Buried Beneath the Baobab Tree

by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

  THIS TIME, MY TONGUE does not abandon me because of shock. I respond instantly to her rubbish words.

  “Zainab, how can you even think to say that they are doing this for Allah? Have you forgotten Aisha? Have you forgotten Malam Isa? Is this the same Allah they worshiped?”

  She puckers her lips tight like a turkey’s bottom.

  “Boko Haram has nothing to do with Islam,” I say. Falling for a man is one thing; denying evil is another altogether. “They are just evil human beings. There is nothing good or godly about Boko Haram.”

  She is quiet. She shrugs.

  “My husband is a good man,” she says.

  Growing Up

  THE CHILDREN SHRIEK AND squeak in pursuit of a squirrel that has peeked through a shrub by the cooking area. The rodent escapes and they follow its bushy tail behind the trees.

  When the children grow, they will know everything about the forest and about the Quran and about artillery.

  When the children grow, they will know nothing about flipping the pages of a new book or sitting on a bus while the world flits past through the windows or playing football against the neighboring village school’s team.

  Tattoo

  “COME AND SEE,” ZAINAB says to me.

  I follow her into her husband’s tent. His Quran is lying open on the mattress.

  She stands in a corner and lifts her niqab and then her blouse.

  “Argh!” I scream.

  “Shhhhhhh!” she says.

  Her flesh is raw and red.

  “Who did this to you?” I ask.

  “My husband,” she replies, smiling. “It’s his name.”

  Indeed, it is the name Ali, spelled in Arabic. Malam Adamu would be proud to see that all his teaching was not in vain. I can read Arabic.

  “Isn’t it painful?”

  “He told me that, with his name tattooed on my stomach, everyone would know that I belong to him, even if he doesn’t return from the jihad.”

  It is difficult, but I must try.

  For the Fifth Day in a Row

  I ENTER THE TENT at night with no tightness in my stomach.

  I sprawl on the mattress and spread my arms far apart.

  I shut my eyes and snooze, not worrying that my sleep may be cut short in the morning if he awakes and wants his wife immediately.

  This jihad that has taken my husband away from the camp?

  May it last forever.

  Fonder

  “HE TOLD ME THAT he used to be a fisherman near Lake Chad,” she says.

  “He told me that his older brother is also a rijale, in another camp,” she says.

  “He told me that, one day, he will take me with him to paradise,” she says.

  In Ali’s absence, Zainab’s heart grows fonder. From dawn till dusk, she talks about nothing else. As she speaks, she stares into the sky ahead of her, smiling at the sun.

  I know nothing about my husband’s past. The videos are the only stories he shares with me. Sometimes, I suspect that he would rather be alone, that, like me, he was forced to take a spouse.

  Day Seventeen

  MAYBE HE’S DEAD.

  Will I be allowed to live in the tent by myself?

  Will they marry me off to someone else?

  Will my new husband be in this camp or in another camp?

  Will he be a good husband like Zainab’s, or will he be even better?

  Will he be proud to know that I won a Borno State government scholarship for exceptional children from disadvantaged homes?

  Will he allow me to go to school?

  Today’s Lesson

  HOW TO HOLD, COCK, fire, and clean an unloaded gun. “The faster, the better,” Fanne says.

  How to set roofs alight and throw firebombs through open windows. “Aim for the thatch, which easily catches fire,” she says.

  How to rush into buildings and backyards while the men are shooting. “Cart off all the jewelry, clothes, and foodstuff you see,” she says.

  Gossip

  “NO, NO,” ZAINAB WHISPERS. “Fanne has more than two children. She told me so herself. Her oldest child is in the boot camp where children learn how to become brave fighters for Allah.”

  “But I thought you said she’s been married for just five years,” I say.

  “Yes. Her oldest son is four.”

  “Four?”

  “Lower your voice!”

  “Isn’t he too young?”

  “It’s never too young to start bringing up the children who will keep the work of Allah going even after our brave husbands go to paradise.”

  Surely Zainab can’t really believe this?

  “Is that what you would want for your own child?” I ask.

  “It’s not about what I want. It is about what Allah wants.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that Allah would rather have these children fighting than being in school and learning new things every day? Does it mean that—”

  “We cannot question the will of Allah.”

  “Allah can’t possibly—”

  “No matter how intelligent we think we are, remember that Allah knows best.”

  My Intelligence

  IT MADE ME THE pride of Papa and Principal.

  It saved me from Malam Zwindila’s lashings.

  It won me the Borno State government scholarship.

  Could it now be causing me misery, preventing me from believing, and enjoying my new life?

  A sack full of precious stones will only slow down your trek through the wilderness, after all, and is better dumped by the wayside or exchanged for a cup of water.

  Finished

  NO BREAKFAST, NO LUNCH, no dinner.

  Nothing left to eat until the men return.

  Day Thirty-Two

  MY SWEET DREAMS ARE in smithereens at my feet.

  He does not wait till nighttime.

  As soon as the rijale disembark from the trucks and vans, he beckons me to the tent and shuts the flap.

  He pulls off his bloodstained shirt and jumps on top of me.

  Victory

  “THEY HAVE TAKEN OVER more towns,” Zainab says. “They now rule more than half of Borno.”

  She smacks her hands together in excitement.

  “Very soon, Boko Haram will be the only government that Nigeria knows. He told me so himself.”

  Comforter

  FOR A CHANGE, MY husband has left me enough space on the mattress.

  He is crouched like a fetus in bed, his knees squeezed into his stomach and his arms tight against his chest, his back curved toward me.

  He is sniffling.

  As I lie beside him and listen, I reflect on the instruction Fanne gave me earlier in the day.

  “You must try and comfort him as much as you can. His father and mother have been killed by infidels. The Nigerian army bombed their house in Michika.”

  Was his father also a member of Boko Haram? Or was he an innocent man killed while listening to his radio at home?

  Was his mother aware that her son was married to a stolen girl?

  Was he sporting a mask whenever he dropped by and she served him sizzling kosai straight from the fire, with fresh fura da nono?

  I do not know the answer to these questions, and Fanne does not offer any additional information. What I do know for certain is the pain of losing a father you loved, of watching him drop to the floor never to rise again.

  But how can I comfort my husband?

  How does one comfort a brave fighter? How does one comfort a rijale? How does one comfort a Boko Haram man?

  How does one draw blood from a stone?

  At a loss for ideas, I sit up in bed and stare at his back, worried that Fanne will ask me about it tomorrow, and tell me off if I have not been a good wife.

  Tentatively, I stretch out my hand. It hovers above his shoulder. Gradually, I let it down. Eventually, it touches his skin.

  He does not bite my fingers. He does not fling my hand away in anger. He does not bark at me to d
isappear.

  I pat his shoulder.

  Once. Twice. Thrice.

  Suddenly, he grabs my hand.

  He squeezes it tight and holds it firmly against his chest. Then he draws me into his arms and weeps into my neck.

  Before I can stop myself, I am crying.

  I am not sure why.

  I am not sure if my tears are for his fresh grief or for mine that has crystallized.

  Or maybe I am just weeping from relief.

  Morning After

  HE RATTLES ME AWAKE.

  He shoves me out of his arms.

  He barks for his shirt and his boots.

  He asks why I am standing there like an idiot.

  He commands me to get out of his sight.

  My husband is once again the brave fighter he was before last night.

  Spoils of War

  FANNE DISTRIBUTES THE NEW blouses and skirts.

  Mine is blue, with small yellow elephants. Zainab gets a purple one with black polka dots.

  I wonder if the girl who owned the dress managed to escape to the hills or if she ended up in a Sambisa camp.

  I wonder who might have inherited my red dress and Zainab’s shiny black shoes.

  Bracelet

  “LOOK!” ZAINAB SAYS. “HE told me that this one is made of pure gold!”

  Through the Window of My Niqab

  THEY CLUTCH EACH OTHER’S hands tight.

  They cringe when the Leader speaks.

  They creep around their secluded area, carved out for just enough room to sleep and to sit up and learn the Quran.

  I wonder how long it will take before these new slaves that have accompanied our husbands back from jihad will shed their body fat, how long before their nice skirts start shedding thread.

  Caution

  “WE HAVE TO BE careful to treat our husbands especially well now that these new girls have arrived,” Zainab says, “otherwise, they might decide to marry another girl.”

  That is what Fanne told her.

  Boarding School

  A BOOK ON MY lap, two at my feet, dozens lining the shelves around me.

  A bell rings and I know it is time to go to my next class.

  Instead, I wake up from sleep.

  Expert

  I KNOW HOW TO pretend that I am not there while he does what he pleases with my body.

  I know how to forget that I am lying beside a naked man whose papa and mama and brothers and sisters I do not know.

  I know how to hold a gun and shoot. I can grab my husband’s gun and blow his brains out while he is still snoring, before he has the time to roll over and open his eyes.

  And then what?

  My heart beats faster, and my toes curl tighter.

  I am afraid of leaving the Sambisa.

  Here, I know how each day will begin.

  I know that I will say my prayers five times. I know that I will cook and wash and clean from dawn till dusk. I know that five days every month, I will be too unclean to come before my husband or before Allah. I know that Fanne will remind me if I forget to do any of the things I am supposed to do.

  But I have no idea what might be waiting for me outside the Sambisa. I have no clue how to navigate the new world out there.

  A world with no Papa and no brothers. And maybe with no Mama.

  How will Mama and her brothers and sisters receive the news that I am married to a Muslim man whose family I do not know? How will Pastor Moses react? How will Salamatu survive in a world she has never experienced before?

  Maybe inside the Sambisa forest is better. Maybe the life I know is better than the one I do not know. Maybe my dreams of a different life are just a waste of time.

  Special Vest

  “WHO WANTS TO BE the first person to try on the special vest?” Fanne asks.

  Hands shoot up in the air. I also raise my hand. Fanne’s eyes scour the room.

  “Zainab,” she says.

  Zainab moves to the front, a smile on her face and a new bracelet on her left wrist.

  After Zainab tries on the special vest, Fanne invites the rest of us to take our turns. One after the other, we stand and move to the front.

  “Nobody will notice it under your niqab,” she says. “If they do, they will think you are pregnant. They won’t search you because they know it’s against your honor for them to touch a woman.”

  When Fanne slips the vest across my waist and buckles it tightly at the back, I feel as if I am carrying three sacks of millet.

  The belt has several cylinders attached to it, and some wires sticking out here and there.

  “This is where you must pull,” Fanne says. “But you must remember to first recite the Sura Albakara as you do so. Immediately, you will see millions of angels and money. You will find yourself in paradise.”

  I wonder if the paradise the rijale and Fanne have been telling us about is the same paradise that Pastor Moses often talked about.

  The same paradise where clear waters gushed and streets were paved with gold, where everything was strange and new. Sparrows were brighter than peacocks, dogs outran deer, bees lost their stings, horses were born with eagle’s wings. Lame feet were cured and blind eyes were opened. No sorrow, no tears, no pain or death.

  “Only special ones chosen by Allah can carry out this task in the jihad,” Fanne says. “Only special ones can arrive in paradise so quickly and easily.”

  Gold Ring

  “BY THE GRACE OF Allah, Boko Haram will one day rule Nigeria,” Zainab says.

  No matter how hard I try, how far away I shove my intelligence, I still don’t understand.

  “But why do they have to kill people?” I ask. “Why do they have to rape women and force girls to marry them?”

  She snorts and looks away at her gold ring.

  Ali may be a good husband to Zainab, but he is certainly not a good Muslim.

  Boys

  ONE BY ONE, THE young fighters step forward.

  One by one, the Leader issues an instruction.

  One by one, each boy recites a Quran passage, fires a gun at a piece of wood, slashes a man’s throat.

  One boy stands out from the rest.

  Something about the way he runs forward. Something about the way he crooks his neck. Something about his eyes, his nose, his . . .

  This cannot be.

  I shine my eyes brighter.

  “Ah—!”

  I swallow my scream.

  My husband clicks to another video.

  Jacob

  “I SAW JACOB ON my husband’s laptop,” I say. “He’s alive. I saw him with my own eyes.”

  “Allah be praised!” Zainab says.

  “But the Boko Haram men have turned him into one of them. I wish I knew where the place is so that I can go and get him out.”

  “You should thank Allah that he’s still alive. He is going to grow up to be a brave fighter. Like our husbands.”

  “There is nothing brave about this jihad! They are all monsters! Killers and murderers! Every single one of them! Including Ali! Allah will send them all to burn in hell! They are traitors to their faith. They are a criminal group. Their sickening deeds show that they have nothing in common with other Muslims like Malam Isa, Malam Shettima, and Aisha, and that they lack respect for the religion they claim to fight for!”

  Silence.

  And then she stands.

  “May Allah forgive you your blasphemy,” Zainab says.

  She walks away, leaving me alone with my grief.

  Two Husbands

  THERE IS THE MAN in the mask who stomps around the camp, barking commands and firing weapons for fun, who makes me wish that every member of Boko Haram would burn in hell.

  There is the man who knows that I am secretly watching the videos on his laptop with him but who does not seem to mind, who makes me wish that the worldwide jihad would be successful so that all the killing will stop and we can all live happily ever after in peace.

  Maybe the second man would be willin
g to listen if I ask him in the dark.

  Maybe his looks are deceitful like cow dung, hard on the outside and soft on the inside.

  Maybe he will let me go and visit Jacob if I ask him the location of the boys’ training camp in his video.

  Blasphemy

  MY HUSBAND STOMPS INTO the tent.

  He flings his gun on the mattress. His gaze is crimson red.

  Without a word, he reaches for my niqab and grabs a handful.

  His fists land on my head, my neck, my stomach. The entire Sambisa must hear my screams.

  His boots dig into my shins, my knees, my back. Like the man who falls down a well and seizes the edge of a sword to keep himself from going farther down, I shout for help.

  “Fanne! Fanne! Please, come and save me!”

  The most powerful woman I know does not appear.

  “Next time you blaspheme the name of Allah,” he says, “I will kill you. I will chop your body in pieces.”

  He flings me on the bed and jumps on me.

  Betrayal

  THE BANGING PAIN IN my head.

  The throbbing pain in my neck.

  The stinging pain in between my legs.

  All these pale in comparison to the clawing in my heart, the pain of betrayal by my best friend.

  Disgraced

  THE OTHER WIVES STOP speaking when I approach.

  Some glare at me and snort.

  When their children crawl toward my feet, they scramble forward and grab them away.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Fanne says. “Your husband is a great fighter and you are behaving like an infidel, making nasty comments about Allah. The Leader will soon find him a better wife and you can go back to being a slave.”