Season of Crimson Blossoms

by Abubakar Adam Ibrahim

  It was the first time their troubled hearts truly embraced, melting into each other. It was the first time his heart touched hers. It was, despite their shared ardour and litany of memories, the closest he ever came to feeling love for her. ‘God, I am sorry.’

  And she was certain she heard the hint of tears in his voice.

  He did not want her to see his heart, naked as it was then, or the tears in his eyes. ‘I have to go now. I have to go, you understand?’

  He pushed her aside and hurried out of the room. She ran after him, calling his name, the one no one else remembered but her. When he crossed the living room and opened the door, she dashed after him. He was halfway to the gate when it was pushed open and Ummi rushed in. She did not acknowledge him and sped past him to her grandmother who was frozen by the door. But Fa’iza, who was at the gate, recognised him immediately and her heart stopped. Reza marched on until a man appeared behind Fa’iza. He rightly assumed him to be Binta’s rich son. They regarded each other, Reza in bewilderment, Munkaila in sheer rage, the sort the younger man knew inspired men to murderous deeds.

  Beyond Reza, Munkaila saw his mother, whose guilt was evident on her face and in her hastily flung-on dress that left her shoulder bare and exposed the straps of a black bra. He latched the door behind him.

  And that was precisely when Binta remembered that she had woken up that Sunday morning to the unmistakable smell of giant cockroaches.

  31

  The sweetness of ululation will not render it to loss

  Again Binta Zubairu found herself ensnared in a lingering daymare. Her mournful curtains, which bordered this dream, took on a deeper shade of grief and blurred the boundaries so that she had no idea when she was dreaming and when she was not. Surrounded by faces she only saw as a blur, of pensive friends and wailing kin, she sat on her bed chanting at intervals the mantra of her grief: ‘Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un.’

  The offers of condolences passed into a haze and she was certain she would wake up to find Munkaila sitting on her couch, jingling his car keys around his chubby finger. And when she thought of that finger and his plump cheeks and the potbelly he was rather fond of caressing being eaten away by the hosts of the earth, tears streamed out of her eyes. Her Munkaila shrouded only in white muslin thrust into the belly of the earth. Her Munkaila who resented even the ants that ran wild on his Italian shoes.

  In the days that followed, the defining moment looped in her head with cinematic precision. The expressions on Munkaila’s face played out so vividly, the wild chaotic chase, the sight of Reza speeding away, his footfalls now echoing in the labyrinth of reminiscences, her chaotic screams for them to stop. And the last word her son had uttered, the way in which he had addressed her: a half growl that had conveyed all the contempt he felt for her.

  While Binta was lost in these dreams that lingered too long, it was left to her sister Asabe and her daughter Hadiza to accept condolences and see to the administration of the house of grief. They had arrived, with their husbands, as soon as the news had reached them. Hureira, too, had made an impromptu return, also accompanied by her husband, who had spent only a night and had since returned to Jos. But Hureira had been wailing so much she had promptly constituted herself a nuisance.

  Sadiya, who had come to see Munkaila one last time before he was buried the day he died, stationed herself in a corner of Binta’s room surrounded by her relatives and friends. In their midst, she sat, swaying between anger and bafflement.

  It was her disgusted relatives, who had barely waited for the completion of the third day prayers, who ushered the widow and her children into a waiting car and drove her back to her parents’ house, far from where her husband died trying to save his mother’s honour.

  The men sat under the canopies set up in the yard, bowing their heads, sighing and clicking at the backs of their throats. The women remained indoors, falling on each other and wailing occasionally. Sometimes they talked, in the tents and indoors, about the tragedy, so that in the end several versions emerged. Some of them suggested Reza strangled Munkaila with his bare hands. Others had it that Munkaila had chanced upon his mother and that insufferable rogue going at it butt naked.

  But Binta knew, as did Fa’iza, who had sealed herself in a cocoon of silence, exactly what had happened. And in their silence, conjectures and speculations blossomed. So she sat in her grief contemplating the boundaries between lingering nightmares and tenuous reality. On the third night, she got up, picked her way through the sleeping figures in the living room and went out into the night. The yard was doused in moonlight and a pale breeze played with her hijab as she wandered in the yard. When she found herself at the spot, she had no idea how long she stood there until Hadiza and Asabe, alarmed by her absence, rushed out to look for her.

  ‘Yaya, come in now. It’s ok.’ Asabe put her arms around her sister. They had never been close because there had always been a chasm of reverence between them. Asabe was six years younger and at the time they should have forged closer ties, Binta had married and Asabe was left to play big sister to their siblings. But grief had always brought them together. The devastation of the interminable Jos riots that had forever altered the landscape of their lives drew them closer, when Binta lost her husband, and then Asabe’s own spouse and son were taken from her.

  ‘It was here,’ Binta gestured. Her face glistened with tears. ‘He was lying right here.’

  ‘Hajiya, it’s ok. Let’s go in now.’ Hadiza gently pushed her mother’s hands down, away from the spot where Munkaila had fallen. She put her arms around her mother’s shoulder and tried to guide her away. Binta fell to her knees and the women knelt by her, imploring her to rise.

  ‘He didn’t want to fight him. He didn’t want to but Munkaila, he chased him. He chased him and they went round the house and he tried to unlock the gate but Munkaila, he chased him.’

  ‘Shush. Yaya, it’s ok. It was destined to happen.’

  ‘I was screaming for them to stop, I was saying Munkaila stop, Munkaila stop. But he wouldn’t listen. Fa’iza was screaming. So much screaming …’ Her voice trailed off. She sniffled and covered her face with her hijab.

  Hadiza tried to rouse her, but Asabe urged her to leave her alone.

  ‘They went round the house again. And then Munkaila didn’t come out. And Hass … Reza ran out and unlocked the gate and we came round and he was lying right there, right there. And the wood was there, beside him. He had struck him on the back of the head. And he was panting like this … like this …’ She inhaled deeply then froze.

  She remembered the sound of Munkaila falling, a sound befitting a man of his bulk. She could not, however, bring herself to describe how he had looked at her as she and Fa’iza tried to help him up. How he had growled, ‘Mother’ with such contempt that she still felt the sting. How his last conscious movement had been to push her hands away from him. She had never seen anyone die with so much anger. She knew her family was afflicted by the incurable curse of incendiary rage and it was that rage, that legacy of her late husband Zubairu, that had killed Munkaila, more than the blow to the head. And she wept, there in the silvered night, right where her son had died.

  Gattuso looked at Reza sitting by the little window, looking out at the herd of cows grazing in the field of wilted grass, being shepherded by a boy no more than fourteen. The stench of an unwashed body reached him. But it was the look on Reza’s face that distressed him the most.

  ‘Reza, I have been here five minutes and you haven’t said anything.’

  Reza sighed. ‘Sorry, brother. I’ve been preoccupied. I never meant to kill him, you understand. I wanted to get away but he kept coming after me. I just struck him so I could get away. She must be very sad now, Hajiya. Have you seen her since it happened?’

  Gattuso cracked his knuckles.

  Reza sensed there was something wrong. He turned and regarded Gattuso, who bowed his head and shook it intermittently. When Gattuso looked up, he saw that his eyes were ble
ary, his face swarthy. But it was the sense of loss in his eyes that troubled Reza. He left the window and crossed the little hut to sit with his friend on the narrow bamboo bed.

  ‘Gattuso, what’s wrong?’

  Gattuso heaved and leaned back against the mud wall. ‘You are so lost in this woman, you don’t even realise what you have put us through, we the boys who have stood by you all these years, Reza?’

  Reza sighed and scratched the five-day stubble that had been irritating him. ‘I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry. How are the boys?’

  Gattuso punched his fist in his open palm. ‘They raided San Siro as soon as they got news that that man had died. You know the new OC, that mamafucker. Most of us heard that you had been involved in a murder and took off immediately. They raided San Siro and got Joe.’

  Gattuso sniffled. It made Reza sit up.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was so angry we didn’t collect the ransom he went and got himself drunk. When they came he was too sozzled to run. They took him into custody and hours later they shot him, in the cell. They said he wanted to escape. The mamafuckers. They shot him in cold blood.’

  ‘They shot Joe?’

  Gattuso wiped his eyes. He stood up and went to the window, where Reza had been moments before. In the distance, the sun was setting, casting a reddish glow on the plains spread out before him. The herd had moved on and only a flock of egrets ambled along in the pale grass. The silence in the little mud room irritated him and he wondered what it must have been like for Reza, who had spent days in the shack, the temporary hideout in the plains of Gwandara. He looked around and saw the familiar squiggle he had made on the walls with a nail. Patterns without meaning or ideas behind them. In the two nights Gattuso had spent hidden away in that room, it was the only thing he could do to get things out of his mind. It had been a little over a year before, when he had got into a fight and broken a young man’s limb. When he learned that the boy’s father was an army captain, he knew he had to go underground. Reza had shoved a key in his hand and told him how to find the shack. He had stayed there, etching inane patterns into the wall for two days that tested the limits of his sanity. On the third day, he saw Reza approaching from the distance, smiling, and he knew the matter had been settled with the captain. Gattuso never knew how, and never asked. But he remained grateful to Reza.

  And when news reached San Siro that the man Reza had whacked in the head had died, and Reza had slunk away and had not been seen or heard from for days, Gattuso knew he would be at the little shack in the plains, tormenting himself with solitude.

  He turned and saw Reza sitting on the bamboo bed that had gathered a season-long shower of dust, head bowed as he wept.

  ‘The sun is setting.’ Gattuso cracked his knuckles.

  Reza wiped away the tears from his eyes.

  Gattuso reached into his pocket and fetched a packet of cigarettes. ‘Let’s have a smoke, for Joe.’

  They sat down on the dirty floor, their backs against the walls, and puffed their grief into the bare azara rafters. In silence gilded with ribbons of smoke, they honoured the memory of Joe.

  After two sticks, Gattuso stretched his legs. ‘That man was an important man. The police have been all over this one. They have been hunting down people. Too much heat, Reza. This is just the excuse that fucking policeman needed to ruin us.’

  Reza shook his head absently. ‘I just want her to know that I never meant for it to happen this way, you understand. The bastard wouldn’t get off my case. I just whacked him so I could get away. It wasn’t even a serious blow but the fucker just keeled over and died. Fucking rich, spoilt bastard.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘I don’t know if we can fix this, Gattuso. But I will talk to the senator and see what he can do.’

  Reza reached out for another stick and Gattuso lit it for him. He had endured five days of empty spaces but had found the gaps in his mind occupied by circuitous thoughts.

  ‘Reza.’

  ‘Mhm.’

  ‘Any news about your father?’

  ‘He has been discharged. Two days ago.’

  ‘You went to see him?’

  ‘No. You know they will be looking for me there. I called.’

  A cricket started chirping. It was jarring at first but the familiar rhythm grew on Reza. It was therapeutic. And a strange bird in the night cawed, a lyrical and haunting sound that rent the night and disrupted the rhythm of the cricket. After a while the insect resumed its solo from the crevice.

  ‘Gattuso.’

  ‘Mhm.’

  ‘Have you heard anything about Hajiya?’

  Gattuso hesitated. ‘No, man. I’m sorry. We have all been underground. Don’t even know where some of the guys are.’

  ‘I just want to tell her I didn’t mean for this to happen.’

  Again, the bird in the night cawed. It repeated the haunting sound and then took off in a flurried flapping of wings.

  The ends of their cigarettes glowed eerily in the dark of the night. In the darkness of their grieving hearts, there was only silence.

  From his couch, Senator Buba Maikudi observed Dauda Baleri sitting across from him and concluded he did not like the policeman. But he smiled and shook his hand.

  ‘So you are the man.’

  ‘I am, sir.’ Baleri was awed by the little man with boyish eyes. He had been stunned when he had first got the call from the senator four days before. He had immediately thought it was a scam, until he had been asked for his account number and had got confirmation of his account being credited.

  ‘Well, you must understand we are in the middle of campaigns. We have the primary elections tomorrow and all these people won’t let us rest, you see.’

  ‘I can see that, sir. I have been waiting to be let in for almost two and half hours, sir.’

  ‘Oh, really, officer? I am so sorry to hear that. You know how these things are.’ Senator Maikudi wondered if he had made a mistake reaching out to this man, but it was an act of desperation. Now he had to find a way to get rid of him. To get ahead in politics required the ability to make such instinctive decisions and he knew Baleri was not a keeper. He didn’t know why and was not inclined to bother figuring it out at that moment. He did not feel it necessary to invite Musa to serve tea to this policeman.

  ‘Like I said the first time we spoke on phone, there are no permanent friends in politics but permanent interests. I can see you are an ambitious man. You remind me of myself when I was your age.’ He leaned forward. ‘So let’s work together and see how we can be of benefit to each other. What do you say?’

  ‘I am very honoured, sir. Very honoured—’

  ‘Now, you know, I have asked you to do something. Perhaps I should explain the expediency involved in this matter. I want these boys found. I don’t want them interrogated. Never. I suppose you know what to do.’

  Baleri smiled. ‘I’ve already got one, sir. The others I will find.’

  ‘Yes. So I have been informed. Good job.’

  ‘Even …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Even Reza, sir? Considering you have a special relationship with him.’

  The senator leaned forward and held up one finger before his face. He froze in that pose for so long that Baleri wondered if he was having a heart attack.

  ‘He is the priority. He must never be allowed to talk. If you can ensure that never happens, I will make sure you are set up for good.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’ A smile spread on Baleri’s face.

  The senator simultaneously appreciated and resented the greed in that smile. He reached for the briefcase by the side of his couch and opened it. He counted out a wad of notes and put them on the coffee table between him and the policeman. He summoned his assistant Moses with a buzzer.

  ‘Moses, fetch us an envelope, will you?’

  ‘Right away, sir.’ Moses adjusted his tie and went out.

  The policeman eyed the bundle of money on the table as
discreetly as he could. He wondered exactly how much was there. He needed that new car and with this, and whatever he would earn from getting Reza, he was sure to get a decent vehicle that he could drive to Christy and show her the incalculable folly in turning him down. He would show her he could be a success.

  Moses returned with the envelope but went round to whisper in the senator’s ear. The senator nodded and cleared his throat and smiled at Baleri. ‘I’m afraid there has been a development, officer.’

  The senator thought Reza looked very much like the fugitive he had become. Fortunately, he had asked for him to be let in through the rear. He didn’t, under any circumstance, want his association with Reza to be known. ‘You look terrible, my friend.’

  Reza caressed his haggard beard. ‘That is the least of my worries, sir.’

  ‘Indeed. Indeed.’

  Musa came in with the tea tray and put it down on the rug just in front of the senator. He knelt down and poured two cups. When asked, Reza said yes, he would like some milk. The notion of having tea without milk was incomprehensible to him. In that particular instance, he wasn’t opposed to the idea of tea at a quarter to midnight. It would be the first decent thing he had put in his mouth in five days.

  The senator watched Reza savour the beverage and felt a tinge of remorse. Reza had been loyal, and would continue to be, he knew. But he had become a liability.

  ‘Reza, I am not happy with you, you know.’

  ‘My apologies, sir.’

  ‘A simple task like this, you and your people messed it up. You got the wrong person. And then you lost the wrong person.’

  ‘My apologies, sir.’