by Abi Daré
You must go to plenty, plenty school
If you want to wear a high, high shoe,
And walk, ko-ka-ko
My voice is shaking, fulling with tears, but I keep trying, keep pushing myself to sing: “Ko-ka—”
“Adunni,” Khadija say.
“Yes, Khadija,” I say, “I am here. Singing. Singing for you and for Baby. Are you liking the song? Is Baby liking the song?”
“Where is Bamidele?”
“He have not come back,” I say.
“When will he come back?” Khadija ask. “It been too long now. Where is he?”
“He is—” I stop my talking. What if Bamidele have run away, and he is not never coming back and he is leaving Khadija here to die?
Khadija drag her breath. “Will Bamidele cheat me?” she ask. “Will he leave me here like this?”
Before I can check my head for a correct answer, a deep cry come out from her, the howl of a dog in trapping. I look up, look Death sailing up there, and I tell it to be finding somebody else. I tell it to go and form a car and kill that shitting goat. But when I look Khadija, I know she is welcoming Death with her eyes. She and Death are becoming one, husband and wife.
“Adunni, take care of my children,” she say, her voice so small, so weak.
“No,” I say, and gripping her cold hand, “Khadija, not me. You. You take care of your childrens. You take care of my childrens too. Me and you, we stay together, we fight Labake together. We laugh Morufu together. Me and you. Not so, Khadija, not so? Okay, wait, wait a moment, let me sing another song. A song about—” I shake her shoulders.
Her body is moving, shaking, but her eyesballs, wide-open, be looking the gray of the sky, seeing only what the spirit can see. I put my face on top her breast, which is swelling with new milk for her dead baby, as I am starting to cry more hard and shake her shoulder.
Wake up, Khadija, I beg her with all of my soul. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
But it is of no use.
Khadija is dead.
And Bamidele have not come back.
CHAPTER 16
I push myself up and look around me.
The fisherman is starting to come back. I am wanting to wait for him to come, to ask him to help me so we can carry Khadija and take her to Morufu, but my head is sounding a warning. If I wait for him, he will think it is me that kill Khadija. He didn’t see when Bamidele follow me come here. He will carry me to the village chief of Ikati. I think of Lamidi the farmer. Of how they flog him for seven days. I will find Bamidele. Must. I will find him first, then me and Bamidele, we will come back here, and we will carry Khadija go home for burial. He will tell the village chief, Morufu, and Khadija childrens what happen. He will tell them he give her pregnants. That his family have a curse. That there is a soap to baff the curse away, but he didn’t come back to give Khadija the soap.
I wipe my face and make the decisions.
Bamidele will suffer for Khadija.
Not me. Not me.
* * *
I walk many miles, passing many paths, finding myself in front of another house, a lean tree with no leafs, a wild bush with red cherry fruits, beautiful for looking but poison for eating, but I am not finding Bamidele’s. Where is it? I walk fast, the pictures of Khadija’s body fueling my mind. It is lying inside that sand, by the river edge. The thunder is booming again in the sky and I know the rains are gathering to begin falling.
If the rains wash away Khadija’s body into the river, then she will lost forever. What will I say to Bamidele? Or to anybody? How will I tell them that Khadija is dead if I don’t have the dead body?
I beg the sky to hold hisself, to not rain, to give me more time to find the house. When I see that goat, the one with the red thread, sitting under the shade of the guava tree, I know I am nearing Bamidele’s house. I thank the goat, and keep looking until I find the place, the red door.
I pick a stone from the floor, knock it on the door. There is no answer from inside. I knock it again. Then I am starting to shout, “Bamidele, come out! Bamidele!”
The door open, slow.
The pregnants stomach show hisself first, before the woman’s face. Fair skin, face like a hungry dolly baby. Her hair is full of twists, all pointing up to the sky, be like thorns on a crown of flesh. Her round stomach, about the same size of Khadija’s own, seem to change itself in my eyes; it become a folding fist and blow my chest. This is why Bamidele is not coming back. Because he have a pregnant wife.
“I am looking for Bamidele,” I shout, breathing fast, trying to not cry. “Tell him to come out. Tell him Khadija is dead.”
“Bamidele?” She blank her face. “In which house?”
“This house,” I say as I look around, see the goat. It raise his head, look me, and I know the goat know it too. This is Bamidele’s house. “I come here this morning. He open this door, this red door. You are his wife?”
She thin her eyes, as if she is checking me well, before she nod her head yes.
“But Bamidele have travel,” she say. “He travel since three weeks now for . . . to his mother’s village. What do you want? Who is Khadija?”
“No,” I say. “Bamidele didn’t travel. He is here. He open this door for me just this morning.”
I jump forward, trying to push the door, but she come out of the house, close the door behind her, gripping the door handles.
“Bamidele is not here,” she say. “Go your way.”
“But he allow Khadija die!” I am wailing now, stamping my feets. “Her body is in front of Kere river, dead. Very dead. We must go and bring her come! Bamidele, come out! You kill a woman! Come out!”
The next house door open, one man peep out, look us.
“Are you having hearing problem?” the woman ask, her voice low. “Bamidele is not in this house. Please go before I call you ole.”
Ole. Thief.
That word is a commanding inside the ears of people. They hear it, they begin to run around, looking for the ole. If she call me that, nobody will ask any question. The whole village will come out and be chasing me. They will throw old tire on my head and put fire inside. They will burn me.
I look up, see Death. He is sailing on top my head, shining his teeths, flapping his wings, having two minds about which form to take me: as a cane or as a fire.
But I think of Khadija. I think of her childrens, Alafia and the other ones. Her sick father.
I fuel up my voice, shout again. “Bamidele, come out! Bamidele, you kill a woman! Come out!”
“Ole! Ole! Ole!” the woman is starting to shout now, her voice covering my own.
The man in the second house is looking a village fighter with his big, big hands and wide, strong chest.
“Ole?” he ask, but he is not waiting for answers as he is coming out from his house. My face is a stranger here. He know it is me. He too is starting to shout. “Ole! Ole! Everybody come out! There is a thief in our area!”
The man and the woman, they join their voice, slam my own down.
In no time, the whole place will be full of peoples.
I look my left, my right. There is a path to my right, leading to the bus garage.
I look the woman’s face, and she look mine. She slow her voice a moment, giving me a chance to run, to go and never come back.
But Khadija. Oh, Khadija.
“Bamidele!” I shout again. “I know you are inside that house. God will judge you! You kill a woman! Come out!”
“Ole! Ole!” the woman is starting to shout again. The man is nearly reaching my side. He is holding something rough and thick and brown, a branch of a tree?
I turn, see another two peoples coming out of their house.
Four peoples. One thief: me.
I close my mouth; begin to run.
CHAPTER 17
I climb the motorcycle a
t the bus garage and beg the driver to be driving me to my house.
I cannot be going back to Morufu’s house because what will I tell him when he ask me where is Khadija? What will I tell her childrens?
So I tell the driver to be driving me to my papa’s house. I don’t even know when we reach my house because my mind is not thinking correct. It been nearly three months since I leave this place as wife of Morufu. And now I am coming back as a what?
Papa is sitting in the sofa when I enter. He is sleeping deep, putting his head back on the sofa wood, his cap on his nose. His snoring is loud, it shake the whole parlor. He jump awake when I enter, open his eyes wide as if he have see a evil spirit.
“Adunni?” He wipe his eye, shake his head. “It is you?”
“Sah.” I am shaking too much, it is hard to be kneeling down. “It is me, sah. Good afternoon, Papa.”
Outside, the driver press the horn of his motorcycle, peen.
“The driver want to collect his money, sah,” I say, and before Papa can answer, I run to the room I was sharing with Kayus and Born-boy and take the money I was hiding inside my mat since long time ago, run outside, and pay the driver twenty naira.
“What did you find come?” Papa ask when I am back inside the parlor. He is standing on his feets now, hands on his waist. “You run from your husband’s house?”
“No, sah. I didn’t run from my husband’s house.” I bring myself to the floor, kneel down, and hold his leg. “Papa, help me.”
“What happen?” Papa ask when I begin to cry. “Why are you crying?”
As I am talking, I feel his leg slack, feel as he remove hisself from my hand and fall hisself inside the sofa. “Khadija is dead?” he ask, talking whisper. “Your senior wife is dead?”
“It is Bamidele,” I say. “She have a man-friend, a lover. Bamidele is his name. He is a welder from Kere village. He give her pregnants and now he is leaving her to die because he didn’t come back with soap to baff away evil curse.” Even as I am talking, I know it is sounding as if I am telling lies. “I am talking true, Papa. God is seeing my heart! God knows it is true! Bamidele have a soap and he didn’t come back and Khadija is dead because of him. It is true, Papa!”
Papa put his head inside his hands, he didn’t talk for a long, long time. When he up his head, his eyes are red, watery, look as if hisself about to cry too. “Who see you when it happen?”
I shake my head. “See me? Nobody. Bamidele’s wife say he is traveling. She will not talk true.” I remember the twins that was fetching water. But I don’t even know their name, or if they see me and Bamidele with Khadija. They see me, that I know. Everybody see me. Everybody will say it is me that kill Khadija.
“I am talking true. I swear it,” I say.
“Ah,” Papa say, touch his chest three times. “Ah. Adunni, you have kill me, finish.”
“I swear I didn’t do anything, Papa!” I am crying too much and coughing out my words. “Help me, Papa, help me!”
Papa remove my hand from his knees, sigh a sad sigh. “Adunni, I must go to the village chief. We must tell them what happen.”
“No, Papa, no!” I pull his trouser cloth. “You know what will happen. They will not give me a chance to talk myself, they will just kill me. They will not hear what I am saying about Bamidele.”
“We cannot leave Khadija by herself,” Papa say. “Somebody must go and bring her body come. I cannot do it, because they will say I kill her. So, let me go now to the village chief and tell him what happen.”
“If they ask you to bring me come, what will you tell them?”
Papa give me one look, and I never see him look so sad, so confuse.
“Then I bring you come,” he say, voice so soft, so breaking. “Khadija have her peoples, they must know that she is dead. The village chief must know that Khadija is dead. Morufu must know. Let me go and find all these peoples. The village chief will not kill you when I, your Papa, is alive. I swear it that nothing bad will happen to you. But first, stop your tears. Go inside your room and wait for me.”
Papa look left and look right, tap the side of his trouser, as if he is finding something but didn’t know what it is, then he put his feets inside his slippers and leave me kneeling by myself in the parlor.
* * *
My heart is still turning around inside my chest as I am standing in the room I was sharing with Kayus and Born-boy. I go to the window, pull Mama’s wrapper that we use for curtains to one side, to check it sure that nobody is coming. Outside, the sun is starting to climb down from the sky, the color is changing to the red of Papa’s eyes when he is drinking too much. The compound is empty, quiet too, only the leafs from the mango tree are dancing in the evening breeze and whispering to theirselfs.
Is it a wicked thing, to be thinking to run away, when Khadija is by herself, lying dead in Kere village? Is there another options for me? Papa say nothing will happen to me, but Papa make a promise to Mama and he didn’t keep the promise. How will he keep his promise now to save me from this troubles?
I wipe my eyes, move away from the window, roll out my mat from under the bed, pull out the black nylon bag from inside the raffia mat and put my belongings inside it.
I don’t have much things because three of my four cloths is in Morufu’s house. I take my ankara dress, one pant, the black brassiere that Mama gived me when I was first starting to growing breast, my chewing stick, and my mama’s old Yoruba Bible. It have a black rubber cover, the words inside small, the edges folding from many years of Mama reading it at night with candlelight in the kitchen. I press it on my chest now, say a prayer to God to help me. To save me from my troubles.
I look around the room, at the cushion Kayus is using as pillow on the green mat in the corner, at the kerosene lantern beside it, and shake my head. How will I be leaving all of this? If I run away now, where will I see Kayus again?
I on the lantern, lift it up as if that will block out the dark of my heart and pull out the one thousand naira I been keeping there before my wedding. I remove one hundred naira, fold it, and put it under the cushion-pillow for Kayus. It is not much, but it can buy two or three choco-sweets, make him to be happy. I am trying to not cry as I press my face to the mat and tell it to be caring of my Kayus for me.
In the afar, I can hear Born-boy, sounding as if he is just entering inside the compound. I rise to my feets, run outside to meet him, my nylon bag dancing in my hand.
Born-boy is carrying two tires on top his head, looking as if he is just coming from his mechanic working place. He look shock when he see me. Blink. “Adunni?”
“It is me, brother,” I say. I strong up my face, arrange it straight, and push Khadija far back in my mind.
“Why are you standing and looking?” Born-boy say. “Collect this thing from me.”
I collect the tires, set it on the floor.
“What have you come to find here?” he ask. “Where is your husband? What is in your hand?”
“He send me to come and give Papa money,” I say, holding my nylon bag tight. “To say thank you for marrying me.”
“He is a good man, your husband.” Born-boy swipe the sweat from his forehead with his finger and flick it at my feets. “Because of him, we are having plenty food to eat now. Did you see the yams and plantains in the kitchen? Even the community rent, Papa pay for it two months back, did he tell you? Where is Papa? Inside?”
“Papa is”—I swallow spit, try to talk again—“out. With Mr. Bada.”
“You are going now? To your husband’s house?”
“Yes,” I say. “Night is falling.”
“Greet him for me, the good man.” He look me up and down. “You want me to escort you? It is dark outside.”
“No,” I say. “Thank you. I am going now, now.”
Born-boy stretch his hand and yawn like a dog, his wide mouth snapping close. “Go quick
,” he say, thinning his eyes. “Wait, Adunni. You sure all is well? You have trouble running all over your face. What happen? Morufu, is he well?”
I lick my dry, cracking lips. “He is well.”
“And the senior wifes? Labake and the other one? They do you good?”
Khadija do me good, but now she is dead. “They do me well,” I say as my voice is starting to break with tears. “Let me go quick bye-bye.”
“Hurry,” he say. “Go well. Greet the good man, the very good man.”
Born-boy enter the house, and a weak light from the lantern light up the room window. I shift on my feets, looking the sky, the gathering of gray clouds to the center of it. The wind be sounding like a whistle, blowing a sad, cold song. There is a smell inside the air too, of dust that swallow water, and I know that the rains are gathering their self to begin falling.
Now, I think. Go now.
I draw a deep breath, look our house on my left, the dusty road on my right, then I press my nylon bag tight to my chest, and I begin to run.
CHAPTER 18
At first I am running, keeping my head down, my eyes on my feets on the muddy path that is leading outside the village.
On my left and right are maize plantations, with wide green leafs. I am thanking it because it is keeping me from the village eyes that is behind the plantations. Light is flashing from the sky, followed by a shout of the thunder. I keep running, my ears catching the sound of dogs barking in the afar, the goats from the nearby compounds bleating meh, meh, stamping their feets on the floor as if they are fighting with the earth. Chickens are running everywhere, their feathers flapping every time the sky flash a light. I keep running, sometimes I am skipping when I see rocks or weeds, or when I see old car tires that some devil-childrens leave on the road to cause person to be falling.
One red cock with green thread on his neck jump inside my path from nowhere, making me to knock my leg on a stone. I slow myself and bend down to rub the ankles. The ankles are breathing with pain, and I am trying to not cry. From corners of my eye, I see two girls with bucket on their head. One of the girls is Ruka. The two both of the girls are talking together and laughing, but they kill the laugh when they see me.