‘I am here to bail my boys.’
Baleri sat back in his chair and picked up his pen. He twirled it in his fingers with the satisfied air of one savouring a victory sure to come. ‘So they are your boys?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ Baleri swivelled on his chair. ‘I see.’
The cheap clock on the wall marked time with the apathy of a wearied device. Reza turned to look at it. It had the photo of a stern-looking policeman in it as the clock face, with ‘Congratulations’ boldly written across it. The other writings were too small for him to read from where he sat. He turned back to Baleri.
‘You see, these boys were disturbing the public peace, using dangerous weapons and causing grievous bodily harm,’ Baleri began. ‘We are going to take them to court.’
‘To court?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then.’ Reza rose. ‘In that case, there is nothing to talk about, you understand.’ He caught the alarm that flickered in Baleri’s eyes. The officer must have found the thought of losing the extra he would make from the transaction disturbing. It would be the weekend soon enough, a period during which every decent crook knew that the average policeman would be desperate to make some quick cash. Reza turned and made for the door, certain that Baleri would not let him leave just like that.
The officer’s stuttering voice reached him as he got to the door. ‘But – we don’t have to go that far if—’
‘How much?’ Reza turned. He saw the battered pride flash in the policeman’s eyes. But it was gone in an instant, consumed by the brazenness of avarice and desperation.
Baleri named his price and watched as Reza counted out five one thousand naira notes and put them on the table. He picked up the money and shoved it in his breast pocket. He gestured to the seat Reza had just vacated and cleared his throat.
Reza sat down.
‘You see,’ Baleri opened his hands imploringly, ‘this is a small matter. If you had been paying the protection fee, none of this would have happened. When your boys started fighting and trying to kill each other, we would have gone and settled the matter there. No need for all this, eh.’
Reza tapped the soles of his shoes on the cement floor.
‘You see,’ Baleri went on, ‘we all know how these things work. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, like that, eh, but you, you are proving stubborn.’
‘You understand, OC, last time we talked about this, I told you I have no problem with you people. But you took my stuff and sold it to the boys at the junction, and you took my money and harassed my boys. There was no respect in that. Ko kadan.’
‘Ok, ok. That has happened. Now we can move on.’
‘If you bring back my stuff and the money you took, you understand. But for now, release my boys. When you bring my things, we can talk business, ka gane ko?’
Baleri nodded and bit down on his lower lip. He called in one of his officers and ordered him to release the San Siro boys.
Reza waited outside while Gattuso and Dogo, bleary-eyed, collected their items and strolled out of the cell. They were heralded by the smell of frustration, tinted with the odour of clothes dampened by overnight piss. His anger towards them had been quelled when he realised that trouble was inevitable – all that ganja coupled with muscly hotheads, there were bound to be some sparks and some confrontations.
He slapped the palms of the three policemen sitting on the bench outside and shared a joke with them. When they were cackling, he reached into his pocket for a thousand naira note.
‘For soft drinks.’ He made a magnanimous gesture that included them all.
One of the officers grabbed the bill out of Reza’s hand and tucked it into his breast pocket. Then he looked furtively at the door of Baleri’s office.
‘Reza, Reza,’ the officers hailed and slapped his hand.
Gattuso walked out of the police office, bristling with rage. ‘You let me spend the night in the cell.’
Reza started walking away. ‘And I will do worse next time.’
But Dogo, gifted with the sobriety only a night in the cell could confer on someone of his disposition, nodded reverently. ‘Thanks, Reza.’
‘Next time you guys want to fight, take it elsewhere. San Siro is not a fucking battlefield.’
Reza’s phone chimed, this time a more subdued tone than the bawdy one that had shamed him at Binta’s, and he reached into his pocket. He looked at the screen and glanced up at Dogo and Gattuso. Dogo had bent over and was dusting off his jeans, but Gattuso looked at him as he cracked his knuckles. Reza turned away and put the phone to his ear. He walked away from them as he talked.
When Reza shoved the phone back in his pocket and returned, Gattuso noticed that he was grinding his teeth.
But it was Dogo who spoke first. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Some mamafucker hit the house I asked to be left alone.’
‘Which house?’ Gattuso cracked his knuckles.
‘Hajiya Binta’s.’
‘The one with the green gate?’
‘Yes, God damn it!’
‘What did they take?’
‘They took her generator.’
‘Lallai kam!’ Gattuso clicked at the back of his throat and crashed a clenched fist into his palm.
‘Find the generator and find out the dan shegiya who did it. Bring me the mamafucker, you understand. Ask Ibro the generator repairman. Let him tell us what he knows, who has sold a generator, who bought one. Anything, you understand. I want that little prick now. Now, God damn it!’
They found the prick by evening – only he was not little. Marufu was the large-limbed fellow who fancied himself a footballer. Every morning and evening he would wear his studded boots and bare his red shin guards as he jogged ostentatiously to the football field. Once in a while he came to San Siro for a fix or to trade off pilfered items, such as condoms he had stolen from a pharmacy. Having met a football agent who claimed he could arrange a trial for him with Belgium giants Club Brugge or Anderlecht, Marufu saw an opportunity. But it would cost more than Mama Marufu’s milling machine and his father’s security man salary could afford. So Marufu, driven by desperation, took to scaling fences. When he tried to sell his loot to Elvis the barber, word got round to San Siro.
Reza, standing in the dimming light of day, took one last drag from the joint in his hand and passed it on to Gattuso. He, too, took a long drag and passed it on. Finally, when it got to Dogo, he smoked the last of it, crushed it under his shoe, and threw dust over it with the blade of his machete. Joe took a swig from his bottle of schnapps, screwed on the top and shoved it into his back pocket. Reza led the way. They went past Mama Marufu’s milling machine standing in the gathering dusk and dust at the front of the tenement compound. They passed by Baba Alade the thrift collector’s room, which he shared with his two wives, past the identical twins’ room and past Mama Marufu’s and the chicken coop in the corner. They kicked in the last door on the left, where Marufu, just back from his evening training session, was eating and watching a replay of the Champions League final.
Reza saw the consternation on Marufu’s face give way to terror when he recognised him. He saw the generator partially hidden by Marufu’s bed and smiled. He approached Marufu, certain that there wouldn’t be any interruptions with Dogo, Joe and Gattuso standing guard just outside.
Marufu’s resistance was feeble. He got a blow in, on Reza’s jaw, but Reza hit him with precision. The assault was swift and the damage was done way before Mama Marufu came out screaming like a deranged woman, startling the drowsy sun and the indifferent chickens that had just settled down in the roost.
14
What has horns must not be hidden in a sack
‘Ah! Do they have to sing about everything?’ Ummi lamented from her place on the floor as she watched the actors on TV singing and dancing in the Hindi style that Hausa film-makers had also adopted.
‘This is so lame, wallahi.’ Kareema curled up on the couch next to her sister. Abida
was in sky-blue lace, Kareema in royal blue.
Fa’iza, baffled, looked at the Short Ones. ‘Lame? This film?’
It was Abida who, equally disgusted, tackled Fa’iza. ‘Kwarai kuwa. How can you come home and find your wife in bed with some idiot and just stand there singing like a moron?’
‘It’s prayer time.’ Binta, who was sitting across the room from Hureira, delivered her observation in a solemn tone that suggested she wanted the crowd to disperse.
‘Wai! Prayer time? Come, let’s go pray.’ Fa’iza rose. She realised that she wasn’t enthralled by the movie after all, since Ali Nuhu was not in it. She waited for the Short Ones to rise and together they headed for her room, swinging their hips as they went.
Abida hissed. ‘I would rather be reading my novels than watching this crap.’
‘Sure, sure.’
Hureira watched them disappear into the room and close the door behind them. She turned to her mother with a questioning look.
Binta nodded, as if assenting to Hureira’s unarticulated assertions. ‘Those are the kind of friends Fa’iza keeps.’
‘Lallai kam!’ Hureira nodded and made clucking noises.
Binta, too, rose to say her prayers, and because it was that time of the month for her, Hureira, nursing a mild grouchiness, was left with her daughter, watching the tedious film crawl to a climax.
In Fa’iza’s room, the girls took turns saying their Maghrib prayers. While Abida sat on the rug supplicating, Fa’iza sat on the mattress flipping the pages of the new cache of novellas the Short Ones had brought hidden under the folds of their hijabs. Kareema stood before the mirror patting her face. When Abida was done, Fa’iza took her place on the prayer rug and performed her Salat. And then it was Kareema’s turn. After saying Salaam, she sat on the rug supplicating endlessly.
Fa’iza tired of waiting for her to finish. ‘Wai! A long prayer like this? What were you praying for so earnestly?’
‘Things.’
‘Boys?’ Abida asked.
Kareema smiled. ‘Maybe. What woman doesn’t pray for a good husband?’
‘Sure, sure.’
Fa’iza was excited. ‘Who is he?’
Abida smiled, batting her eyes like a repository of secret things. ‘She has many.’
‘Sure, and so do you.’ There was pride in Kareema’s understated smile, and in her voice as well. Then she turned to Fa’iza. ‘How many do you have, Amin?’
Abida giggled. ‘She’s still drooling over Bala Mahmud.’
‘Me? Bala Mahmud? Of course not.’
‘And do you know who Kareema has been drooling over?’
‘Kareema? Who?’
‘Should I tell, Kareema?’
Kareema smiled and shrugged. She rolled on the mattress.
‘Reza,’ Abida whispered.
‘Reza? The San Siro guy?’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘Isn’t he soooo handsome?’ Kareema’s eyes lit up with the incandescence of dreams.
‘Handsome? But he’s—’
‘Sure, I know, I know. But it’s not like I want to marry him or anything, you know. Just tripping, the way you go on about Ali Nuhu.’
‘Me?’
‘Sure.’
‘I saw him the other day, Reza, you know.’ Kareema stirred the conversation back to herself. ‘He looked at me and you could tell there was something.’
‘Something?’
‘Sure. A connection, you know. A spark.’
Ummi came in with a dish of couscous, which she placed in the middle of the room and left. She returned with a jug of water and cups and then ran back to the living room. The girls sat around the plate, folded their legs and ate in silence. But each time Fa’iza looked up, her eyes met Abida’s.
‘What?’
Abida shrugged. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Me? Yes.’
Cutlery clinked. More couscous disappeared from the plate. Then Kareema looked up from the food. ‘Amin, how soon can you finish these books?’
‘Me? Well, it’s Saturday. You could have them back by Monday, at school.’
‘Sure. Great. Then I will give you one in English.’
‘In English?’
‘Sure. Mills and Boon.’
‘All right.’ But when Fa’iza looked up, she saw that Abida was looking into her eyes, yet again. And it occurred to her that Abida’s eyes shone with empathy, not pity, an assuring gleam of understanding like a beacon meant only for her. And she knew that it was because of what Abida had seen in her Secret Book. Fa’iza looked down at the vanishing mound of couscous.
But Abida too had seen how Fa’iza looked at her. She, too, felt what Kareema had, only moments before, referred to as a spark, a connection. ‘Do you still dream?’
Fa’iza nodded.
Kareema looked from her sister to Fa’iza. ‘Dream? About what?’
‘Nothing.’ Abida sipped some water. ‘Just dreams.’
The glare in Kareema’s eyes was accusatory but it faded as noise from the gate reached them. Apparently, someone was intent on barging in. Fa’iza was startled, her eyes widened. The girls ran out of the room and found Hureira standing by the front door, peering into the courtyard.
Binta emerged from her room. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Some men.’
‘It’s Reza.’ Abida, having joined Hureira by the door, and familiar with Reza’s physique, was able to make him out in the dim light.
Kareema pushed her way through, desperate to catch a glimpse of the man who, with increasing regularity, had featured in her fantasies. The women came out and gathered by the front door, their apprehension lost in a maelstrom of curiosity.
Reza and his cohorts, clearly excited, as evidenced by their boisterous demeanour, approached and set down the generator, not too far from where the women were huddled. The San Siro boys stooped in greeting. Binta answered, her pleasure concealed behind the faint smile that made only the corners of her lips tweak. She kept her eyes on the generator, away from Reza’s face, as Dogo proceeded to recount how they recovered the machine. Gattuso and Joe fetched a rag from the clothes line and wiped the machine clean. Kareema inched closer to the boys, closer to Reza.
Finally, Binta, unable to contain her excitement, clapped her hands together. ‘Thank God for His mercies. May Allah bless you all, samari.’
Hureira peered over her mother’s shoulder. ‘Is it still working?’
Reza stepped forward and unscrewed the lid of the tank, shook the device with some gusto and was rewarded with the sound of the fuel splashing against the sides of the tank. Binta saw the blood on his knuckle and shivered. She wanted to reach out and take his hand.
Reza worked briskly, unmindful of the blood. He tilted the generator so that the little fuel left in it would run into the carburettor. He set it down again and screwed the lid back on. He balanced himself, legs slightly apart, and pulled the starter. The machine sputtered and quietened. He pulled again, and again, and finally, the engine coughed and roared.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ little Ummi exclaimed.
Fa’iza had missed being traumatised by the blood on Reza’s hand, for she was looking at his shoes. She was certain, even in the dim light, that they were the same ones she had seen at the front door the other day; the ones that had disappeared as mysteriously as they had appeared.
15
A wise bird is best ensnared by the throat
Abida stood looking at the kosai browning in the boiling oil. Sani Scholar’s mother, Jummalo, was sitting before the open flame, adding salt into the bean paste and stirring it with a ladle. She beat the ladle on her open palm and held it up to her face. Her tongue flicked out to have a taste. Satisfied, she nodded. ‘Some customers want it a bit more salty.’
Abida smiled into Jummalo’s tired eyes and wondered if she could help. She pushed the damp firewood further into the heart of the flame with her foot. A furious column of white smoke rose into the mild morning air and drove back the children w
aiting for the kosai to be ready, their money clenched in their little fists. They stepped back, waving away the cloud.
Kareema did not budge. She remained by the flame, disregarding the smoke wafting in her direction.
‘The firewood is not dry enough.’ Jummalo stuffed bits of plastic into the flame. ‘Kareema, get away from the smoke.’
Kareema was impassive. ‘What good woman can’t withstand smoke?’
‘Sure, sure,’ Abida’s voice was cheery.
Kareema had woken in a sullen mist that morning and Abida, when she was going out to get kosai for breakfast, had dragged her out of the house to help her get over her dour mood. Kareema hadn’t responded to her attempts to start a conversation. Abida knew it was something that would quickly pass. It always did.
She reached for the stripped twig Jummalo used to flip the frying balls, but Kareema beat her to it. So she stood back and watched her sister flip the balls deftly as if she had been doing it all her life.
Jummalo too seemed impressed by Kareema’s dexterity. ‘Maybe I should hire you to help me, Kareema. You do it so well, wallahi.’
Kareema’s expression remained bland. ‘I am a woman.’
Abida turned her face away from the white smoke and sighted Hajiya Binta down the lane in her hijab, hovering about the entrance of San Siro. She watched Binta look around furtively and, even from that distance, Abida could almost see the worry on the older woman’s face. Finally, she saw Binta put her phone to her ear.
Kareema had sensed that her sister was enthralled by something. She looked up and saw Binta and she, too, became curious. When Jummalo noticed that the flipping had stopped halfway, she also turned to see what the girls were looking at. She collected the twig from Kareema and continued flipping, casting occasional glances at Hajiya Binta in the process.
Down the lane, in his room, Reza put on his shirt and wiped his face. He reached for the broken mirror and peered into it. Then he hurried out to the waiting woman at the entrance. She appeared distressed and afraid, constantly looking over her shoulder.
Season of Crimson Blossoms Page 13
