Buried Beneath the Baobab Tree

by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

  All of us except the Boko Haram men, who sometimes laugh and yak all through the night. And Al-Bakura, who loudly recalls in grisly detail how they captured our village.

  “I wish I’d had my video camera with me,” he says. “You should have seen the way all of you were scurrying like rats.”

  Dagger

  THE MAD MAN ENTERS a Hilux van followed by other vans filled with Boko Haram men. Their convoy leaves a fog of dust behind.

  Unfortunately, they did not take Al-Bakura along.

  “If I catch any girl trying to escape, I’m going to slice off her head,” he says, a dagger dangling from his right hand.

  Al-Bakura

  HE LEAPS AFTER ME with a dagger gleaming in his right hand.

  “I am going to slice off your head!” he howls.

  Faster and faster, I flee, the sound of his feet getting closer by the second.

  Almost out of breath, I notice a dense hedge up ahead. It becomes my goal.

  I tuck my body beneath it and lie stationary until he springs past, still howling fearsome threats about what he will do to my head. Soon, his voice disappears. My breathing gradually returns to normal.

  Suddenly, out of the darkness, a hand grabs my hair.

  “Did you really think you could outrun me?” he asks.

  I scream.

  And wake up from my nightmare.

  Another Leader

  HER FINGERS ARE DECKED in colorful rings. Her wrist is draped with shiny bangles. Her eyes are painted black and gold.

  “I am Amira,” she says, adding that her husband is an amir, a commander. “My husband is one of Allah’s greatest fighters.”

  She gives me a mauve hijab and teaches me how to adjust it over my face, so that my ears are tucked neatly inside. I have watched Aisha do this dozens of times before but never imagined I might have to learn it myself.

  Within a short while, my armpits are dripping wet. The heat inside makes me want to scream.

  “Aisha, I can’t believe that you’ve dressed like this almost all your life,” Sarah says.

  “It’s not so bad,” Aisha replies. “Once you get used to it, you’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t want to get used to it,” I say.

  Comfort

  HOLDING HANDS WITH OUR fingers intertwined tight.

  Lying side by side with her breath cooling my neck.

  Resting my head on her shoulder with her arm around my waist.

  My best friend and I, afraid but not alone, deep inside the Sambisa forest.

  The Voice on Papa’s Radio

  WOULD IT TELL PEOPLE in other parts of the world what had happened to us?

  Would it announce the exact number of people in our village slain with Papa and my brothers?

  Would they hear and come looking for us deep inside the Sambisa, or would they assume that all the girls simply disappeared by charm or magic?

  In a way, Mama’s prediction came to pass. Papa and his radio left this world together.

  I wonder for how long it continued talking before the flames silenced it forever.

  Food

  “YOU HAD BETTER EAT your food, because you are going to be spending a long time with us,” Amira says.

  I shudder.

  We sit in groups of about fifteen to twenty around wide enamel basins set on the floor. Amira selects a girl from each group to fetch one of the pails filled with a soggy, steaming substance and pours it into the basin.

  The hunger in my belly burns like a razor cut, but it is impossible to eat. The food looks like white vomit.

  “There is no way I can put this in my mouth,” I mumble.

  “Never. I would rather starve to death,” Sarah murmurs.

  Like many other girls in our group, Sarah and I turn our faces away from the steaming corn porridge. At least no one is likely to slash our necks for refusing to eat.

  But Aisha, sitting two groups away from us, dips into the basin for the third or fourth time. She plunges her hand into her mouth and sucks each finger swiftly, as if she is in a hurry to be done feeding so that she can store her fingers up in the roof to dry.

  “Maybe the food is not as bad as it looks,” I say.

  Sarah agrees to join me in giving it a try.

  I stretch my hand toward the basin, but I pull back to let her go first. She scoops some porridge and waits while I scoop mine.

  Together, we open our mouths wide and place the yucky blob on our tongues.

  “Pwuuuuuuua!”

  “God forbid!”

  It tastes like minced raffia mat!

  The corn must have been infested with weevils. Or may have been cooked along with the chaff instead of sieved after grinding. Whatever the case, I have been eating ground corn, as tuwo or pap or massa, all my life, and it has never tasted this revolting before.

  As Sarah and I look around for a free space on the ground on which to toss the spat-out food in our palms, it occurs to me: Aisha may be the one scooping the vile food, but it is the baby in her belly doing the eating.

  I pray our next meal will be better.

  Magdalene’s Song

  INSECTS SIP BLOOD FROM all over my arms and feet, but I have run out of strength to keep slapping them away and scratching at their stings.

  Sounds of sniffing and sniffling seep into the air everywhere around me, girls with tears left to shed.

  The emotions sit in my heart like a brick at the bottom of the lake. Nothing left with which to wash away my pain and dilute my grief.

  I cannot sleep. I cannot imagine how tomorrow will be. I cannot endure the thought of another day inside the Sambisa forest.

  Another day with Magdalene’s song replaying in my mind.

  Another day wondering where the truck has taken Jacob, my one and only brother.

  Rijale

  I AM STILL NOT sure whether all those legends about the Boko Haram men are true, but there are some facts I know.

  Al-Bakura tells us that Boko Haram is doing the work of God. “May Allah continue to give us the courage to change the world,” he says. How could they possibly imagine that any god could be pleased with what they do?

  They refer to one another as rijale, strong men, brave fighters. “Each one of us has the strength of ten men,” Al-Bakura says.

  They speak different languages. Some speak Hausa, some Kanuri, some Arabic. And one or two other languages that are strange to my ears.

  The Boko Haram men follow us everywhere we go, like buttocks on our backsides. When we go to fetch water from the truck that trundles in once every week or two with a full tank, they accompany us. When we go into the nearby bush to toilet, they hover nearby. When we study the Quran, they stand around, listening as we recite passage after passage.

  Some of the guards appear to be about the same age as the boys in my class at school, with smooth chins and voices that switch pitch in between sentences.

  The younger Boko Haram men are more garrulous than the older ones. Like women selling onions and tomatoes in the market, their mouths move nonstop with the latest irrelevant information. “It is boring standing around all day, guarding women. I prefer to go out and fight jihad!” they say, keen to join the so-called holy war against infidels.

  Some Boko Haram men are tall, with skin as dark as the bottom of a pot. Some are light skinned, with silky, curly hair—like those of people from across the border in the neighboring Republic of Chad. Some have thick, black hair; some have long hair, which they plait into braids. Some wear turbans on their heads.

  Al-Bakura has bowlegs and skinny arms, and an oblong head around which he wraps a brown checked cloth. His skin is as black as his long beard.

  The one thing they all have in common—tall, short, light, or dark—is the smell of their bodies.

  Simply by inhaling two sniffs when he came into the house, I could always tell when Jacob had been playing with Malam Aliyu’s goats and sheep instead of sitting on the veranda practicing his alphabets. I could smell whenever a rat was gro
oming its whiskers behind the sack of millet in Mama’s kitchen.

  I can smell when Al-Bakura approaches, and when he has been joined by one or two of his cohorts. I can smell when he is creeping into our sleeping area in the middle of the night. I can smell him on the women who return early in the morning with marks on their skin.

  It is not the same kind of whiff that Papa and my brothers gave off whenever they returned from a day of planting seeds or uprooting weeds. It is also not the same smell as Abraham after he had been playing football with Muhammadu and Hussein, who lived down the road.

  The Boko Haram men give off a feral scent, as if they had been born and bred in the wild. They smell like human beasts.

  Incomplete Woman

  THE WOMEN IN NIQABS are the Boko Haram wives. Some have fresh eyes; some have crow’s-feet. Some have silky hands; some have lizard skin. The full veil reveals little of their features. Although only glimpses of their faces show, their voices do a good job of relating exactly how they feel.

  The abuse begins as soon as they see us, whenever we walk past them on our way to the water truck.

  “Slaves!”

  “Infidels!”

  “Dirt!”

  On and on the venom flows. The wives never get tired.

  Of all the wives, Amira seems to be one of the few who is not complete: childless, never a baby straddling her waist or strapped to her back.

  Life of a Slave

  FETCH WATER FROM THE truck and wash the bloodied shirts of the Boko Haram men who have returned from fighting jihad.

  Offload clothes and gadgets and armory from the trucks and vans. If there are sacks of grain among the newly arrived loot, take them to Amira in the cooking area.

  Cook for Amira and some of the other Boko Haram wives, for the Boko Haram men who have no wives yet, and for the boys who guard the compound.

  Cook for ourselves. When the sack of grain is running low, take turns to go into the forest and harvest green vegetables to add to the meal.

  Fetch water from the truck, and wash the pots and basins.

  Stay confined to our section of the camp, among tree roots and stems, no straying toward the tarpaulin tents.

  Lie on the bare ground under the sky and thank God that Jacob and the other children were wrong, that the rains are yet to arrive.

  Maybe

  MAYBE THE HEARTS WERE still beating inside some of the men and boys, never mind that they were lying in a pool of blood outside the mosque.

  Maybe someone who made it safely up the hills returned in the nick of time and rushed the lucky survivors to the hospital.

  Maybe Abraham, Elijah, Caleb, and Isaac are still alive.

  Maybe a skillful looter gathered all our clothes and belongings before the fire traveled from our roof to our walls and floors.

  Maybe Papa’s radio is still alive and well, perched between the ear and shoulder of a Boko Haram man inside the Sambisa.

  Tantalizer

  A TRAY OF STEAMING kosai is lowered to the earth in front of me. I lean forward and swallow some whiffs of the tantalizing aroma, my nostrils allowing my tongue a taste of things to come. Saliva fills my mouth.

  Just as I reach out to grab one of the balls, a charred hand appears out of nowhere and snatches the tray out of sight.

  I jolt awake, panting.

  A Proposal

  BOILED CORN, BOILED BEEF, boiled rice. But not a bite for our mouths. With great effort, I restrain myself from leaping forward and plunging into the contents of her plate.

  “If you marry a Boko Haram commander, your life will be much better,” Amira says with a mouthful. “You will have as much food as you want.”

  Never.

  I would rather slave till my fingers peeled or till my back snapped in two. I would rather starve till my tongue withered inside my mouth.

  “You remember that film we watched where the bride and groom danced with all the bridesmaids in a circle?” Sarah asks.

  I nod.

  But all that seems so long ago, in a world that has since disappeared.

  Malam Adamu

  HE TEACHES US QURANIC classes.

  He shows us in which direction to bow and kneel, so that we face the holy city of Mecca while praying to Allah.

  He makes sure that we pray at dawn, before sunrise; at midday, after the sun passes its highest; in the late part of the afternoon; just after sunset; between sunset and midnight.

  He shows us how to perform ablution, washing our hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, head, and ears—making us clean enough to talk to Allah.

  He slaps the head of anyone who does not carry out the ritual washing correctly, calling her a daughter of an infidel.

  He lands his koboko on anyone still sleeping when it is time for morning prayers.

  He assigns us passages of the Quran to learn.

  He makes us stand one after the other and recite what we have memorized.

  He ensures that our free time is spent listening to sermons.

  He tiptoes into our sleeping area after dark, noiseless as a shadow, taps a woman or two, and beckons her to follow him out quietly.

  The Worst Student

  INSIDE A POT OF soup, the horse is a less valuable animal than the hen. Inside Malam Adamu’s classroom, all the mathematical formulas and the conjugated verbs I know are useless.

  In this new school, I am the worst student.

  Hardly a day goes by without a lashing of the koboko. My brain seems to have turned to sawdust.

  No matter how hard I try, it is difficult to push away thoughts of my Borno State government scholarship and concentrate in a school where the teacher tells me that reading books is a sin against Allah, that Western education is haram, taboo.

  Liar

  AL-BAKURA TELLS US THAT Boko Haram is taking over the world.

  He tells us that there is no other type of government apart from Sharia.

  He tells us that democracy means government of Allah, for Allah, and by Allah.

  He tells us that we are not a part of Nigeria.

  He tells us that Islam is the only true religion.

  He tells us that the Quran is the only book worth reading.

  He tells us that our fathers and brothers deserved to die because they were infidels who did not believe in Allah.

  My Name

  I DO NOT WANT a name different from what Papa and Mama called me. But changing my name to an Islamic one is the next step in becoming a good Muslim woman, and I dare not argue with Malam Adamu.

  “You shall be called Salamatu,” he says.

  Sarah’s new name is Zainab.

  Remembering Pastor Moses’s sermon about the importance of names, I am worried.

  “Aisha, what does ‘Salamatu’ mean?” I ask.

  “Salamatu means ‘safety,’” she replies. “It’s Arabic.”

  Safety from guns and knives. Safety from nighttime predators, human and nonhuman.

  I hope that this new name is a good omen, a sign of what lies ahead for me.

  Lashing

  AL-BAKURA SLAMS THE KOBOKO against the back of my leg. Once, twice, thrice.

  “Argh!”

  “What is her name?”

  “Her name is Zainab.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Zainab!”

  “What is her name?”

  “Argh! Zainab!”

  “I never want to hear you calling her Sarah again.”

  Sitting on a Rock

  ZAINAB PLAITS MY THICK strands into straight cornrows, the ends scratching the back of my head.

  I plait Zainab’s soft strands into thick cornrows, the ends drooping over the back of her neck, the stench striking my nose.

  Prayer

  NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, I pray that it will not be my turn. I pray that Al-Bakura and Malam Adamu will choose someone else.

  Night after night, my shameful heart rejoices as they tiptoe past me and on to someone else.

  “Thank God,” I mutter.

&
nbsp; Maybe I am not beautiful enough. Maybe my waist is not broad enough. Maybe my breasts are not big enough.

  But then, they have not taken Zainab away either.

  Whatever the case, I am grateful.

  I am untouched. I am safe.

  I am Salamatu.

  Escape

  A PARTICULARLY VIGOROUS FLAPPING of wings interrupts my hard efforts at sleep. I catch sight of an indistinguishable bird as it takes off from a treetop, soaring higher and higher into the sky.

  If only an angel would appear up there with the stars. If only it would fly down from the clouds. I would mount its wings and fly far, far away from the Sambisa forest and home to Mama.

  I jolt at a whisper.

  Zainab’s voice.

  “What did you say?”

  Slowly, she repeats herself.

  “Magdalene is lucky,” she says. “Magdalene is in a better place. She made the better choice.”

  Torment

  THESE DAYS, MY NIGHTMARES feature neither bullets nor bombs. No demons hunt me. No mad men threaten me. Not even Al-Bakura appears.

  Instead, I am tormented by fried chicken and roasted corn and acha and kosai and massa.

  Night after night, a different food takes its turn to torture me while I sleep.

  Tree of Death

  INTO THE FOREST, ZAINAB and I go in search of vegetables for today’s meal.

  Our feet crush through the carpet of soft soil and dry leaves beyond the parked trucks. Our eyes scan the short trees and shrubs for a familiar plant that will not bring death into the cooking pot.