When he looked up and saw disappointment clouding her face, he turned her over on her back, but her probing look bothered him. So he turned her over again and positioned her on all fours. Eager to get it over with, he slid into her from behind, thrusting lethargically at first. But the noises she made, moaning with fervour, awakened his desire and he thrust with more gusto, his crotch slapping against her rear. It took him forever to come.
After he had emptied himself into her, grunting like a desperate animal, she lay beside him and played with the little anthills on his head. ‘You made me miss the madrasa today.’
‘Sorry about that.’
She thanked him for the necklace and he laughed and ran a finger down her body to her navel and back up. ‘I wanted to see you yesterday.’ He circled her nipple with his finger.
‘I know. I went to see my son. He lives with his family in Maitama.’
‘Oh. Is he the one I’m supposed to see to ask for your hand?’ he laughed.
Binta laughed too, a laughter that rolled and eventually petered into hollowness. Before then, it had never occurred to her that he would have such notions, and when she looked at his eyes and saw he was joking, she felt relieved. She slapped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘He will shoot you the moment he sees this hair of yours.’
Reza ran his hand over his hair and laughed some more. She thought there was some strain in his laughter this time.
‘Have you ever been in love before?’ The question came out of her suddenly and she wondered why she was asking.
‘Love? Ha ha!’
‘You must have loved. You young ones have that luxury.’
He thought for a while. ‘There was a girl, once. I was young, you understand. Back in secondary school. We used to walk home together. She was cute, a little plump, you understand.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I don’t know. Some rich dude came and her parents married her off. The next time I saw her, she was carrying this hideous baby and she said, “Reza, see the ugly child I have. If it had been yours, it would have been cute.”’
Binta laughed, slapping his chest.
He sat up and reached for the backpack he had placed at the foot of the bed when he came in. From inside, he produced two takeaway packs of rice and chicken and a carton of juice. He set them on the little table in the middle of the room and pulled the table closer to the bed.
‘Have some chicken.’
Binta sat up. ‘Were you heartbroken? When the girl got married, I mean.’
‘I suppose I was. I wanted to leave town.’ He started eating.
‘Was that why you left home?’ She knew she was reaching deep into him, into the dark chambers where he hid his most private memories.
‘No, no,’ He filled his mouth with food and she had to wait for him to swallow.
‘What happened?’
He stared into the mist of reminiscence. ‘I was seventeen or so, I don’t really remember, you understand.’ His voice sounded distant. ‘I was lying in my room; I had been stoned the night before so I was in all morning with the hangover. And these women, my father’s wives, they started talking about her … that woman. She had just come from Saudi and left. And they started talking about what she had been doing in Saudi and stuff, you understand, calling her all sorts of names and saying how useless I was and stuff. I just got up and went out.’
He paused and took a sip. ‘They saw me and their mouths hung open like this.’ He let his jaw drop for a while. ‘I just walked out.’
When the silence grew longer, she asked him what had happened next.
‘Nothing. I just left. I wasn’t doing anything there anyway, you understand? Just saw a car heading this way and I got in. Had no idea what I would do. I just left.’
She patted him on the back and leaned against him. She had often wondered, in her many moments of doubt, what it would feel like to just open the door and go, like a bird escaping from a cage. There had been times she had felt like walking but had lacked the mettle. She felt that way as she rested her head on his back, contemplating, even if frivolously, the possibility of walking away, with him, to places where they could live and love, unencumbered by communal shackles and familial expectations. But she knew it was impossible. He had his whole life ahead of him and she had to prepare herself for the inevitability of loss, of his tiring of her. She sighed and lay back on the bed.
Reza tore a chunk of meat. ‘Come on, it’s all good now. Come, let’s eat.’
She smiled sadly and sat up again to join him.
He did not notice that she only picked at the food and, when he was done eating, he reached into his bag once more and brought out several bundles of notes. He slapped them on the table one after the other while she gaped at him with a half-eaten piece of chicken in her hand.
‘Where did you get all this?’
Reza seemed delighted by the look on her face and when he laughed, the room resonated with a rich self-satisfaction she had formerly only associated with Munkaila.
‘I need you to keep this for me.’
‘Where did you get all this money? Did you steal it?’
‘Hey, relax. I told you I was going to be handling some business for my boss. This is just the advance.’
‘Advance! What sort of business is this?’ She put down the meat. She could see rebellion crawling into his eyes. But she too was feeling confrontational.
‘You are not my mother, you know.’ His voice was calm but resolute.
‘Oh, what are you trying to say now?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’ He started shoving the money back in the bag. ‘I won’t have you judge me.’
‘I am not judging you. I am just asking questions.’
He sprang to his feet. ‘Why must you ask questions? Why?!’
She could see his taut muscles rippling with restrained anger so she started gathering her things. As she stood before the mirror, tying her wrapper, adjusting her dress, the gleam of gold around her neck caught her eyes. She unclasped the necklace and placed it on the table. She felt him grab her and spin her around, his arm raised, ready to strike her.
The moment congealed into a haunting image: him standing over her, arms poised, frozen, one motion away from striking, eyes angry and daring, facial muscles quavering; her looking up to him in consternation, terrified even.
When he put his arm down and turned away from her, Binta put her hand on the cheek he almost struck, imagining the pain he would have inflicted on her, imagining the dent it would have made to her pride. Above the wild thumps of her heart, she felt the ripple of the sheer menace that had just rocked the nest they had built together and cushioned with desire and other sentiments they refused to name.
Hureira could not understand Fa’iza’s agitation as she drew furious lines in her secret book. Upon her return from school and without even taking off her uniform, Fa’iza had pulled out her secret book and started drawing, her brow furrowed and her fingers clamped hard on the pen. But Hureira knew the manifestation of an imminent djinn possession, she knew the signs. Not inclined to take the risk of her body appealling to some dark, ethereal entities, she removed herself from Fa’iza’s presence and went to sit out on the veranda, next to Hadiza’s petunias, and began clipping her nails.
She was still sitting there when the Short Ones entered in long, floral dresses – Abida in gold, Kareema in sunset orange. Their veils trailed behind them as they swung their hips, almost to a rhythm.
‘Aunty Hureira.’ Even that seemed chorused.
Hureira smiled, collected the novellas Abida was holding, skimmed over the covers and flipped through the pages. She kept one beside her. ‘I’m going to read this.’
The girls looked at one another. The consent came eventually, after some hesitation, in the form of a nod. And when Hureira told them Fai’za was acting crazy inside, they excused themselves and went in.
They found Fa’iza attempting to hide away the book she had been drawing in and trying, at the
same time, to wipe away tears. It was Abida who enquired what had happened.
Fa’iza sat down against the wall with a bland expression. She looked up at the girls. ‘So which books have you brought for me?’
She collected them and looked through unenthusiastically. Her apathy deepened when she learnt that Hureira had taken the one she had been looking forward to reading the most. She shrugged but said nothing.
Abida patted her on the knees. ‘Don’t worry, you will like these ones.’
‘Sure, sure.’ Kareema walked to the mirror and patted her cheeks. ‘And where is your aunt?’
‘My aunt? I don’t know. She went out, I guess.’
‘Mhmmm.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Abida’s laughter sounded contrived, even she knew. ‘Nothing, really.’
‘What are you not telling me?’
The Short Ones noted yet again Fa’iza’s increasing indifference to the little things that used to animate her.
Abida took hold of her hand. ‘Amin, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Me? Nothing.’
Kareema scoffed, ‘Sure, there is. You are acting funny.’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘Acting funny? I don’t know—’ but as she said it, her voice quaked and she started snivelling. Abida put her arm around her shoulders and Fa’iza leaned onto her. When Ummi, back from playing at the neighbours’, barged in with her stuffed doll, she was astounded by the sight of a teary-eyed Fa’iza, with the Short Ones sitting on either side of her looking morose.
‘Why are you beating my sister?’
The Short Ones laughed. Fa’iza smiled through her tears. ‘They are not beating me, silly.’
But Ummi was already flying out of the room to report the incident to her mother. Hureira rushed in and found the girls laughing.
She turned to her daughter. ‘Stupid girl, is that how they beat someone?’ She hissed and went back to the veranda.
Kareema stretched on the bed and started humming. It was obvious there was something she was itching to say. Abida knew. She, too, was worried.
‘So, what’s with Hajiya and Reza?’ Kareema asked at last.
‘Karee-ma!’ Abida clapped her hands.
‘Hajiya? Reza? What do you mean?’
‘What’s she doing with him?’
‘With him? I don’t know.’ Fa’iza waved away the mental image of the man’s shoes she had seen the other day at the front door, and then on Reza’s feet.
‘Well, people have been saying things, you know.’ Abida leaned away from Fa’iza.
‘Things? What things?’
‘Sure, sure. Things about the way Hajiya is running around with Reza.’ Kareema spat out his name as if it stung her tongue.
‘Karee-ma!’
‘Oh, shut up, Abida. Have you not heard what the women from the madrasa have been saying about how she was seen going into Shagali Hotel with Reza.’
Fa’iza put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, la ilaha ilallahu! Kareema, how could you say such a thing?’
‘Abida, tell her.’
Abida looked away.
‘Tell her, I said.’
‘How can I say what I don’t know?’
‘Well, tell her about San Siro. You were there. You saw that.’
‘Saw what? Abida, what did you see?’
‘Well, I don’t know. We saw Hajiya at San Siro. Very early in the morning.’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘But we didn’t know what she went there to do.’
‘Oh, stop being ridiculous, Abida. Did you not see her with Reza?’
‘So?’
‘She has been going to San Siro and now all the women are talking about her going to Shagali to have a tryst with that dan iska.’
Fa’iza sat motionless as the Short Ones argued. Kareema got up and went to the mirror to inspect her face. She reached for Hureira’s make-up kit and took a lipstick. She didn’t particularly like the shade but she applied it nonetheless. She reapplied her eye pencil and stood arms akimbo. ‘Well, come on, let’s go.’
Abida patted Fa’iza on the shoulder and said they would return later. They walked past Hureira, still sitting on the veranda, who watched them go, swinging their hips as they went.
Before they reached the gate, Hajiya Binta, returning from her escapade, pushed it open from the outside and stepped in. They saw how she turned her eyes away from them, feigning interest in the yellow-headed lizard on the wall.
‘Sannu, Hajiya,’ Kareema snorted.
Binta caught the unmistakable inflection of disdain in the greeting. She turned to catch the expression on the girl’s face. Kareema’s shoulder brushed her, ever so lightly, as she walked past her. Abida stooped briefly, coyly, as she walked past the gaping woman.
‘Lallai! These children,’ Binta closed the door and hurried past Hureira, whose greetings she acknowledged only with a nod. In her room, she yanked the veil off her shoulders and threw it down along with her handbag and collapsed on the bed.
Reza’s face kept looping in her mind. She had never looked rage in the face like that and the menace she had seen had stunned her. If he had struck her, she knew it would have broken not just her face and her pride, but her heart as well.
She waved away his pleading face as he knelt on the floor, his voice so close to her ears, his arms around her, strong, protective, as he swore to kill himself first before ever hitting her, as he threatened to kill himself if she did not forgive him.
She put her palm on her left cheek, where he would have struck her if he had not restrained himself, where he had kissed her as she was leaving the room, and suddenly felt tired. Tired from being strong, from daring him and telling him off even though her heart had been trembling all the time. She lay down on the bed and allowed her tears to seep into the bed covers.
She dreamt, fitfully, of fireflies kissing her face with their glowing lamps and sending tingling pulses through to her heart. They crawled in through a tear in the mosquito netting on the window, one at a time, until they were all over her, touching her everywhere. She became a luminous mass and started to levitate, hanging just a foot from the ceiling. But then they descended on her bag and when it ruptured into flames, she saw the money. She reached out for it, and crashed to the floor.
Sitting up panting, she grabbed the bag and pulled out the money, all five wads, and piled them on the bed. A quarter of a million. She thumbed the necklace around her throat. He was just a desperate young man who needed her guidance. But she would find ways to hurt him, if he ever again attempted to hit her. Now she thought of ways to convince him to open that bank account. She would never feel safe being his vault, where he deposited his things. All sorts of things.
24
Only a stupid blind man picks a quarrel with his guide
Reza locked the door and turned to the girl curled up in a foetal position on the mat. Before her were an untouched bowl of noodles, a loaf of bread and a mug of tea that had gone cold. He looked at her eyes, which betrayed the gnawing hunger she felt, which she refused to raise to his masked face, and at her lustrous hair.
‘They tell me you haven’t been eating.’
Her eyes moved slowly to the level of his boots.
‘Do you want to kill yourself, Leila?’
She raised her eyes briefly when she heard mention of her name.
‘I know your name. Leila.’ He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slid down against the door. Sitting on the floor, he lit up and inhaled. ‘I have seen your licence and student ID. I’ve always thought Leila was spelt with an ‘a’, but yours is with an ‘e’. I would have been curious, if I were the curious type, you understand?’
Her eyes, ringed by day-old kohl, flicked up to meet his.
He had spent the night at San Siro listening to Mamman Kolo interspersing his anecdotes, peopled by iniquitous djinns and cheaply-perfumed prostitutes, with his tambourine. He had realised how much he missed San Siro in th
e few days since their mission began. After he had collected money for the sales made by Sani Scholar, he rewarded him with a handful of dirty weed. It was, in their kind of business, essential to reward loyalty. And Scholar, who had no use for weed since he did not smoke it, would know how to dispense of it and earn himself respect among the boys.
On his way back, in a rather crowded bus heading to Wuse, he had seen the man with a child in a bag. He could not erase the image from his mind. And when he returned to the mansion, he had sat down quietly, away from the others playing cards on the living room floor, contemplating the atrociousness that a hunger for riches induces in men.
He blew a stream of smoke ceiling-wards and sighed. ‘The world is pretty fucked, you understand?’
The girl waved away a mosquito that had been preying on her foot, her kaftan rustling softly.
He took another drag. ‘I guess it has always been that way.’
He relished the cigarette for some time, pausing to consider the stick in his hand as if to determine how much weight it had lost since his last drag. ‘Some people are trying to find new cures, others are creating new weapons. And then there are those who are trying to kill themselves. Pretty fucked, you understand.’
She looked up at his eyes and looked away.
‘I saw this man today. I never wanted to kill someone as much as I wanted to stick this man.’
He watched the ribbons of smoke curling up to the ceiling, remembering the enduring image his mind had grasped from the encounter.
‘He had this bag, a big travelling bag, you understand? Black. And he got onto the bus with it. The conductor wanted to collect the bag and put it in the boot but the man refused. And he was holding onto the bag tightly as he sat right next to me.’ He paused to take a drag. ‘But the conductor, he had felt something in the bag. And he sat down and kept looking at this shifty man, you understand? So when the man wanted to get off, the conductor offered to help him with the bag but he refused again.’
Season of Crimson Blossoms Page 21