by Yas Niger
"Please. I don't want the baby."
"Well, even if that was legal, you are in the wrong place." Jamila's delicate brows furrowed. "We help make babies here. Not get rid of them."
"Please doctor you have to help me." Anna's feverish eyes bored into Jamila. "No one else will, and if my parents find out, they will kill me. They will literally kill me!"
"Whose baby is it?"
"My boyfriend‘s."
"Is it a serious relationship?"
"Yes." chin trembled, Anna clasped her hands together. "But it is also an impossible one. He has no job and my father will sooner bury me than accept me being with a Muslim."
"Well. That surely complicates things." Jamila leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest.
"That aside I do not want the baby. I cannot have a baby now." Anna cried. "It will literally end my life. But I want to do it safely."
"I am sorry. There is really nothing I can do for you here." Jamila was resolved on this issue.
Jamila let her mind drift a bit as she listened to the lady beg some more and explain how this was her last resort before her life ends. In the end Jamila had to ask her to leave.
I am a Muslim. It is illegal. It is wrong to take the life of a human being.
Jamila thought of all the things she could have told Anna and felt conflicted about treating the termination of a pregnancy like an administrative process that she was unable to do.
***
On her way back to the clinic from lunch, Jamila saw a crowd gathered by the main roundabout near Afele Market roundabout Somehow, she had managed to drive past this place again. Now, holdup was building and she was dragged to a complete halt because cars were parking for their occupants to go and take and look.
"What is going on there?"Jamila asked someone who was walking away from the crowd.
"Na one girl o." the passerby paused by Jamila's car. "E be like say she don die."
"And nobody is taking her to the hospital?"
Jamila parked her car and did the one thing she never did, she went to where a crowd was gathering.
"I am a doctor,"she said as she made her way through the crowd of people struggling to take pictures with their phones. One person even had an iPad and was recording a video.
As she inched closer, she heard voices and they all seemed to agree on one thing. The lady seemed to have deliberately wandered into oncomig traffic. What would make this young beautiful girl want to take her life was the question that left them all puzzled. Some hissed, some cursed her, others sympathized and berated her critics. Still, their cameras and devices clicked. Their social media accounts would be fed.
Today’s theme was patriotism. Yes it had to be, people didn’t love their neighbours anymore and it was his duty to tell them. To guide them back on the straight and narrow.
Yes, straight and narrow! Imagine Chike who refused to give him pure water that day. So what he didn’t have money to pay, didn’t he say he would pay later? What if he was dying? Chike would let him die because he didn’t have money? Ahh, these people truly needed salvaging.
“Our affections have deoxidized! Actualities have metamorphosed into fibs, falsehood and outright prevarications! The oeuvre by our parturients past currently stands endangered by selfish machinations aimed at self-aggrandizement!”
The words were still sputtering from his lips when he saw that the cause for the people gathered by the side of the road wasn’t a money doubler or a performer of any kind, but because of the young woman sprawled on the ground. She looked unconscious, no movement of any sort.
Why were they taking photographs then? No one could help? He was even more convinced these were a people who had lost their way. He stood at the opposite side of the road and started taking pictures of them with his imaginary camera. A few of them saw him and put their cameras away.
They definitely needed him, he thought as he headed towards Iya Kazeem’s shop to ask for water, maybe even a bite to eat.
Jamila knelt down and to her horror noticed the face was familiar. She took Anna's pulse and was relieved to feel the telltale beat that confirmed the young woman was not dead. Two men agreed to help her carry Anna into a taxi. Jamila did not want to use her own car and paid the taxi man twice the fare to drive behind her.
As she drove, contemplating her options with Anna, she felt a chill pass through her body. But knew she had but one choice.
***
Back at home. Jamila stepped in the shower, turned the water on full heat, then she scrubbed and scrubbed. She had managed to detach herself from all that she felt, believed when at the hospital, what had to be done was done. But now she felt the cocoon cracking, her emotions were raw. Jamila felt chafed. When she saw Shakira walk through the general living room on her way to her side of the house, a sense of inevitability, irrefutability took hold within her. Shakira looked happy. Why shouldn't Jamila be happy too? For so long, she had denied herself that joy. Jamila tried to pace the feeling away as she had a hundred times before but for some reason today it was too strong. Her body trembled, her knees especially felt weak. Her heart was pounding as images of a naked Shakira flashed through her head. She jumped up from the sofa. What she was contemplating was crazy, more dangerous than what she had done in the hospital. But she felt again for the second time that she had no choice. Today was the day.
Shakira was walking out of the bathroom when Jamila walked into her side of the house. There was no excuse for why she was there. Shakira was startled to find someone else in her quarters. Jamila stared at her and approached her, each step deliberate. Shakira backed away slowly, thinking Jamila was coming to attack her. When Jamila got close she abruptly stopped and pulled her brightly coloured boubou over her head. She let the gown fall to the ground. There was nothing underneath it.
Shakira's eyes widened with suprise.
"I look at you and I go crazy," Jamila said, her voice cracking. It was either going to work, or her marriage was over and she would suffer humiliation.
Slowly, the surprise on Shakira's face melted away. It was replace by a wide smile.
"I'd hoped..." she met Shakira halfway.
_________________________________
Market Politics
Alhaji Azeez raised his eyes from the centre table. His unseeing gaze had been focused on a spot for the past three or so minutes. In truth, he was pondering the words of this woman who was wiping beads of sweat off her brow. How anyone could sweat so profusely in this mild weather was beyond him. She was dressed in iro and buba, an off-white colour that emphasized the dark chocolate hue of her skin.
Alhaji Azeez had a strong dislike for large women. And he did not like dark women. Looking at his wives, one could easily tell. They were all slim-waisted and light-skinned. Even after they bore him sons and daughters, they kept their shape and remained as slim as when he had met them. How they came to achieve this he did not know or care. But they all knew that if they began to ”spread”, well, they had themselves to blame. He had said it often enough, even though it seemed like he was joking, “a larger woman will just make my penis lazy, I cannot help it,” and he would guffaw at his own silly joke.
However there was no laughing at his visitor today. She was Iya Kazeem, Alhaji Maroof’s wife. People said she was the one that wore the trousers in the home, and that she was the one who should not be crossed. Alhaji Azeez believed this too, and had often wondered what Alhaji Maroof saw in her. He was a soft-spoken and outwardly cultured man that never raised his voice. Yet Azeez had seen her scuttle off once when after a lot of posturing, Alhaji Maroof directed a piercing stare at Iya Kazeem and ordered her in mild tones to take herself out of his sight. She had wanted to sit in on one of their meetings. Azeez saw then that despite all her gyrations, when it came to her husband, she was a pussycat. At the same time Azeez grudgingly admitted that it was her tireless energy that got him elected as Local Government chairman two years ago. At first he wondered why she had fought
so hard on his case, spent so much money enticing the women traders at the market, even though his success seemed unlikely. He was younger than his opponent in a city that favored age and respect, and he had far less money. But Alhaji Maroof and his wife had chosen to support him, and for that he would remain eternally grateful.
Azeez had shown this gratitude over the years in many ways, and they had a tacit understanding when it came to the subject of awarding contracts. Gradually, Alhaji Azeez saw that this couple worked like a well-oiled machine. Alhaji Maroof had the trustful face, the connections, and his wife was the brawler. Together, they delivered, and reaped the benefits. Azeez paid them the necessary calls and shows of gratitude and solidarity now and then, but kept contact and interaction to a minimum. It was a wonder he was able to succeed in politics. He was not able to fawn over people, a cheap requisite in this game of politics. With the Maroofs, his dignity was intact. And an election was coming round again.
“How are the children?” Azeez inquired to keep up appearances.
“We thank God.” Iya Kazeem replied
“How is the market?”
‘the market is the same, good today, bad tomorrow. Who knows what a new day will bring? We are just looking.”
There was a brooding silence. To break it, Azeez cleared his throat and offered to fetch one of his wives to serve Iya Kazeem a drink, or perhaps she would like some food. She shook her head, impatiently tapping her left foot. There was a furtive air around her today, even for someone like her who was usually restless. Finally she asked, “Where is Iya Bola?”
Azeez was surprised, though he hid it well. Iya Kazeem asking for Iya Bola? Something had to be amiss. Iya Kazeem kept away from Iya Bola as much as possible – she even seemed to take pains to avoid her as Iya Bola had informed him. Iya Bola claimed not to mind Iya Kazeem’s cold shoulder, but as her husband, he knew she did. He knew her too well. She was the youngest of his wives, and in the constant jostling for relevance, they all sought to befriend Alhaji Maroof and his wife.
With his first two wives, these attentions were welcomed. The only exception was Iya Bola’s case. There was a note of aloofness in the way Iya Kazeem interacted with his youngest wife, and Azeez suspected that Iya Kazeem was a tad intimidated by Iya Bola even though she would rather die than admit it. And yet, here was Iya Kazeem asking after Iya Bola.
“Iya Bola is at work,” Azeez told Iya Kareem.
Iya Kazeem’s thick lips curled. Azeez watched her closely, slightly perturbed. “What is the matter?”
“Iya Bola is the matter. When you said you wanted to marry that woman, what did I tell you? Did we, my husband and I not warn you she was trouble? Why you would decide to bring that omo ibo…” Azeez cut her short, they had had this conversation before.
“Nkechi is not an omo ibo as you call her.”
“Listen to the name, it speaks for itself. Those people like money too much.”
Azeez had to smile at the irony. He did not know anyone who liked money more than Iya Kazeem. She owned the largest number of stalls in different markets and seemed to have her hands in every pie. By every standard, she was a wealthy woman, but it never seemed to be enough. She was a favourite topic of conversation among his wives when they gathered to recount experiences of their day. She was a Shylock of sorts, always lending money to a stall owner and when they were unable to pay, she would simply write off the debt as long as they agreed to her acquiring their stall. His wives wondered if Iya Kazeem had ambitions to take over the whole market. Needless to say she was not terribly popular, but they seemed to be afraid of her, and Alhaji Azeez detected a slight note of jealousy and wistfulness from his wives. All except Nkechi who owned just one stall where she sold fabrics.
Azeez waited for Iya Kazeem to continue. “We warned you, these graduate-type women speaking big-big grammar everywhere, this woman will put you in trouble. Did you listen? No. You who is like a son to us. Now look at the wahala this woman is bringing.”
“What wahala?” Azeez was now truly concerned. Iya Kazeem regarded him with cold eyes, as if he knew exactly what her problem was with his wife.
“What wahala indeed.” Iya Kazeem eyed him sceptically. “You mean you do not know?”
“Know what?”
Alhaji Azeez felt his muscles tense, he felt that Iya Kazeem’s next words would finally break the suspense.
“With all her degrees, she decided to come and disturb us in the market, calling herself a market woman. I knew something was wrong but did I know the extent of her greed? No. Iyaloja indeed. Where has she heard that a small girl like her can be Iyaloja? Ehn? Tell me.”
“Did you say Iyaloja?”
Iya Kazeem fired on, ignoring him. ‘that your wife does not understand the way things work. She is talking of taxes, the kind of things she is saying, the women are not happy. She can never mind her business, how can she be gathering my girls around her stall like that? Imagine that nonsense. Alhaji Azeez, I have come to you as a mother to advise you, tell Iya Bola to desist from this ambition of hers. We like things the way they are.”
There were few times Alhaji Azeez was struck dumbfounded as he was at that moment.
“Oho so she has not even told you. She is even going behind your back. Don’t say I did not warn you. My husband is not happy with the idea.” Iya Kazeem shot him a meaningful stare.
Immediately sensing a challenge, Azeez rose and tried to hold her gaze, but her cold eyes caused Azeez to break off first. He stared at the ground.
“We, my husband and I, and my girls at the market, feel that your first wife, Iya Yetunde, would be a better choice.”
“I will deal with this.” Azeez tried to sound reassuring.
“You better do o. Ehen. My husband sends his regards.” She rose to leave, fastening her wrapper more securely around her waist. “Greet the children when they return from school.”
Azeez nodded lost in thought as Iya Kazeem strode away. He could hear her voice echoing long after she has left. It made no sense, her words. Nkechi, aspiring to be an Iyaloja. Where did that come from?
*****
She flipped open the class register and pretended to count the number of ticks by each name.
“Listen to me…”
She raised her head and cocked it to one side, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. The light filtering in through a split in the drawn up blinds bathed one half of her face and cast the other in shadow. “Yes?”
Lenny seemed to have lost his voice, he was still upset from hearing that she was going to resign. She seized the moment.
“Do you know the best place to make change happen from?”
“No.”
“I will tell you. From within, that’s where. We have talked and talked about what is wrong with the market. Now I have this idea that I think is brilliant and I expected support from you, not disapproval. Can you not see?”
“Let’s say I cannot. Educate me.”
She sighed. “As we both know, the market has a lot of poor women who basically live from hand to mouth, these are the women that have become my friends since I opened that fabric shop. These women are amazing, and their lives can be improved if they have access to loans, low interest loans that they can use to trade. You know how it is when they try to get loans from the banks... I want to start a market cooperative tax, where the market women who have more stores and earn more income pay a higher market tax and the tax can be available as loans to the poor market women. This fund will raise these women out of poverty. A progressive tax is the answer to the developmental needs of that place, and I will make it happen.”
Lenny studied Nkechi, the anger seeping out of his body as they regarded each other.
“You are right.” he inhaled deeply. “I am just worried about you.”
“Have I not always taken care of myself?” Nkechi rose from the chair, came around the desk and stood in front of Lenny. The look in her eyes was earnest, determined. She brushed imaginary lint off his
collared shirt. Her hand played with the top button and lingered there, he placed his hand over hers and drew her close with his other hand. They regarded each other silently, and then slowly, Lenny bent his head towards hers and everything else was forgotten.
***
“Good afternoon Iyaloja.” Tawa prostrated as she entered Nkechi’s fabric stall at the bustling marketplace.
Nkechi made an attempt at showing offence but it was a weak one, she was pleased at the appellation. ‘Tawa, I am not Iyaloja yet.”
“You are already a mother to us.” Tawa smiled, highlighting the marks that adorned her cheeks. She settled on an empty stool near to the seated Iya Bola. “Iyaloja have you heard about what happened to Iya Adijat?”
If Nkechi was to admit it herself, she had become something of a godmother to the many women who earned their living through trade in the marketplace, it was only natural that news of the break-in of Iya Adijat’s stall had reached Iya Bola‘s ears. She had not witnessed it herself but she might as well have, Nkechi could describe the way Iya Adijat leapt with her hands on her head, tears streaming down her face when she discovered her goods had been wiped out in the robbery. Iya Adijat had been unconsolable, rolling in the mud and filth of the market floor.
‘Tawa, everyone has heard about that story.” Nkechi swiped at a fly that had landed on the sleeve of her lace buba.
“Not this one.” Tawa leaned in, occupying Nkechi’s space. “Mr Jegede has refused to give Iya Adijat the money she has a right to.”
“What do you mean.” Nkechi asked.
Jegede owned Green River Insurance. His office was at a ramshackle dilapidated building not far from the marketplace. When he had first attempted to convince market women of the need to insure their goods, the women had laughed him off. His pretentious accent and badly mangled Yoruba were unfortunate vehicles to attempt to transfer his idea to the market women. It was then that he had approached Iya Bola. Nkechi had seen the wisdom in paying 100 naira per day to protect her wares in case of any unforeseen accident. It had helped that Lenny, her children’s lesson teacher had mentioned that the school she taught in also used the services of Green River Insurance. Now Lily of the Valley was not exactly a top-notch school where blue-collar children answered roll call, however it was the best that Iya Bola could afford, and she trusted the proprietor of the school and staff there, like Lenny.
