, which was giving off a steady stream of steam through the spout. Musa placed the tray on the rug before the senator.
‘Sannu, Musa. Nagode ko,’ the senator greeted.
Musa nodded shyly. As he stood up to leave, the senator’s son came in. He was young – younger than Reza, and slimmer too. He sat on the rug next to his father and it was easy for Reza to see how much they looked alike. He didn’t even acknowledge Reza, so the outsider sat quietly, pretending not to be listening, wondering how the senator’s father had fared against the bandits back in ’37.
‘Dad, about the trip?’
‘Ah, Hamza, this trip again?’
‘But, Dad, we’ve talked about this.’
‘Hamza, this trip is not important now, is it?’
‘I am going with my friends. Dad, please.’
‘Well, I am not paying for it.’
‘Oh, Dad, come on. Do you want me to be stranded?’
‘I thought you were going back to school next month, so why must you start globetrotting like that?’
‘Haba! Dad, I’m so bored and besides, I’ve never been to Madrid before. I want to learn Spanish.’
‘I thought the trip would last a week.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how are you going to learn Spanish in a week?’
‘At least I will pick up the interest and see places and you know—’
‘Oh, all right, all right. You can go.’
‘Thanks, Dad. But I will need some pocket money.’
‘Hamza, see all this your pestering—’
‘And I will need you to help talk to your people about the visa.’
The senator put a grape in his mouth and gestured uncertainly. ‘Later, Hamza, you can see I have a guest.’
The young man looked at Reza and nodded vaguely, abandoning the gesture halfway through. He started tapping the buttons of his Blackberry. Reza looked at Hamza’s delicate fingers, and couldn’t imagine them ever curling around a hoe, even to clear the backyard garden.
Still tapping his phone, Hamza huddled closer to his father and spoke in low tones. Reza could still overhear them. And when he picked an apple and bit into it, it made such a crunch that father and son looked up at him.
As Reza watched the senator pour tea for himself, sipping and smiling as he listened to his son whisper, he couldn’t help thinking of his own father languishing on the narrow hospital bed, one on which someone else had probably recently died. And as Hamza was leaving, Reza saw the little smile that lingered on the senator’s lips and the gleam of pride in his eyes.
‘Hamza kenan,’ the senator laughed. When the boy closed the door behind him, the old man turned to Reza and motioned for him to have tea.
With a ‘thank you’, Reza declined. He still could not get his head round the idea of having tea for the fun of it – tea without bread! ‘Is he studying, your son?’
‘Yes. He just finished his first degree. I want him to go for his master’s immediately. He wants to go to Madrid, to learn Spanish, in one week, can you imagine that?’ The senator shook his head. ‘He is just like my father, Hamza, always wanting to see new places.’
‘He’s schooling in Madrid?’
‘Oh, no. He did his degree in London. Do you know Madrid, Reza?’
‘Oh, I just know Real Madrid.’
‘Yes, the football team, right?’
‘Yes.’
The senator sipped tea. Reza ate more of the apple. But he had heard them mentioning UCLA. He didn’t want to ask what that was.
‘UCLA.’ He nodded in admiration.
‘Yes, for his master’s.’
‘Is that in London?’
The senator laughed. ‘The US, Reza, UCLA is in America.’
Reza smiled. ‘I am thinking of going back to school myself.’
The senator nodded and raised his teacup to Reza. He seemed in a hurry to say something, but because his mouth was full, he took his time. Then he sipped more tea. ‘Very, good, Reza, very good.’ He set the cup gently on the saucer and reclined again, his eyes shifting from side to side.
‘I just thought I should re-write my GCE and see how it goes, you understand.’
The senator nodded. ‘Good idea. So, you were in school before?’
Reza chuckled. ‘I was.’
‘You see, Reza, that is what we are fighting for. Imagine someone as intelligent as you; you can’t go to school because of one thing or the other, mhm? This is the injustice we are fighting. That is why I am still struggling at my age so that people like you can have a brighter future.’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘How is your business doing?’
‘We thank God.’
‘And the policeman? He is not troubling you anymore, is he?’
‘No, sir.’
The senator cleared his throat and sat up. He sipped his tea and seemed surprised there wasn’t much of it left in the little cup. He put the cup down on the saucer and poured more from the teapot. ‘You see, my cousin Bello, he spent seven years in the university because of all these useless strikes and now three years since he graduated, he still hasn’t found a job.’
Reza’s eyes broadened a fraction.
‘And this man came here the other day, he said his younger brother has been looking for a job for five years and still hasn’t found one. Five years, in this country!’
‘My brother too,’ Reza began, wondering why he was talking about Bulama, his useless half-brother. ‘He has a diploma now. He couldn’t find a job either.’
‘You see!’ The senator poured milk into the cup and watched the spiralling white storm imploding from below, bleaching the tea, subtly dominating it. ‘Too many people these days going to all sorts of schools and there are no jobs for them to do. When they are frustrated, they take guns and rob somebody.’
Reza looked at the fruit bowl, at the apple green and the red of the strawberries and their yellow speckles, at the night shades of the grapes and the mellow yellow of the cashew.
‘So your brother went to school?’
Reza nodded.
‘And you and him, who is better off now?’
Reza thought of his father in the hospital and how powerless his brother had been even to buy the needed drugs. He didn’t want to say that Bulama had married and that, on his meagre teacher’s salary, they barely managed through to the end of the month, from what he had heard. He didn’t want to say how pleased he was that he seemed to be faring better than his father’s son.
‘You see!’ There was a note of triumph in the senator’s voice. ‘You are doing better than he who spent all those years in school, all that money gone, all that time wasted, for what? That is why I think young people like you who are entrepreneurs, who have business acumen, should not waste your lives chasing illusions.
That was why when I heard that policeman was messing with your business, I had to intervene. You’ve heard of Bill Gates, haven’t you?’
Reza nodded.
‘See, he is one of the richest men in the world and did he not drop out of school? The problem with us is that everything becomes a fad. Because Mr A goes to school, everyone else wants to go to school, so we lose the farmers, lose the businessmen, lose all sorts of people who will all rush to school and when they come out, there is nothing for them to do.’
Reza contemplated the fruit once more.
‘See this boy Hamza, do you think if he had any business sense like you I would be wasting my money sending him to school? I would rather give him capital to start a business.’
The senator stirred the tea and took a sip, then he reclined on the ornate cushion and picked up the card his granddaughter had sent him. He read it again and smiled, as if at a private joke.
Hamza opened the door to announce that some ‘honourables’ had been waiting for the senator. The old man said he would see them when he was done with his guest. Reza now wondered why the senator had summoned him, why he had been talking to him about everything apart from what he had called him for.
‘Reza, you said your old man was ill. How is he now?’
‘Alhamdulillah, he is better.’
‘Has he been discharged?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Take care of your old man, Reza, pray that you part in peace. That is very important.’
Reza nodded.
‘You know, your aljannah is under your parents’ feet. If they are not happy with you, they stomp on it, if they are, they raise their feet for you to gain access to paradise. Take good care of your old man, ka ji ko?’
The senator reached for his bag and fetched some money. He handed the notes to Reza and urged him once more to take care of his father. Reza thanked him and made to leave.
‘Reza, zauna mana.’ The senator motioned for him to take his seat once more. ‘Do you know why I called you?’
Season of Crimson Blossoms Page 15