Buried Beneath the Baobab Tree

by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

  “Ahh . . .”

  I swallow my shock just in time. Still, my husband must have heard. Watching Boko Haram men slash throats is quite a different sight from watching a boy of Jacob’s age do the same thing. I close my eyes tight and wait for him to bark at me for watching his laptop in the dark.

  But my husband says nothing. All he does is click.

  Another video.

  Men in green camouflage uniforms speed about in an armored tank, firing guns at random into the air. They leap off the vehicle and plant the black and white Boko Haram flag in front of a building with a sign that reads “Gwoza Local Government Authority.” Then, they set fire to the green-white-green Nigerian national flag and cheer.

  “Allah be praised,” my husband says.

  He flips his laptop shut and returns it beneath his pile of clothes, then stretches his elbows and knees across three-quarters of the mattress.

  Those vicious little boys in the video must be the beastly offspring of Boko Haram.

  Singing

  AS I APPROACH ZAINAB’S tent, which is about ten tarpaulin residences away from mine, the sound of singing stops me in my tracks.

  A man’s voice.

  A Hausa song.

  A lovestruck beau to the sole object of his total affections, whom he describes as the other half of his soul.

  “Na so ki

  Rabin raina

  Domin halinki ya ah

  Shi ne ni ke so . . .”

  Mind of a Fly

  A COCONUT AND A handful of date fruits, from Fanne to each of the new wives converged around her.

  “We are running low on tea,” she says. “But don’t worry. When the brave fighters go out for their next jihad, they will bring us back more food.”

  Like two lumps of dung that confuse the mind of a fly, I struggle to decide whether being married is better than being a slave.

  Laughing

  FANNE’S CHILD CRAWLS AWAY from the party of romping toddlers. After inspecting a rough stone closely, he proceeds on his journey and stops at my feet.

  He holds my gaze with his wide, brown eyes, almond-shaped and innocent, a far cry from the malevolence in his rijale father’s glare.

  He laughs.

  Perplexed by the source of his humor, I recall Jacob’s frequent giggling when playing with his lizards. I smile and tickle the boy’s chin.

  I wonder if Jacob has captured some new lizards to play with wherever he is.

  The baby keeps laughing. Soon, three more toddlers are guffawing along with him, like a pack of hyenas.

  I lift him by the armpits and place him in my lap.

  Only a child clueless that he is in the thick of the forest surrounded by murderers and misery can find reason to laugh.

  Showing Off

  “LOOK,” ZAINAB SAYS.

  On her wrist is a silver bangle.

  “Look,” she says.

  On her pinkie is a pink, plastic ring.

  “My husband gave them to me,” she says.

  Some birds avoid water while the duck revels in it. Whenever he is out of sight, I try my best to wipe my husband from my mind. But not Zainab.

  “He told me that I have the most beautiful hands in the world,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes and smiling at her ring.

  If only Zainab could transmit some of her newfound bliss to me. If only she could infect my eyes with the twinkle in hers.

  “My husband lets me watch his laptop,” I say.

  His Favorite

  TONIGHT, MY HUSBAND WATCHES his favorite video, the one he likes to play over and over again, night after night.

  I know the scenes by heart.

  The airplane flies from the right-hand side toward the two tall buildings that look as if they are touching the sky. When it seems like the pilot will finally come to his senses and veer left, he drives straight on.

  A cloud of fire. A cyclone of crushed cement.

  And then a second airplane.

  And then the two towers vanish.

  “Allah be praised,” my husband says.

  Buttermint

  “HERE, HAVE ONE,” ZAINAB says. “My husband gave them to me.”

  “Oh! Thank you!”

  I never imagined that I would enjoy a Buttermint sweet ever again.

  New Strength

  WITH MY STOMACH CONSTANTLY filled with different foods and the strength restored to my muscles and bones, a long-forgotten thought limps back into my mind.

  “It could be easier for us to escape now that we’re married,” I say. “Maybe we could hide in the back of one of the Hilux vans. They don’t watch us as closely as they did before.”

  Zainab says nothing.

  “I wonder how far into the forest we are,” I say. “They may not have as many land mines around here as they did where they kept us as slaves.”

  Zainab says nothing.

  Memories

  AFTER MY HUSBAND PULLS on his mask and leaves with his gun, I dream. But no matter how hard I try, my mind cannot conjure up any visions of the future. All I see are pictures from the past.

  I remember my first day of school. Prancing behind Papa in my brand-new white blouse and blue pinafore, clutching my new exercise books and pencil. At the headmaster’s office, Papa waited in the queue until my full name had been entered in the register, then he turned to me and smiled.

  “Make sure you study hard so that one day you can teach me how to read and write,” he said. He smiled. “And maybe how to speak English, as well.”

  I remember Jacob’s naming ceremony. Papa had bought a ram for the special occasion. He and Abraham spent the entire day butchering and barbecuing. Mama popped into the backyard with the suckling baby at her nipple, apprehensive that the ram meat would not go around.

  “Cut it smaller. Cut it smaller,” she said. “The pieces are too large.”

  One week of tethering the ram to the veranda and feeding it shoots and leaves had profited little. It could easily have passed for a lamb, but that was the best Papa’s pocket could do. Thankfully, all the guests who attended the celebration ended up with a piece of mutton atop their mounds of jollof rice, never mind that some of the cuts were as miniature as sugar cubes.

  I remember Pastor Moses’s blue car. Because he was the only man in our village who owned a vehicle that could travel far without its engine giving up halfway down the highway, Pastor Moses was paid some money by the government so that he could ferry any woman in labor to the hospital in Gwoza. But he was away in Damaturu the weekend Jacob was born. Papa had to send for Hajia Turai, who had handled mine and many other births in the village long before the local government officials started telling everyone that all the mothers and babies who died during childbirth would have lived if they had gone to a hospital instead of doing it themselves at home.

  I remember Papa’s story about a greedy girl from the Fulani tribe. “She never stopped eating,” he said. “She would eat even the earth from under your feet.” One day, when she had eaten everything within sight and had nothing left to eat, she came across seven dogs at a bend in the road. Quickly, she swallowed them all. “The next time she opened her mouth to say good afternoon,” he said, “she barked like a dog. For the rest of her life, she barked instead of talked.”

  I remember Isaac laughing. Once in a while, he caught a lizard in the backyard and imprisoned it inside a transparent plastic bag, then shackled the bag to Jacob’s wrist with twine. As Jacob dragged the twine about, the lizard wriggled and writhed, while Isaac and Jacob applauded and laughed.

  I remember Abraham in the boxing ring. He had heard how much the local dambe boxers were paid per match and decided to give it a try. On the first Saturday of the holidays, we all went to watch his first fight. Naked apart from a pair of denim knee-length shorts and the string around his hands that served as gloves, he paced around the school field with fury in his eyes. But as soon as he met Babandogo in the middle of the field and Babandogo’s fist met with Abraham’s face, the fight came t
o a quick end.

  I remember Malam Zwindila’s lessons about Nigeria’s independence from Britain. “Many brave Nigerians worked hard to make sure that our great country became free from the white man’s rule,” he said. There was even a woman among the brave men, called Margaret Ekpo.

  I remember Mama. But each time I see her, all the beautiful pictures from the past turn to ashes. She is rolling on the floor in tears.

  Watching Men

  “THAT GUN HE IS holding is an RPG,” Zainab says. “It can destroy an armored tank hundreds of meters away. He told me it is the same kind of gun used by jihad fighters in other countries around the world.”

  The gun, thin and long with each end shaped like a cylinder, looks like Mama’s wooden pestle for pounding condiments. Appearances can be deceiving.

  “He told me that he started with only a single knife,” she says. “But today, thanks be to Allah, he has hundreds of guns and more than twenty armored vehicles under his command.”

  I know how the rijale get their wives.

  I know how the rijale get their food.

  I wonder how the rijale get their guns.

  Like Malam Zwindila

  APART FROM THE QURAN, there are many other things that a Boko Haram wife needs to learn. Sometimes, the training classes feel almost like attending a real school, except without notepaper and pen.

  Fanne walks to and fro between the rows of Boko Haram wives sitting on the floor, hands on her hips or behind her back.

  Like Malam Zwindila.

  She allows us to ask her questions about anything that we do not understand.

  She asks us questions to make sure we understand.

  She makes us cheer with “Glory be to Allah” when a girl answers a question right. Clapping hands, Malam Adamu taught us, is forbidden in Islam, another haram. Muslim women are allowed to clap only when calling the Imam’s attention if he makes an error while leading prayers. Men must not clap at all.

  Some of the rijale sit in on our training sessions and promise us the opportunity to leave the Sambisa forest one day to practice all that we have learned.

  “Allah does not allow men to fight women,” Fanne says. “In the jihad, you brave women of brave fighters have to be the ones to fight infidel women for Allah.”

  Bugle

  THE FRESH FLOOD OF motorbikes.

  The extended rows of trucks and Hilux vans.

  The mad man is around.

  For hours and hours, right into the night, the rijale converge around him.

  “We must spread our message by teaching and by sword!” he says. “We must make a river for Allah with the blood of infidels!”

  His bugle compels me to stay awake, to join the rijale and listen to his gory words.

  Jihad

  HALF A BASIN OF date fruits.

  One sack of millet.

  Five coconuts.

  Twelve sacks of groundnuts.

  That is all the food we have left. The portions now have to be rationed.

  When the meal is over, the children clutch at their mothers’ niqabs and wail for more.

  I wish the rijale would hurry off to their next jihad, so that they can bring us back more looted food.

  Outside World

  DO PEOPLE STILL GO to the farm, dig ridges, plant roots and seeds, cover them with mulch and manure?

  Do people still go to the market, haggle over the price of fish and tomatoes, roam from stall to stall in search of the best deal?

  Do children still jump into the streets and sing when the sky thunders and the clouds prepare to release, stamp their feet in mud and splash about in puddles?

  Does Pastor Moses still preach on Sundays, shout his sermon and alter the inflection of his voice to emphasize a point?

  I do not want to think about Mama.

  Lucky Bride

  “YOU MUST TRY TO stop thinking all the time,” Zainab says. “Try to be happy. This is the life we have now.”

  Easy for her to say.

  Every day, her husband stops by the training tent to ask if Zainab is getting on fine.

  Always, he flashes her a grin when he walks past with other rijale.

  Sometimes, he saves her a piece of bush meat from the men’s meal.

  Zainab can afford to be happy because she is not married to the man in the mask.

  Good Looks

  HE ROLLS OFF ME and soon begins to snore.

  I bore my gaze through the dim light of the moon, scanning his body from head to foot. The only opportunity I have to stare him straight in the face.

  Long lashes. Pointed nose. Thick lips. High cheekbones.

  From the Kanuri tribe, perhaps.

  So, why does he choose to keep his good looks concealed?

  Why does he hide his features behind a ghastly cloth? Does he look the same out in daylight as he does in the dim light inside?

  Would I recognize him if I saw him outside the tent without his mask?

  Trying to Be Happy

  MAYBE MY HUSBAND WATCHES these videos for my benefit.

  Maybe he not only knows that I am watching along with him, but he also wants me to watch.

  Maybe in his own special way, he loves me as much as Zainab’s husband loves her.

  A New Friend

  ZAINAB PLAITS FANNE’S HAIR.

  Fanne whispers into Zainab’s ears.

  Zainab giggles.

  Fanne gives Zainab an extra palmful of date fruits.

  Zainab shares some of the dates with me.

  Decision

  ZAINAB LISTENED PATIENTLY WHENEVER I mused over Success.

  Zainab shared my excitement whenever he visited and my disappointment whenever he did not.

  Now that Zainab has found someone to love, I also must listen patiently and share in her joy.

  It will be difficult. But, as her best friend, I must try.

  Gossip

  “I ASKED HER AGAIN and she said she still doesn’t know,” Zainab says. “Nobody knows exactly why your husband chooses to wear a mask all the time.”

  “Can Fanne not ask her husband?”

  “He may wonder why she’s asking about another woman’s husband and get upset.”

  True.

  Pity that my husband never shares his heart with me.

  Pity that I have to resort to other people’s mouths to discover the thoughts that might be lurking in his mind.

  Pity that he is not like Success, who had time for all my questions and who was going to give me storybooks that would lead to more questions and more answers.

  “Maybe he has a mentor who also wears a mask,” Zainab suggests. “Fanne said he asked everyone to start calling him Osama because of a great warrior for Allah who was also called by that name. The great man was killed by infidels. Your husband adores him.”

  At least one mystery is solved.

  In-Laws

  HER EYES ARE DARK.

  Her face is cloudy.

  Her hand is holding up her chin.

  For a change, Zainab is unhappy in her new life. I wonder if this is how despondent I look all the time, like a hen drenched in the rain.

  I sit beside her on the mat and place my arm around her shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “My period began this morning,” she says.

  Has she started feeling the cramps? Is she out of fresh rags? Did her husband push her to the edge of the mattress with his feet as mine does whenever I am menstruating and too unclean to be useful to him?

  “I’d thought I was pregnant,” she says.

  “Pregnant? You wanted to be pregnant?”

  “My husband promised that he would take me with him to visit Maiduguri, but only after I give him a child.”

  “Maiduguri? What are you going there to do?”

  “His mother lives there,” she replies. “I was looking forward to meeting my in-laws.”

  It is difficult, but I must try.

  Still Wondering About It

  BEI
NG STUCK IN THE forest forever with the Boko Haram beasts, or getting pregnant with a Boko Haram beast for a chance to see the outside world.

  Which option is better?

  Training

  “WHEN YOU SEE SOLDIERS from the Nigerian army, confront them,” Fanne says. “Never be afraid. Nothing will happen to you.”

  She makes it sound as easy as killing rats with a stick.

  “We women must learn from our husbands,” she says. “They are giving their blood for the cause. We also must go to war for Allah.”

  A New Teacher

  “BOKO HARAM ARE NOT really bad people,” she says. “They are only trying to change the world for Allah.”

  My ears cannot believe what they are hearing.

  “They may be killing people now, but it is so that we can have peace and live under Sharia law,” she says.

  My eyes check, but there is no sign of jest in her face.

  “The way many people in Nigeria are living, Allah is not happy about it. That’s why they decided to do something about it.”

  These are the words of my best friend, Zainab.

  “That’s what my husband told me,” she says.

  Argument