by Abi Daré
“Kike, it was you?” Labake say, looking her daughter down and eyeing her as if she is not believing her. “Are you sure?”
“I swear, Mama, it was me.”
Labake hiss, pushing my chest again. This time, the pot of water jump out from my hand, smash to the floor, and scatter to pieces.
I keep my eyes on the pieces of Khadija pot, watching the sand turn to a deep, dark red as Labake is walking away; her feets sending dust up in the air, her voice loud, full of cursing for me and Khadija.
When it is just me and Kike by ourselfs, I turn to her, where she is still kneeling on the floor, still holding the wooden stick in her hand, looking like she herself is not understanding what she is doing here.
“You lie for me,” I say, my heart swelling with a mixing of thank you and a sad surprise. “Why?”
But Kike is not giving me any answer, she just shrug her shoulders, and, picking herself up, she shake the sand from her knees and run off fast, calling for her mama, begging her to wait for her.
I watch the dust settle back to the ground a moment, thinking maybe Kike will come back, before I sit on the floor, spread my wrapper between my two knees, and begin to use my hands to pack Khadija’s broken pot and all my happy feelings from seeing Kayus today into my wrapper.
I don’t know how long I stay there, sweeping everything into the wrapper: the wet sand, the pieces of a bone that a dog eat and spit out a long time ago, a tin of milk that been crushed under a car tires, weeds from around the bush. I keep packing things, keep putting them into my wrapper, not minding the stinking smell from it all or my dirty hands.
When I cannot pack any more, I try to stand to my feets, but I cannot. Something be pressing me down, and I didn’t too sure if it is all the rubbish inside my wrapper, or the sorrow swelling heavy in my heart, so I stay there like that, sitting on the floor, until someone say my name in a whisper.
“I been waiting for you to come home.” It is Khadija, her voice soft, concern. “Look how dirty you are.”
“It was Labake,” I say, pushing myself to my feets, as everything inside my wrapper tumble to the floor like a rain of rubbish. “Labake push me and now your pot is smash up and I was picking it for you, picking everything and thinking of how to fix it, to fix everything that be all mess up since my mama was dead, but it is too hard. Everything is too hard.”
“Oh, Adunni,” Khadija say as she press a warm hand to my cheeks and wipe the tears I didn’t know was there.
“Come with me, child,” she say. “You need a hot baff, a bowl of sweet yam, and a deep, deep sleep.”
She take me by my hand and drag me and my heavy heart back to Morufu’s house.
CHAPTER 12
Since last week, my heart been feeling one kind of soft for Kike, and when we see, we sometimes greet each other with our eyes, but this morning, she find me where I am sitting on the floor and grinding pepper in front of the kitchen.
She stand in my front, hand on her hip, and tilt her neck. “Adunni,” she say, “good morning.”
“G’morning,” I say as I pick the grinding stone and pour water on it to wash away the dirty, before I begin to roll it on the ball of peppers that is sitting on another wide gray stone in between my legs.
“Thank you for . . . for that day in the bush,” I say, keeping my eyes on the grinding stone. “I been wanting to say thank you, but your mama, she keep watching me, watching to see if I will talk to you.”
“She is in the market now,” Kike say. “Till sunset before she is coming back.”
“Why you tell a lie for me that day?” I ask.
“Because of . . . nothing,” she say.
I look up, roof my eyes from the sun. “I didn’t want to marry your father,” I say. “You know it.”
She bend herself, sit on the stone beside me. “I know it. I know you want to go to school. You have a good brain, Adunni. Good for learning school. Everybody in the village is saying so.”
“Then why is your mama fighting me?”
“My papa did a bad thing when he marry Khadija and you because of no boy-childrens. She is using that pain to fight the two of you. You . . . you are my age, it make it all very hard for her.”
“I hear you,” I say.
“My father find me a husband,” she say. “He been looking since I was ten years. He tell me yesterday that he collect my bride-price. Tomorrow, I go to my husband’s house.”
“Who the man?” I pick up another pepper, tear it into two, put it on the grinding slate, and begin to roll the other stone on it. “You meet him before?”
Kike shake her head. “His name is Baba Ogun. He is selling medicine for sick peoples in his village. He have one wife before. She die six months back of coughing blood. He is finding another one, a young girl like me to make him feel like a young man. We are not doing real wedding because he have a dead wife before, but my papa and mama will take me there soon.”
Kike is not vexing; it seem as if she didn’t mind it to be second wife of a old man with a dead first wife.
“You happy to marry this man?” I ask as I spoon up the pepper, check it. The white seeds among the pepper is like sand in my hand, so I pour it back on the stone, keep grinding.
“It make my papa happy.” She shrug her shoulder. “My mama want me to learn tailor work. But Papa say he didn’t have money to send me for training. He will use my bride-price to fix up the other taxi-car.” She lean back, watching as my hand is rolling the stone over the peppers, front and back, front and back.
She sigh. “I wish I am a man.”
I stop my hand. “Why you wish that?”
“Because think it, Adunni,” she say. “All the mens in our village, they are allowing them learn school and work, but us the girls, they are marrying us from fourteen years of age. I know I can be a good tailor. I can draw fine, fine style.” She take a finger, draw something in the sand. When I tilt my head and look, I see a long dress, fishtail shape, sleeves like two ringing bells.
“That is a very good style,” I say.
“Every day, when I come back from market with my mama”—she wipe the style, and press her finger into the sand, draw another—“I draw a dress of many styles. When I close my eyes”—she press her eyeslids close—“I can see all the womens in the village wearing my style.”
She open her eyes, give me a sad smile. “I wish I am a man, but I am not, so I do the next thing I can do. I marry a man.”
I think on what she say a moment, the sense of her words.
“I am praying to God that my husband is kind so that he will send me to learn tailor,” she say. “And you, Adunni. What you want to become in life?”
“Teacher,” I say. I been wanting to be teacher since I was two years of age. Even before my mama was dead, I was always teaching the trees and leafs in our compound when Mama is frying her puff-puff for selling. I will slap my stick on the root of the mango tree and say to it: “You, Mango, what is one plus one?” Then I will answer the answer myself: “One plus one is equals to two, Teacher Adunni!”
I smile at the memory of it. “I want to keep teaching the childrens in the village,” I say to Kike. “To give them better life. But now that I marry your father, all of that is didn’t possible.”
She shake her head. “Close your eyes and be doing the teacher in your mind,” she say. “Do it, close your eyes. Think it with your mind.”
At first I am only seeing the dark cloth, but as I shift the cloth and I look deep, deep inside of me, I bring myself out and put myself inside the classroom, then I am holding chalk and writing on the blackboard. Behind me, the childrens are wearing white and red uniforms, sitting on the bench and hearing me as I am teaching them all the things that Teacher was teaching me before I was leaving school.
I feel a rush of something free in that moment. Is so strong that I open my eyes quick. A laugh
jump out of my mouth, shock me.
Kike give me another smile. “See? I tell you, Adunni, even if you marry my father and you think all your hope is finish, your mind is not finishing. Inside of your mind, you can be the teacher you want.” She stand to her feets. “You like to be reading books, so feed your mind with reading of any book you find, maybe in the dustbins of Idanra town or some cheap ones in the market. One day, maybe you become that teacher, maybe not. Tomorrow I go to meet my new husband’s family, but inside of my mind, I am Kike the tailor. Wish me well.”
When she leave me be, I close my eyes a moment, trying to become teacher in my mind, but the dark cloth is everywhere in my head, and the pepper in my hands is pinching my skin.
CHAPTER 13
Yesternight, Khadija ask me to follow her to midwife.
Her pregnants is nearing eight months. Since last week, she be walking as if there are two tires between her legs. She also keep moaning when she is in the kitchen, keeping her voice down, thinking nobody hear it. But I hear it, and when I ask if all is okay with her baby, she say yes. But yesternight, as she climb the mat and fold herself near me and I start to sing for the baby, she shake her head, say, “Stop, Adunni. No singing for today, please.” When I ask her why, because she didn’t ever, ever ask me to stop singing before, she say, “I am afraid, Adunni. I am afraid that maybe this baby is coming too early.”
“Why?” I ask when she talk about baby coming down. “Is something not correct with baby?”
“Yes,” she say.
“You think it or you know it?” I ask.
She sort of frown, big her eyes. “I know it. This is my number four pregnant, Adunni. I know when a baby wants to come out and when it want to stay up. This one wants to come out. It need another four or five weeks before it is a strong baby to come out. Not now. I must see midwife tomorrow morning. This baby is a boy-baby. It cannot die.”
“How you know it is a boy?” I ask. “Someone look inside your stomach, check it sure?”
“I know it,” she say. “When Morufu say he will not give my family food if this is not a boy-child, I do something to make it sure.” She low her head, like she is sad somehow. “What I do is a shame, but I didn’t have choice. I cannot born another girl-child, Adunni. You know it. What will my papa and mama eat if I born a girl-child? This one is a boy. It cannot die. Follow me tomorrow morning. First light.”
I didn’t sleep well after that. I keep thinking, what she do to make sure her baby is a boy? I keep my eyes open, thinking far deep inside the night, sometimes checking Khadija, checking her stomach, because I am fearing what if the baby just climb out and die? If I call Morufu, Labake will beat me stupid because tonight is her night to sleep with Morufu.
But thank God, the baby manage and keep hisself till this morning.
“Where is the midwife’s house?” I ask her after my morning baff. “Will you tell your husband that I am following you to midwife?” I am talking whisper to her, even though we are in her room, far from Morufu and Labake. I been his wife nearly three months now, but I cannot be bringing myself to call Morufu “our husband.” Is just something my mouth cannot never talk. When I try it last time, my tongue hook itself, so I keep it to calling him “your husband” when I am talking to Khadija. She understand it, I understand it.
She shake her head. “I tell him I am going to visit my mother,” she say. “That you are following me to help me carry my bag.”
“Why didn’t you tell him we are going to midwife?” I ask, confuse. “Anything bad in that?”
“You cannot understand,” she say as she rub her stomach and twist her face as if it is still paining her. “Are you ready for us to be going?”
I wear my black sandal-shoe, tight my dress-belt behind my back, and follow Khadija.
Morufu and Labake are inside the compound, standing in front of the taxi-car. Today is Kike’s wedding, so I know they are making preparations to carry her to her husband’s house.
Morufu is wearing the same agbada he was wearing for our wedding, and Labake is wearing something like a brown sack. She hiss, turn her back on me. I hiss too, loud for only my ears to hear.
“Where are you going this early morning?” Morufu ask, hooking his agbada sleeve on his shoulder. “You are not following us to Kike’s wedding.”
“God forbid,” Labake say. “They cannot follow us. Today is my day to shine. No witch can spoil it for me.”
“We are not following you,” Khadija say. She look as if her spirit is climbing out from her body as she wipe her front head, which is full of sweat. “I am going to my mother’s house. She so sick. I must take Adunni with me. My bag is heavy to carry.”
Why is Morufu blinding to what Khadija is feeling?
I bend my knee, greet him. “Good morning, sah.”
“Adunni, my young wife,” he say. “Do you want to follow Khadija to go and greet her mother?”
I look Khadija, she sway a little on her feets, nod her head. I nod my own too. “Yes, sah.”
“You must come back this night,” he say. “Because, tonight, I want to spend one special time with my Adunni.”
“By God’s grace,” Khadija say, “we will come back before sunset.”
“Till then,” Morufu say. He enter the car, on the engine.
We watch as Kike come out from the house. She is wearing a new iro and buba, there is a flower on the neck area of the buba. It is nice-looking, maybe she style it herself? There is a lace cloth on her head, on her gele, and it hang over her face, a curtain. She peep from under the cloth, her eyes filling with hope under the black khajal around the eyeslids.
“Go well,” I say to her when she reach my front. “Go well, my tailor.”
Me and Khadija get to walking the two miles to the bus garage.
* * *
The bus garage is not a far distant, but Khadija be walking ever so slow, moaning and groaning, rubbing her tummy as if she about to born that baby right there on the road to the garage.
She keep saying she want to shit, she want to piss, she want to sleep.
I am very fearing for her, but I hide my fear and tell her to keep walking, to don’t stop, to don’t piss or shit. The bus is not full, just market womens holding basket of bread, orange, beans, making preparations for selling morning food. We sit in the front seat, me near the driver that is smelling of early-morning spit, and Khadija near the door. I hold her bag in my laps, keep my eyes on her, as if my eyes will hold the baby inside her stomach. When the driver is starting the bus and is leaving the garage, I ask Khadija how she feel now. “Baby staying up?”
“Still coming down,” she say as she rest her head on my shoulder, squeeze my hand. “My eyes are closing. We are going to Kere village. Wake me when we reach.”
Before I can say don’t sleep, she close her eyes, and is starting to snore.
CHAPTER 14
We cut through the forest road, the bus driving between the tall mango trees with thick branches and leafs to the left and right of it.
The branches are leaning close, covering the road like a umbrella, light from the sun entering through a crack in the umbrella. We pass farmers riding their bicycle to the farm, the bells on it ringing to chase away peoples, chickens, and dogs from their road. We pass the womens with trays of firewood, bread, and green plantains on their head, their childrens sleeping in the wrappers around their back. They are just coming from the farm, taking the firewood and food to the house for cooking. I think about this, why the mens in the village are not letting many of the girls go to school, but they are not minding when the womens are bringing firewood and going to market and cooking for them?
We pass Ikati border, and soon a line of red hills be surrounding us like a embrace. Some of the hills is having mud houses perching on the edge of it, looking as if it will fall off the hill and just kill all the peoples inside any moment now.
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br /> Black goats, about fifty of them, are climbing up one of the rocks. There is a man at the bottom of it, holding a long stick, flogging the goats up, up. To the left of me is another hill that look like it is crying real tears; and a line of clear water, the blue of the sky, is running down the face of it, the top of the hill egg-shape and smooth like a man’s head.
One hour or so after the hills, we reach Kere garage, and Khadija, who been sleeping all the way, snoring deep too, is talking nonsense inside her sleep.
The driver bring the bus to a stop near a cocoa tree. The air have a smell of roasting nuts, and when I look around, I see a man turning walnuts in a wheelbarrow sitting on top a firewood flame. There are one or two peoples in his front, waiting to buy the walnut. It is a small village, this Kere place, half of Ikati, it seems, with one or two round houses that they builded with red sand here and there and the rest houses are nearly falling off the hills.
Across the garage, there is one shop selling choco-sweet, siga, newspapers, and bread. A woman is sweeping the front of the shop, the broom doing swish, swish as she is going front and back on the floor and singing, her voice climbing across the road to come and meet us:
In the mornin’
I will rise and praise the Lor’
“This is reach Kere village,” the driver say with a shout. “We stay here for ten minutes, then we move!”
My stomach is starting to tight itself as I elbow Khadija. “Open your eyes,” I say, but she just drop her neck to one side. Why she sleeping so much? I lick my lips, feel as if I lick a fire, and elbow her again. “Khadija?”
Why, why, why did I follow her to this place? What was I thinking in my brain? What if she keep sleeping on and on, forever and forever?
“Khadija, wake up!” I shout and the bus driver look me. “She didn’t wake up!” I say to the driver, and the sound of my tears in my voice shock me.
