Season of Crimson Blossoms

by Abubakar Adam Ibrahim

  ‘No, Senator.’

  ‘You see, when you are doing something important, you need strong men around you, ko ba haka ba?’

  Reza agreed.

  ‘Reza, you are a strong man. I am going to ask you to do something, something very serious, very important.’

  ‘Anything, Senator.’

  ‘Yauwa! That is why I like you. You don’t waste time when it is expedient to act. You don’t waste time asking questions. I want you to—’ he leaned forward and seemed to have frozen, his index finger held up before his face, ‘I want you to be ready. I will ask Moses, you know Moses, my PA? He will contact you and brief you on what to do. Whatever he tells you, just do it, ka ji ko?’

  Reza nodded again.

  ‘It is a very sensitive matter and I want you to handle it with care.’

  ‘No problem, Senator.’

  ‘All right, you may go now so I can see the honourables. Just be ready, ok?’

  Reza thanked him and shoved the money into his pocket. On his way out, he saw the ‘honourables’ waiting in the anteroom. The three men looked important and smelt of expensive cologne. One of them had a face that was always on TV. He was probably a minister or something of the sort but Reza, not one to waste time watching the news, couldn’t really be sure.

  18

  It takes more than a bucket of dye to change the colour of the sea

  Mallam Haruna sat surrounded by a battalion of zanna caps fitted on wooden kwari, the special handmade dummies he used to give the caps their size and shape. The caps, washed and set out to dry, and turned inside out so only their blue interior showed, occupied all of the shop, save a small path leading out to the narrow side street, traversed by traders and customers heading home from the market.

  Up on the shelves, populated by rows of colourful caps stacked atop each other, glistening in transparent waterproof wraps, was Mallam Haruna’s trusted radio, from which the afternoon news blared. But the man himself was focused on the piles of caps beside him, picking them one after the other and fitting them on the dummies. There was a secret to his success as a cap washerman – the skill of wankin glass, of making caps gleam as if they were bottles in the sun. It was in the myrrh and its application; in smoothly beating it into the threads. In the careful application of a weighted, hot charcoal iron. He learnt the technique from a friend who had learnt the secret in the desert fringes of Maiduguri.

  People from the capital trooped to Mallam Haruna’s shop, tucked away in the corner of the Mararaba market, keen to have him make their caps emit the aura of prosperity. And with the referral from a member of the House of Representatives, word spread to the red and green chambers of Mallam Haruna, the man who made caps glimmer.

  While his three apprentices did the actual washing and, under the master’s supervision, applied myrrh, Mallam Haruna was left with the task of fitting the caps into the right kwari for a perfect fit. It was a gift, being able to look at someone’s head, even from a distance, and tell exactly which kwari would fit his cap. At night, if he did not carry his radio and go in pursuit of other things, he would lock himself in the shop and apply the finishing touches. By morning, the boys would come and find rows of gleaming caps neatly stacked on the shelves.

  In the afternoons, usually after Zuhr prayers when the boys were doing the grunt work, Mallam Haruna would carry his radio and head out of the market to see his friend, Mallam Balarabe, who sold earrings, necklaces, wristwatches and other such trinkets beside La Crème.

  Mallam Balarabe had a good spot, right on the kerb of the fast food joint where men trying to impress their dates were easily cajoled into buying ornaments for twice the normal price. Sometimes, guests at Shagali Hotel across the street also came to look at Mallam Balarabe’s merchandise.

  That afternoon, Mallam Haruna turned the corner and saw Balarabe sitting under his sun-beaten parasol, no longer the eye-catching red it used to be. With his radio pressed to his ear, he walked up to his friend and salaamed.

  ‘Mallam Haruna, barka da zuwa,’ Balarabe greeted, making space for Haruna on the bench.

  Haruna contemplated the parasol and sat down. ‘Your parasol is dead. Get another one.’

  Balarabe was already listening to the Deutsche Welle Hausa service on the portable radio beside his wares, but because Mallam Haruna’s was clearer, Balarabe switched off his own set. ‘I will, insha Allah.’

  ‘Nothing much on the radio today.’

  ‘Not much, mostly a repeat of the morning broadcast.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You see how these politicians are messing up.’ Balarabe caressed his greying beard. He removed his cap and placed it on the bench.

  They had first met in Mallam Haruna’s shop three years before when Balarabe had had his cap shrunken by another maiwanki and was referred to Mallam Haruna. Mallam Haruna took on the cap, only because of a certain reverence he felt for Balarabe. He had the luxury of choosing whose cap he serviced and especially resented cleaning up other people’s mess. When he was done, Mallam Balarabe had been impressed by the finished work, by the way the colourful threads had brightened and how the cap had been perfectly shaped to fit his head. Balarabe had told Mallam Haruna that he had had plans to buy a new cap for his third wedding a couple of weeks away, but would instead reserve that one for the occasion.

  Mallam Haruna had been awed. ‘Third wife! Masha Allah!’

  And that had marked the beginning of their friendship, forged on the plurality of wives.

  Now, Mallam Haruna grunted. ‘This idea of using corps members to conduct elections, I’m not so sure about it.’

  ‘Atoh!’ Balarabe exclaimed. ‘This man, Jega, we thought he was coming in to do something reasonable. See how they are mismanaging the voter registration already.’

  ‘Power! Power! Power is a treacherous thing, I tell you. Once you join these men in their affairs, no matter how pious you are, they will find a way to corrupt you. That is why I say Buhari should just let them carry on with their politics and save himself the trouble.’

  ‘And if everyone stays away, who do you think will come and fix the system?’

  ‘Only God will rescue us from these greedy people, wallahi.’

  ‘God! And why should God come to rescue us when we are not willing to raise a finger to help ourselves?’ Mallam Balarabe posed expectantly; as if ready with another salvo should Mallam Haruna say the wrong thing.

  But Mallam Haruna wasn’t listening. His eyes were trained on the entrance of Shagali Hotel, where a motorcycle taxi had just set down a woman. Even though she wasn’t wearing a hijab, as he had grown accustomed to seeing her, he could tell who she was from afar. He could imagine the smell of lavender wafting from her as she fished in her purse and handed the okada man his fare.

  ‘Subhanallahi!’ Mallam Haruna exclaimed as Binta adjusted the veil over her shoulder and hurried into the hotel.

  ‘What?’ Balarabe looked from his friend’s face to the hotel entrance where Binta had already walked out of view.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing.’ Mallam Haruna clutched his beard and shook his head. ‘Lallai kam!’

  Reza opened the door and watched Binta walk straight past him to the bed. When she took off her veil and dumped it beside her, his smile froze.

  ‘Are you all right, Hajiya?’

  Her eyes flitted over him and she looked away. ‘I’m fine.’

  He locked the door and walked to her. He sat down beside her and tentatively put an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘I brought the money.’ She reached into her bag, fetched some notes and handed them over to him. ‘You see why I keep asking you to open an account? You could have gone to an ATM and withdrawn money without me even knowing.’

  ‘No problem, I trust you.’ He received the money and put it away.

  ‘How is your father now?’

  ‘He is getting better, they say. I need to go back and see. They said I need to get some money for further tests, you understand.’ Then he added a ‘Tha
nk you,’ in English.

  She thumped him on the chest lightly. ‘No need to thank me, it’s your money, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thank you for keeping it and bringing it when I need it.’ He brushed his lips to her ear. ‘Thank you for being my bank, where I deposit my money, and other things.’

  She looked at the mischievous light in his eyes and smiled. She shoved him away and he fell on his back on the bed and laughed up to the ceiling.

  She, too, laughed. ‘God, what have I done? I have corrupted this small boy.’

  ‘I wonder who is corrupting who?’ He pulled her down beside him. They lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling fan turning, slicing the air like an indolent scythe. He would never understand the sexual attraction he felt for her. Sometimes his intimacy with Binta bothered him, not least because occasionally he ended up thinking about his mother when he thought of Binta, or the other way round. It made him uncomfortable at times. It was making him uncomfortable now until Binta sighed. He raised himself on his elbow to look at her.

  ‘What is wrong with you today? You seem distant.’

  She sat up on the bed and he, too, sat up.

  ‘I have been thinking, you know, about my late husband.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘I just woke up this morning and thoughts of him kept looping in my mind.’

  ‘What have you been thinking about him?’

  She shook her head and chuckled sadly. ‘You know, I have spent more of my life with him than with anyone else. I was sixteen or seventeen when I married him.’

  ‘Were you in love?’

  ‘Love?’ Again she found herself reflecting on the word and what it meant, and found herself wandering in nothingness. ‘Oh, no. I hardly even knew him before our wedding. He used to work at the railway back in Jos then. He would come to Kibiya once in a while and we always said that Mallam Dauda’s son, who worked at the railway, is back. I never thought I would end up spending most of my life with him.’ She wiped a tear from her eye and held her face in her hand.

  Reza rose and walked to the window. He pulled apart the curtains and unimpressed by the view, drew them back together. He turned and regarded her. Then he moved the chair from across the room and sat facing her. ‘May Allah have mercy on his soul.’

  Binta looked up at him and smiled. ‘Ameen. Thank you.’

  ‘When did he die? I mean you never told me anything about him.’

  She sighed. ‘He died in 2001. September 7th, 2001. You know, that morning, I woke up to the smell of roaches and I knew something was not right. I always awake to the smell of roaches when something major is going to happen.’ Binta paused and drew her legs closer to her body. ‘But you know, he was in a good mood that morning. He had his bath and came to the room. He made a joke about how enormous my panties had become.’ She chuckled again. Then she reached up and wiped the tears in her eyes.

  ‘You don’t have to talk about it, you understand—’

  ‘It’s ok. I haven’t talked about it since it happened, you know.’ She sniffled. ‘So, he came in and made jokes about the size of my butt and other things, you know. And then he sat down and listened to the radio. He talked about things he normally didn’t talk about, made small jokes and things. Then he went out to his suya spot.

  ‘Later in the day, they said oh, they’ve started fighting in town, Muslims and Christians. And I was like, oh maganan banza! Such a thing had never happened in Jos, how can people start fighting just like that? But then it was true, it was the first of many riots. They found his corpse two days later at the Central Mosque among hundreds of others. You know, they collected all the corpses and took them there. He was butchered and his corpse was … torched.’

  Reza put his hands to his face.

  ‘They said the boys who did it, they knew him. They bought suya from him every night; they called him by his name, as he called them by theirs. And they chopped up his corpse, there on the street, and pissed on it before they torched it.’

  When she broke down and wept, Reza crossed over and put his arm around her. He sighed again. ‘May Allah rest his soul.’

  ‘The last thing I said to him that day when he was going out was, don’t come back with that grilled meat smell on you.’

  Reza had never had a woman weep in his arms. He had no idea what was expected of him so he just held her and allowed her cry.

  When Binta had finished crying, she went to the bathroom and washed her face. She returned and tried to smile.

  He knew he was supposed to say something comforting, but he could not find the right words. So he said what came to his mind. ‘You want to watch some TV?’

  She smiled again, sat down next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I am so sorry.’

  They watched a Nollywood movie they couldn’t make head or tail of. When she got tired, she adjusted her scarf. ‘I suppose I should go home now. Sorry, I have ruined the day with all this talking.’

  ‘Don’t go, please.’ He held her arms. ‘When is your daughter leaving?’

  ‘I really have no idea.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you send her away, back to her husband?’

  She sighed. ‘I have no idea what to do with Hureira.’

  ‘This hotel business is expensive, you understand. I can’t see you every day, anytime I like.’

  ‘I know, Hassan. I will figure something out, I promise.’ She smiled up at him. ‘So, have you decided on going back to school?’

  He cleared his throat and moved away from her. ‘Not yet. There are things, you understand, things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘You know, things. Just things that need taking care of.’

  She sighed and looked down at her hands now tucked between her thighs. He looked at her and stood up. He walked to the window, parted the curtains and looked out at the lawn where a sprinkler was turning around and raining down on the lush grass.

  ‘I thought this was important. That was why I had you registered.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He turned to face her. ‘You understand, what purpose is there in going to school if not to make money?’

  ‘It is to get an education.’

  ‘And what use is an education without money?’

  ‘Money isn’t everything, you know.’

  ‘You understand, all these people going to school, it’s because they want to become big men someday. Look at Bulama with his useless diploma; he can’t even feed his wife.’

  ‘Who’s Bulama?’

  ‘He is my father’s son, you understand. He spent all those years in school and got this diploma in something, I don’t know what, and now he can’t even do anything about our sick father. I am the one doing everything. Me! You understand, me, the one who didn’t finish secondary school, me, me!’

  She looked down at her henna-dyed hands, at the reddish-brown nails. When she looked up, she saw that Mr Ibu was busy making a fool of himself on the screen, but he did not interest her. She looked at the lampshades now, at the intricate designs on them and she bit her lower lip.

  ‘I suppose I should be leaving now.’ But she didn’t move.

  Reza turned back to the window. There was a squat gardener in the distance, dressed only in a vest, pruning the hedges. Reza was enraptured by the man’s shears, how deftly he used them, how he sent bits of twigs and leaves cascading in his wake. He imagined snapping those giant scissors at someone’s throat, imagined the splash the blood would make, and shook his head.

  Behind him, Binta shifted on the bed. ‘Why must you compare yourself to your brother?’

  He said nothing for a while. ‘Have you seen how many graduates there are running around with their silly ties and stupid file holders looking for jobs? People are just wasting their time when they could have been doing something else with their lives, you understand.’

  She looked at him, as if he were a stranger in Reza’s body. ‘My children went to school. Munkaila, he went to school too, and if not for his education, I don�
��t know what would have become of us.’

  ‘I’m not your son, you understand.’

  Binta’s eyes widened and she shrank into herself, suddenly seeming smaller on the bed.

  The noise from the TV filled the room and the moment stretched into a dreary eternity, for Binta at least. Finally, she rose and threw her veil over her head and slung one end over her left shoulder. She made a move for the door. Reza hopped in front of her and held his arms out by his sides uncertainly. They stood awkwardly for a moment.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘Just get out of my way, Hassan.’ She sounded resolute.

  ‘I didn’t mean to sound … you know, the way I did.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Just … don’t go.’

  ‘You know, if you want to smoke your life away, there’s hardly anything I can do about it … especially since I’m not your mother.’ She walked past him and closed the door behind her.

  She stood in the corridor and dabbed at her eyes with her veil. A uniformed maid was walking towards her so she sighed and hurried away.

  Outside, under the sun-bleached parasol, Mallam Haruna sat on the bench looking out across the street. The music of the legendary Mamman Shata poured out amidst the static from the radio in his hand. Shata was at his impish best singing Gagarabadau, heaping assorted insults on a rival in love.

  Allah ya tsine ma, tsohon mazinaci

  Sai na badda ka, da kai da zuri’ar ka!

  Mallam Balarabe had been standing over his wares, haggling with a buxom woman. They were laughing at a joke Mallam Haruna, preoccupied by other concerns, was too far gone to catch. He wasn’t even listening to Shata’s invective-laced lyrics. When he saw Binta emerge from the hotel, he stood up abruptly. He made as if to go after her but then halted.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Mallam Balarabe turned to him, holding a hoop earring.

  ‘No, nothing. Nothing.’ But Mallam Haruna stepped off the kerb and stood by the side of the road. He watched Binta hail an okada and mount the pillion. The machine whisked her away, leaving in its wake a trail of white smoke that lingered in the air tenuously before dispersing.