Ezikiel began to laugh. He pointed to the weave-rat on the ground. I felt laughter in my stomach mix with the cow leg and fear and become bigger and bigger until I could not help laughing with him. Mama slapped the top of his head and then the top of mine, but we could not stop laughing. Every time I opened my eyes there was something funny to look at: Alhaji covering his face, Celestine’s bald head, Grandma with the wooden spoon.
“Stop!” Mama shouted, as Celestine screamed.
“Stop!” Ezikiel shouted, as her screams became so loud it was as if she was dying.
“Stop!” I shouted.
But Grandma continued, clap, clap, clap, clap, until Alhaji stood and raised his hand in the air. Celestine was folded up on the ground, her hands trying to cover her head, but the spoon found its way through.
“Stop,” Alhaji said. And she did. Grandma lowered the spoon, leaving a darker area on Celestine’s head. Grandma stepped back, and Celestine stood up. She looked as if she would jump on Grandma for a second, with her hands outstretched, as if reaching in order to grab Grandma’s neck. Alhaji took Celestine’s arm. Her eyes were bulging outward toward Grandma.
“Never ever accuse my chief wife of witchcraft,” he said. He opened his cosmetic case and took out a pot, from which he took four tablets and swallowed them one after the other with no water. “You are the junior wife, you see? You will listen to the chief wife and do as she says! Never blame my chief wife of such a thing as witchcraft! It is a dangerous accusation. A very dangerous thing to say.” Alhaji pointed to the boys’ quarters. “A stupid and dangerous accusation.”
“Please, please.” Celestine was crying. Her eyes were flat against her head again. “Please, sorry sorry. I am scared that she will poison me. She is jealous, jealous of me—”
“Get!” said Alhaji. “I will not tell you again.” He pointed his arm farther away from his body toward the boys’ quarters. His arm was very long. It was the length of one of his legs.
Celestine walked slowly away, rubbing her head and wailing. “Sorry, sorry …”
I began to watch Grandma more closely. Was she really a witch? Could it be true? Could she perform juju? I knew she believed in witchcraft, and she had told me stories of charms and juju that had done harm or good. She had told me of juju witches and wizards that needed toenail clippings and human hair and sometimes body parts to perform their spells. She told me that witches and wizards were thrown into the river after they had died—which was another reason not to drink the river water.
Grandma was on the other side of the veranda braiding the hair of one of Youseff’s daughters. The other daughters all stood in a line behind Grandma’s chair, waiting. I did not see the point. It would take Grandma hours.
I leaned forward to Ezikiel’s ear. “Could it be true?” I whispered.
“What?” Ezikiel shouted and moved away from my face.
“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips and moved it away quickly. I did not want Grandma overhearing and coming at me with a wooden spoon. But I could not stop wondering if it could be true. Grandma was called away during the night, and during the day, and sometimes she ran toward the car where Youseff would be sitting with the engine running, or sometimes she would run toward the river, pulling down a thin canoe on the way. Always, she had the bag by her side. Every time I asked someone about Grandma’s job, they sent me away.
Ezikiel leaned his ear back down toward my mouth.
“Could it be true?” I whispered again, this time pointing at Grandma.
“What are you talking about?” Ezikiel hushed his voice.
I looked at Grandma. She was pulling the girl’s hair so tightly even her nose had raised upward and I could see straight into her nostrils.
“Grandma. Could she be a witch?”
Ezikiel laughed immediately. He held his sides and moved his head back and forth. Grandma looked over at us and let the girl’s hair go enough that her nostrils flattened down. I turned my head and kicked Ezikiel’s foot.
He stopped laughing and started shaking his head. “You are so funny,” he said.
Later, Ezikiel went with Alhaji to an important meeting about Islam. When I asked him what it was, he shrugged and opened his eyes wide, before getting into the back of the car next to Alhaji. The car pulled away. I waved, but Ezikiel did not wave back. He kept his eyes facing forward the same as Alhaji’s, as though he could not see me standing there at all. He seemed to be following Alhaji more and more. And instead of laughing at him, or making jokes at what Alhaji said, Ezikiel began to ask him questions: What side effects are common with beta-blockers? What medical school is best for me? Do you think I will make a good doctor? I had no idea why Ezikiel was suddenly interested in Alhaji and ignoring me. What had I done?
When all the girls’ hair was plaited, Grandma fell asleep on the veranda chair with her head tipped back. I did not realize what I had gone looking for until I was in her bedroom pulling it toward me. The bag was heavy and smelled of rotten meat. I opened the clasp and looked at the doorway. I listened for noises but could hear only the sound of my heart thumping in my neck. Something was shining in the bag. I put my hand in slowly. My fingers were shaking. I could feel something cold and wet, hard objects, something metal. A piece of material. Farther inside, my hand hit something. I pulled it back out suddenly. Something sharp had pierced my finger. My skin looked normal for many seconds before a tiny line of blood appeared. A knife. Would a witch carry a knife? What other job would need a knife? Grandma couldn’t be a butcher, as we hardly ever had meat. Surely a butcher would bring home meat every day. And butchers were always men; I had never seen a woman butcher. And a butcher would be paid every week. If Grandma was a butcher, Mama and Grandma and Alhaji would not be so worried about money. But why else would Grandma carry a knife?
I put the knife back, shut the bag, and crept from the room.
“One day I will open my European Fashion Boutique,” Celestine said, after our dinner of kpokpo garri. I thought of the market shop, which had nothing but naked dolls and large canisters full of lace. “Lycra is the fashion in the U.S.,” she continued. “It will take off here. Whatever fashion starts in the West, Nigeria follows behind.”
“What is Lycra?” I asked. I had finished my garri and was crunching a bag of out-of-date potato chips.
“Very special material. Contours to a woman’s own shape.” Celestine pulled her wrapper up to reveal a petticoat, and tugged it. It stretched and then sprang back when she let go. I darted my eyes to Alhaji, who went on eating his bag of chips. “All clothes will be Lycra in the future,” she said. “Very slimming.” I raised my eyebrows enough for Ezikiel to pinch my arm.
“It is a stupid idea for a job,” said Grandma. “It is not a modest job.”
Celestine shook her head. “No, Sister. Is very good business idea. Lycra holds sweat in close, very good in hot weathers. Keeps the body cooler.”
“It is a stupid idea, bloody stupid woman,” continued Grandma. “Lycra? For a Muslim wife of a chief? It is not modest. It might be good for Christians, but Islam states that Lycra on women is not modest.”
“Where does it say Lycra is no good? It is not in the Koran. You show me where.”
“You cannot read, bloody stupid woman. So I cannot show you.”
Alhaji had his mouth open to speak, but there was no gap between the women’s words to fit his in, until Grandma asked, “What do you think?”
Alhaji sighed. He looked tired; his loose face skin was even looser, hanging around his neck. “As an engineer, I know about materials,” he said. “Grandma is right. Lycra is too hot.” Celestine stuck her bottom jaw out and folded her arms. “Also it is too tight. Not modest at all. It is not suitable for the wife of Alhaji to be wearing such tight clothes. You see?”
Nobody spoke. For several minutes there was the sound of crunching and faraway shouting. The faraway shouting was happening more and more. It still sounded far away but seemed to creep closer every day. Snap circled the
bottom of the veranda area for leftover bones. He was always nearby during mealtimes. Most mealtimes somebody felt sorry enough for him to throw him something.
Grandma sucked the meat off a bone, then picked between her teeth with it, before throwing it to Snap. “There you are, boy,” she said. Snap danced around the bone and jumped to his hind legs. It was a trick that Boneboy had taught him. We laughed as Snap spun around in a circle chasing the bone already in his mouth. Boneboy laughed the loudest. He had an infectious laugh. He was sitting in the shade at the side of the house, leaning his back against the wall. I had not noticed him there until he laughed.
“Also,” said Celestine, above the laughter, “Lycra comes in many colors.” Alhaji stood up, walking toward the house. “Bright colors, like pinks and purples, beautiful greens.” One by one, we walked away, leaving Celestine talking to Snap. “Blues, bright greens, every shade.” When I looked back, Snap had stopped running in circles and was crunching his bone with his ears flattened down.
There was nearly a full moon that night. We were sitting on the veranda listening to Alhaji talk about the future of petroleum quality testing, when it appeared as if a giant tin barrel was floating toward the compound. I half closed my eyes. Then I rubbed them. I thought I was seeing things. Everyone looked surprised, even Grandma, who believed that objects could float. Celestine jumped to her feet, and then up and down. “It has arrived!” She ran toward the barrel and opened the gate. Then a Citroën car crept in. The driver was a small man with a large clipboard. His eyes flitted over me and rested on Celestine.
“Celestine Kentabe residence?” he asked. He got out of the low car and stretched his arms high. He had a lopsided mustache. Celestine jumped excitedly; her breasts followed. I tried not to look at the driver’s eyes looking at Celestine’s breasts.
“That’s me, that’s me, it is for me.”
Alhaji frowned and Grandma shrugged her shoulders. He walked over to the car, everyone following a few steps behind him. I walked slowly. I felt scared about what was coming.
“What is this?” Alhaji spoke to the driver, who was by then staring so hard at Celestine’s breasts that he had not noticed Alhaji coming. He jumped and nearly fell over.
“The shipment for Miss Kentabe,” said the man, waving his clipboard and beginning to untie the barrel.
“Mrs. Kentabe,” said Alhaji. He stood in the way of the driver’s eyes and Celestine’s breasts. The barrel rolled off the car and crashed onto the ground. Grandma put her hand on Celestine’s shoulders and Celestine stopped bouncing around. I hovered behind Grandma, trying to make myself invisible. Ezikiel stood close to me. I could feel him holding laughter in his stomach.
“What is it?” Grandma asked.
Celestine smiled widely; her eyes disappeared. She started a bottom-shuffling owigiri dance to imaginary music. Her bottom stuck out like a shelf. It could have been used to balance a cup on.
“Lycra!” she shouted. “Lycra for my European Fashion Boutique!”
TEN
“I am wife. What is husband’s is wife’s,” Celestine said after Alhaji asked her where the money came from, before he sent the Citroën driver away and pushed Celestine toward the house. Her breasts shook when he pushed her, as if they wanted to run in the other direction. There was no arguing, just the sound of Celestine screaming and then being slapped. Scream, slap, scream, slap, scream, slap. I pressed my hands over my ears, Mama held Ezikiel to her body. She kissed his head. Celestine had been hit so much since arriving, I felt sorry for her. Every time she got beaten for a mistake, I wondered when my turn would be. With every slap Celestine received, I winced.
“That is it,” whispered Grandma. “She has spent all the money we had. That stupid bloody stupid woman.” Grandma’s words sounded harder than the screams and slaps coming from the bedroom. She kept tutting and sighing, and sucking her teeth, but eventually Grandma stood up and walked to the house. “That’s enough,” she shouted. Then it was quiet.
The barrel was pushed to the back of the house, and never mentioned again. The only reminders were Celestine and Youseff’s youngest wife, Tare, who wore a different Lycra item every day and lit up the garden like bright hibiscus flowers, and the money that we no longer had.
• • •
We were getting ready for school the following day when Mama came to find us. “Don’t bother,” she said. “You are suspended.”
Ezikiel dropped his shirt onto the ground. It was almost the same color as the ground-dust. “Sorry, Mama?”
“You’re suspended. Don’t look so shocked—it’s temporary. The fees are late. And until they’re paid, you can’t go to school. You’ll have to do your homework here.”
I moved closer to Ezikiel’s back. There was no wheeze, but he was hardly breathing at all. Was he holding his breath?
Mama’s face was sharp and pinched and her lips were tight. She was not joking.
For a moment I thought of school, especially of the toilets, and then I thought of the teachers, who never smiled except when they whipped the children.
I hid my face from Mama, behind Ezikiel’s back, and then I smiled. My smile did not last long. Ezikiel was still holding his breath. When his breath did arrive, it came out as a sob. I remembered at once his grades, his medical career.
“Mama, I cannot miss school,” he said. “Not even a day. I will fall behind. Please, Mama, there must be some way of me going. Can I talk to Alhaji?”
“There is no point. He doesn’t have a job,” Mama hissed. “And all my money goes to feeding all these mouths. If we can’t even eat, then school is out of the question. It’s bloody ridiculous, all these mouths to feed. And that stupid woman! I can’t believe we’re working to feed Youseff’s kids and Celestine’s stupidity, but there you are. We have to live here for now, so I can’t do anything about it. We need money for food, your medicines …”
Ezikiel began to cry. I put my hand on the middle of his back.
“Don’t start,” she said. “Don’t you start with me. Do you think I want this?” Mama was shouting now. “Do you think I want to have kids who don’t go to school? Do you think I asked for us all to be starving? To have to work every hour just to support these people?” Mama waved her hand around in the air.
“If you want someone to blame, you go ahead and blame Alhaji! He is still paying for that stupid woman. Or even better go right ahead and blame your father!”
Mama worked even longer hours than usual. She took any extra work that was offered, and we hardly saw her at all. We noticed it even more as we were not at school. Our days were spent listening to Alhaji pace the veranda, thinking out loud of moneymaking schemes, or watching Youseff’s wives leave the garden early to look for work washing other people’s clothes or selling roasted corn at the roadside.
Grandma and Celestine stayed out of each other’s way for some weeks, until one day when Grandma and I were at the side of the house where Grandma was teaching me how to pound yam, we heard Celestine crying. “Bloody woman,” said Grandma.
I followed Grandma to Celestine’s room at the boys’ quarters and waited outside the material door. Celestine was sobbing, and when Grandma entered her room, the sobbing became louder until Grandma had to shout, “Be quiet!”
Grandma’s voice turned soft, as if it had forgotten that she hated Celestine. “What is the problem?”
“That man.” Celestine began to sob once more. “That man, your husband!”
“What has that man done?”
I imagined Alhaji badly beating Celestine. He was half her size, but it was still possible. Mama had told me once that everyday beatings were normal, but bad beatings could kill a woman.
I wondered what the difference was between everyday beatings and bad beatings. Did the husband use more force? Did he use a belt?
“He is making me pay back the money I spent on my Lycra. But I cannot find a job.” Celestine moved against the material door, opening it wide enough for me to see into her room. She
was on her knees clutching Grandma’s legs. “Please, Sister, please, please help me. He will throw me out! Wari fa! Throw me to the rats!”
“Is that all?” Grandma laughed. “You are young enough and healthy. Of course you should work. You need to contribute. And the money you spent. All that money wasted!”
“I am sorry for that. I will pay it all back. I wanted to make money with the Lycra.”
“Eh! We cannot eat Lycra!” Grandma peeled Celestine from her leg like a banana skin. “Get up,” she said. “I will try to speak with Alhaji to see if I can help you find something. You must work. Now everyone must work. This is not the time for relaxing.”
Celestine hugged Grandma, almost lifting her from the ground.
“But I cannot promise. And if you spend our family money again, I can promise: We will put you out!”
Celestine kept her university degree rolled up in a cardboard tube; she got it out to show people so often that the edges had become crisp and curled like a potato chip. It looked authentic. The university stamp was blue-black, the color of a school toilet fly, with just the right amount of smudge. Celestine’s seven names were all there. It was signed in green pen by a Professor Akporovwovwo Mivwodere Efetobo Okoli. I couldn’t understand why nobody believed in Celestine’s university degree, when it was right there in front of them.
“I will never find that woman a job. Celestine would be good at stamping documents, but the office jobs are taken up. Even Sizzlers, and Mr Biggs’, full of fresh young people waiting for work. It is not easy to find employment for that woman. Eh! That woman. The crab may try, but it will never walk straight.”
Tiny Sunbirds, Far Away Page 9