‘Bad leadership, that’s all.’ Munkaila’s smirk grew more profound. ‘Bad leadership kawai.’
‘And I hear they are already asking this president to contest.’ Binta paused and took a sip from her glass. ‘Do you think he will?’
‘He’s not supposed to because of this zoning agreement they have in the party, but he is in power now, I’m sure he will find a way around it.’
‘If only Yar’adua had not died—’ Sadiya reached out and wiped the sauce running down her chin.
‘Wallahi fa,’ Binta agreed.
Munkaila swallowed the food in his mouth noisily. ‘Are they any different? Their interests are all the same, I think. They are all in it for what they can get.’
‘I‘m sure Northern leaders won’t allow it.’ Binta emphasized this by waving her spoon before her face. ‘Oh no, they won’t.’
‘Hajiya ke nan.’ Munkaila’s tone was condescending. ‘Northern leaders, Southern leaders, what good have they done the country?’
Binta had her mouth full and couldn’t say anything. Just then, the power, which had come back on a while before, went off again and the children, in accustomed fashion, moaned in despair. Binta motioned to her grandchildren to come over for more helpings and she fished in the sauce for chunky bits of meat, which she judiciously placed on their plates.
The little Chinese-made generator with its blue tank sputtered and roared to life. Fa’iza pulled down the changeover lever and the power came on. The children yelped in delight and ran back to the room.
Munkaila had brought the machine in the boot of his car. He had removed it from its pack and set it up in the shed – a little affair of roofing sheets nailed together to keep such devices from the elements. The landlord had built the shed and, because she had had no other use for it before now, Binta had used it as a sort of purgatory for her broken furniture and fitments. It was some distance away from the house so the rattling noise wouldn’t be unbearable, like Mama Efe’s, which kept Binta awake until it was turned off late in the night.
Munkaila straightened and slapped the dust from his palms. Binta had been standing over him, showering him with prayers of prosperity, good health, and loving children to take care of him in his twilight years. His ‘Ameen’ was accompanied by a deep-throated, luxuriant laugh; the sort that Binta had never got used to hearing since he became rich.
‘Hajiya, we need to talk.’ He looked around, as if assessing the appropriateness of having a proper conversation in these surroundings.
‘Really?’ She was slightly disturbed by the grave expression on his face, by the tone of his voice.
He led her away from the rattle of the machine to the foot of the wall. He twirled his car key around his finger and allowed a moment of silence to grow between them. ‘I am worried about Hureira. She has been calling to complain about her husband.’
‘Oh, la ilaha ilallahu! This girl and her troubles!’ Binta slapped her palms together before holding her chin between her thumb and forefinger in a posture of deep concern. ‘You know, she called me two days ago and said they were quarrelling again and I asked her to maintain her home.’
‘Well, obviously she isn’t listening because she called last night and said she was going to slit his throat.’
‘That girl has a leper’s temper, wallahi, just like your father, God forgive him.’
‘Haba, Hajiya!’
‘Well, it’s the truth and you know it. All this for what, mhm? See what this girl wants to do to herself; divorced already and now trying to end another marriage. If Hureira terminates this marriage, she will have me to answer to, wallahi.’
‘What I think needs to be done now is for you and Hadiza to travel to Jos and talk to Hureira and her husband. I have spoken to Hadiza already—’
‘Can’t she even see how Hadiza is living peacefully with her husband?’
‘It’s all right, Hajiya. Just call her and talk sense into her. If it becomes necessary then you might have to go and reason with her in person.’
He watched her fold her arms across her chest, the way she used to after she had argued with his father. She had always captivated him, folding her arms like that and quivering with rage – an anger that would thrash around inside and then expire in a sullen sigh.
He considered the grey patterns on his white snakeskin half-shoe and sighed. ‘Hajiya, there is something else.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not about Hureira. It’s about you.’
‘Me?’ She felt her heart lurch.
If he had glanced up at her face then, he would have seen the look in her eyes and the furrow on her brow that distinctly spelt guilt in bold letters. ‘A man came to see me.’
She still held her breath.
‘Mallam Haruna, he said his name was, the man who has been coming to see you.’
Finally, she breathed out.
‘Are you all right, Hajiya?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
He looked at her, but the letters on her forehead had already dissipated, leaving only a half-hearted frown. ‘You know him, don’t you?’
She grunted.
‘Well, he said he’s serious about marrying you and he came to ask for your hand. I spoke to Hadiza about it and she seems to think it’s a good idea that you remarry. But I don’t know what you think.’
She grunted again.
‘Hajiya, you need to say something.’
‘Did I say I want to remarry?’
‘But Hajiya, ten years is a long time.’
She snorted. ‘Look at this boy. What do you know about life to talk to me about marriage?’
‘Haba, Hajiya, it’s not my idea, you know. Hadiza seems to think you need a man around and I don’t know how you relate with this Mallam Haruna.’
‘That will be enough.’ Her frown deepened.
He did not miss the note of finality in her voice. They stood awkwardly, their silence filled by the roar of the new generator.
‘Ummi tells me Fa’iza had a fit earlier today. What was that about?’
‘Blood.’ Binta adjusted her headscarf. ‘Fa’iza has issues with blood, and meat too.’
He came that night, Mallam Haruna, in a starched kaftan with a transistor radio pressed to his ear, and a cap that caught the light of the bare yellow bulb on the wall. He had a long history with radios running back some forty-two years. He was sixteen when his father had died in 1969 and bequeathed his son his prized possession – a black Silver radio with dual bands, a type they don’t make anymore. He had listened to the world unfold around him, an endless river of tales streaming into his ears. He listened when the civil war ended in ‘70, listened when Murtala toppled General Gowon in ’76, listened when Murtala himself was assassinated months later, listened when General Obasanjo handed over to Shagari in ’79 and listened when Obasanjo returned in ’99. Neither of his two wives had been a closer companion than the string of radios he had had over the years – and he had told them that in no uncertain terms. He was an honestly blunt man, Mallam Haruna.
Fa’iza went out and spread a mat on the veranda for the guest. Mallam Haruna thanked her and sat down. Because he was enraptured listening to the BBC in Hausa, he did not notice how long Binta took to come out. When she did, it was the fragrance of her perfume that first caught his attention. She stood for a while looking at a gecko primed to seize a blowfly under the glow of the bulb. Mallam Haruna sat looking at her, covered as she was by her enormous hijab whose hem fell to the ground around her feet.
The gecko moved, astonishing her with its speed. She barely glimpsed the fly’s wings disappearing into the reptile’s mouth. She moved away from the wall and sat as far away from her guest as the mat would allow.
‘Ina wuni?’
He answered her greeting, wanting her to look at his cleanly-shaven face. He had had the wanzam shave off the grey hair sticking out of his ears and nostrils. He was glad for the light; it meant that his efforts wouldn’t go unnoticed.
Bu
t her head was turned the other way, looking now at a cat sitting on the fence, staring at her with iridescent eyes.
‘You got a new generator.’
Binta had known him long enough to know that he had a way of making questions come out like statements. ‘Yes. My son bought it for me.’
‘Oh, Alhaji Munkaila. He came.’
‘As if you didn’t know.’ She was still looking at the cat, its white-tipped tail held up by its side like a defiant flag.
‘Wait.’ Mallam Haruna pressed the radio closer to his ear. They were interviewing the former minister of petroleum Alhaji Shettima Monguno. He was appealing to everybody to support President Jonathan, explaining how people were mistaken about the agreement the ruling party had of zoning the presidency to the North for another four years, and how voting in Jonathan, a Southerner, would be the same as voting in a Northerner because he was merely filling in the gap that President Yar’adua, a Northerner, left when he died in office.
‘These people are amazing!’ Mallam Haruna exclaimed.
Binta leaned further away from him still, resting her shoulder against a pillar. She hissed, long and hard. ‘I hate radios, wallahi.’
‘What! You hate radios! You don’t want to know what state the world is in.’
‘What state? Is it not always the same; bomb here, bomb there, murders here and there and hunger and war elsewhere?’
‘You are being so pessimistic. Good things happen too, you know.’
‘Switch it off.’
‘What!’
‘The radio. Switch it off.’
‘Haba Binta—’
‘Switch it off or I leave.’
He looked at her and switched off the radio with a heavy sigh. The generator continued to hum from a distance. The cat stood, arched its back, and took long, elegant strides on the fence. Then it settled down again to chaperone the cheerless couple sitting in the humid night, beneath the harsh light of the naked bulb.
‘What did you tell the person you went to see?’
‘Who? Munkaila?’
She said nothing.
‘I told him I want to marry you.’
‘And you think he can compel me to marry?’
‘Hajiya Binta, you speak like a child, wallahi. We are building a relationship—’
‘Look, we will talk about this some other time. I can’t stay out in the night like this.’
‘Why?’
She stood up. ‘Because the cat has been looking at me.’
‘Cat? What cat?’
She pointed. He saw the animal now, eyes gleaming with the intensity of jewels. He shooed it away but the cat sat unmoving, staring back. He picked up one of his shoes and feigned to hurl it. The cat only stared. When it finally stood up, Binta did not wait to see what it would do. She ran into the house, the folds of her hijab flapping like a curtain in the wind.
10
The search for a black goat should start way before nightfall
Binta patted the bundle of Dutch wax on her lap. For a while she allowed herself the luxury of losing her thoughts in the intricate yellow-tinted horseshoe patterns scattered on the blue background of the fabric. She raised it to her face and buried her nose in it, filling her nostrils with the smell of new cloth.
‘It’s beautiful. But I can’t accept it.’ Her voice sounded muffled from behind the material.
Reza raised his head from the pillow and looked at her. ‘What?’
‘I can’t accept it.’ She placed the cloth on her lap once more. She wished she had said no from the beginning, when he first presented the gift. But she had been full of desire then. Now the footprint of that desire had been calligraphed into the bed on which they lay. And inside, she felt the tender incandescence that she now knew came from sin.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘No, no. I do. It’s so lovely. I just feel it’s wrong to—’
‘I bought it for you, you understand? For you.’
His caramel eyes, with their imploring look, sucked her in and teleported her back to that day, so long ago now, when she first looked into her son’s little brown eyes and swooned in the cascades of maternal adoration. It disturbed her, this constant reminder of her son when she looked at Reza. But Reza was not Yaro. He was her lover. She sighed. It was the first time she had thought of him using that specific term – lover.
‘You understand, I just want you to have it.’ He was sitting up on the bed now.
She shifted her eyes from his and found herself gazing at his modestly built chest. She turned away when she saw that he was looking at her looking at him.
‘All right, Hassan. Just this once. But I don’t want you bringing me presents.’
‘I bought it, you understand. I bought it. I didn’t steal it.’
‘Oh, no, I never said anything like that. I just meant you must have your mother who needs—’
‘I don’t have a mother.’
Their eyes locked – hers startled, his defiant. She got out of the bed and started dressing, picking up her clothes from the floor: her brassiere at the foot of the bed, her panties half-hidden under it and her wrapper close to the door. She looked around for her scarf.
He found it under his body, where his sweat had dampened it.
She accepted the scarf from him and tied it around her head. ‘It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about your mother.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I understand.’
Reza nodded and reached out for her hand. It was warm. ‘Your hands are soft.’
Binta smiled and looked down at his fingers intertwined with hers. She closed her eyes and savoured the strength in his hand. Then he got up abruptly and started looking around for his own clothes.
‘I don’t want what happened the other time to happen again, you understand.’
‘Oh, I always lock the gate now.’
He went to the mirror and patted the little anthills on his head. He tilted his face for some different perspective and, satisfied with his looks, turned back to her. The smile on her face pleased him and when she indicated the space next to her, he came and sat down.
‘There’s something on your mind, isn’t there?’
He pulled out a wad of notes from his pocket and held it out uncertainly. ‘I want you to keep this for me.’
‘Hassan.’
‘It’s just for a while, you understand. I just need somewhere safe to keep my money.’
‘It’s not safe here. It’s not safe keeping money at home.’
‘It’s not safe at San Siro either. This useless policeman is bugging me. I’m not sure what he’s planning next. So I need to keep some money somewhere, in case.’
‘You should open a bank account.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You should think about it. You can save some money and go back to school.’
‘School?’
‘Yes, Hassan. Don’t you want to?’
‘It’s strange the way you say my name. Nobody calls me by my name anymore.’ He was grinning. Then he remembered the last time she had called his name all those years before, his mother, with a gleam of gold in her teeth. He turned his face away from Binta.
‘It’s all right if you don’t want me to.’
He shook his head. ‘You understand—’ he stopped to clear his throat, ‘you, you are different. I respect you.’
When he thrust the money at her, she took it. She sat there on the bed, feeling her insides dissolving.
She opened the lowest drawer on her dressing table and found the leather-bound photo album. Tenderly, she brushed away the film of dust and pressed the album to her bosom. The dust of memory stirred and she could almost smell the times gone by. She could, she imagined, taste the briny tears and visualise the smiles, the cryptic winks and the little fragments of daily life that had coalesced into treasured memories.
She sat on the bed and flipped through the album. Halfway through the laminated pages, she found the picture. The four of them, her
children, in 1987, lined up against a pocked wall, staring into the lens as if startled by their own existence. The photographer, a Yoruba woman, had strolled from house to house; a troubadour of images, scribbling memories with the ink of light.
Hadiza, at four, stood fingering her cheap beaded necklace, an Eid present from her father, the thumb of her other hand stuck in her mouth. Hureira stood next to Munkaila in garish make-up; startling red lipstick and three dots of eye pencil on her forehead, while Munkaila hunched forward, staring into the lens as if daring it. And, over his shoulder, her Yaro standing as if stealing into the shot, eyes wide and asking questions of life, arms hanging uncertainly by his sides.
She ran her thumb over his face, a reflection of her mother’s, that demure Fulani woman of Kibiya. That day, after the picture had been taken, he came to ask her for Cafenol pills. She had turned her back on him. ‘Why on earth are you standing there asking me questions? Go pick them up from the drawer.’
When he downed the pills, he sat down by the door staring into space, looking as if he wanted to be somewhere else, someplace where the warmth could seep into his heart. Across the compound, Hureira and Hadiza sat playing house with their plastic doll.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Binta saw the blank look in his eyes. She knew she had felt that way too, longingly wanting the Fulani woman to touch her, to call her name, to display even a hint of affection. He was the one she wanted to make hers, to claim for herself, for the memories she wished she had had with her own mother. She wanted to touch her son, to feel his temperature, to whisper his name and tell him it would be all right. She wanted to. But she could not. So she loomed over him. ‘What are you doing sitting there?’
He said nothing, preferring instead to slink away and sit on the dakali and stare out at the street. He was there when the other boys spotted a girl in tight black trousers heading up the street. Her hair – permed in the Michael Jackson Thriller style – streamed behind her as she swung her hips ostentatiously. Then the chants started.
‘Biri da wando!’ the boys sang, running after her. Some ran ahead and pulled down their trousers and wiggled their little backsides before the embarrassed girl. The racket drew more boys from their houses and playfields and Yaro, too, was sucked in. Women in purdah came out and stood by the front door, trying to call back their sons, but their voices were drowned in the maelstrom.
Season of Crimson Blossoms Page 10
