Speechless

by Anne Simpson

  A finger formed itself into a hook, beckoning Sophie, and A’isha made room so she could shift nearer. This movement made the nausea rise again, and Sophie had to restrain herself, settling in place. Nafisa’s hand knotted tightly around Sophie’s own hand; she gestured to her daughter. A’isha translated.

  My mother is glad you have come, she said.

  All the while the hand that held Sophie’s did not loosen, and if anything, it seemed to clutch more firmly; Sophie would never be able to free herself from such a grip.

  What was she saying? It was as if Sophie was made to promise something in that half-lit room, stinking of bodily waste, of blood and urine and shit, a promise made to someone who was very nearly dead, but who held on to life. Or her hand held on to life. It was as if her hand rose independently of her body and grasped the first thing it found, fastening itself on Sophie’s hand, and maybe dragging her down with it.

  A’isha, please. Please, welcome, said Nafisa in English. She continued in Hausa.

  Sophie understood that she must help A’isha. She nodded to Nafisa.

  The hand slipped away and lay still on the patterned cloth. The woman’s face was like a door swung shut; her eyes closed. A’isha got up and went to the door of the hut, motioning for Sophie to follow, but when Sophie came to the entrance — too much heat, too much light — she put a hand out to the wall and steadied herself as she had when she’d entered. Here the knives slashed her. Light, light, light.

  She watched A’isha walk across the compound to wash her hands with water from a bucket. A’isha gestured to Sophie — why hadn’t she followed? A’isha rinsed her hands with a cup and swung droplets from them as she went to the woman who held her baby, barely visible, clapped as it was against a huge chest by a broad hand, while the other hand picked through beans in a colander. A’isha took the baby, and in one smooth movement, bent over and put the infant on her back, gave a jog of her body to rearrange her, and rewrapped a length of material around herself to hold the baby tight.

  The mountain of a woman paid no attention to A’isha. She didn’t greet her; she simply went on sorting through the beans, picking out insects and flicking them into the dirt. This was A’isha’s auntie, Felix had explained earlier, making some sense out of the stream of words that met them when they arrived. He’d mentioned her name too, but Sophie had forgotten it. Bundled in a red caftan and a white veil, the auntie was imposing. Sophie noticed her feet were cracked with dryness, especially around the heels. She allowed herself to stare at the woman’s feet because she didn’t know where else to look. The woman was keenly aware of the two of them, especially Felix, as if she were deciding how to exploit them for her benefit, not unlike a gigantic red spider languishing in its web.

  The compound, with its house and the outbuildings grouped around it, with a hut for A’isha and her mother, its full-grown trees and bushes, and a contraption of wire that might have been a chicken coop once, and the uneven, but tidily swept ground, was comfortable, tranquil. A small girl with a bucket of water on her head, liquid sloshing in it, moved deliberately toward the house, one hand balancing the bucket. The woman in the red caftan stood up, easing her bulk to a standing position, but did not help the child take the bucket from her head and put it on the ground. The girl set it down on a tilt, making water stream out of it, and she ran away, her dress sliding off one slender shoulder as the woman berated her.

  Felix waited by his car, eating groundnuts and spitting shells on the ground. He put up his hand, a sort of wave. A’isha’s uncle had gone away, but another man came to speak to Felix now, greeting him in an elaborate way, so he quickly stuffed the groundnuts in his pocket and did the same. Sophie had never seen him do this. In Lagos, when he met one of their friends, he simply reached out to lightly grasp the man’s hand and then held on to it as they talked, as if a person needed to touch another in order to speak to him. Now Felix put his hand loosely in this stranger’s hand for a moment, and bowed and bowed again, until their hands seemed to become one single, complex structure. It seemed to Sophie that their handshake, which was not even a handshake by her standards, hovered in the air even after their hands had dropped to their sides. Her mind was playing tricks. She and Felix had woken far too early that morning to drive to Paiko.

  Sophie walked across the compound unsteadily. The cup floated on the surface of the bucket, and there, on a plastic lid on the ground, was a bar of hard green soap. She scooped the cup into the bucket, deeper than she needed to, and let the water run over her hands: precious, cool water. She was using too much of it. She lathered her hands with the bar of soap until her hands and wrists were white with froth; she scrubbed them clean. When she had rinsed them, she saw how the flesh was reddened.

  HER FATHER HAD TOLD HER she’d learn things in this place, things she wouldn’t learn at home. This was when she was about to do an internship in Nigeria.

  I thought I knew it all, he said. A smart young doctor, off to do some good in the world. Pfft.

  Sophie and Gavin were in the kitchen at home, doing dishes.

  Things will happen to you there, he said, washing the muffin tin without paying attention to it. You’ll change. That’s what Nigeria will do; it’ll work a kind of magic on you.

  I’ll just be doing an internship.

  You need to watch and listen. Nigeria has had its share of white people quick to impose themselves —

  The British, the whole colonization thing, the chiefs who were persuaded to sign their lands away even though they couldn’t read the treaties. It was a monumental scam. So yes, Dad, I know.

  It’s one thing reading about it. Anyway, the country would have been better off without any of us meddling in its destiny.

  You think I shouldn’t go?

  No, I think you should go. Learn as much as you can. But as I said, it’s a place that will change you.

  I’m open to that.

  His hand emerged out of the dishwater and he pointed to the poplars behind the house. Think of a tree, he said. For a long time there’s nothing, and then you look and you see that there are leaves where there were no leaves. It explodes from the inside out. I met your mother there, and I fell for her. I exploded from the inside out. He put his arm out, dripping hand and all, and waggled it, as if he saw new green leaves sprouting from it.

  We worked side by side, the two of us. Then a family brought their little boy to me. Joseph. He had rabies, and by the time they got him to the clinic I knew he was done for. You can’t imagine what rabies does to a person.

  He wiped his hands on a towel.

  There’s an expensive cure if you get it soon enough, but this happened in rural Nigeria. That family carried Joseph for a day on a path that led from Obudu to a place where they could get public transport. On top of that, it had been about two weeks since the bat infected him.

  He spread out the damp towel to dry on the rack. Her father who was invincible, who knew so much.

  Obudu is like a place of myth, high in the hills in the east of Nigeria, he said. It’s near the border with Cameroon. I went hiking there, and I found a place that could have been enchanted, with a river coming down through a rocky cleft. I believed I had found a part of the world that was like no other, a dream place folded into the clouds. Could there be anywhere in the world as wonderful? I got stuck trying to get down from the waterfall, and then I almost fell, but I never thought I was in any real trouble. The river, the sound of water pouring down. I knew I was in some kind of otherworld.

  He leaned on the counter. Obudu — that’s where they came from. Joseph’s family, he said. Their son’s death broke them, but they accepted it. I couldn’t. I always felt I’d let them down.

  Then he smiled. But I met your mother, didn’t I? I met your mother and she agreed to come here, and we had you.

  A’ISHA WAS A JUST A GIRL cradling a baby; at most, she was nineteen or twenty, with smooth skin and deeply set eyes and a hijab of pale turquoise. When Felix took a photograph of her, one tha
t A’isha herself asked for, most of her face was hidden. Both A’isha and the baby were feathered by the afternoon light that came through the branches and leaves of an ancient neem tree. Just as Felix took the picture, Sophie’s quick, sweeping hand reached out to steady A’isha’s arm because the chair had shifted, so there was a blur where her hand had been.

  Felix came close, trying to get the baby’s attention. He squeezed up his eyes and waved his hands. The child watched him, fascinated, her head almost too heavy for her neck. Her skin was velvet brown, and already she had a crop of tiny black curls on her head. But he must have felt Sophie’s impatience.

  So, said Sophie. Are you ready, A’isha? You don’t mind Felix recording us?

  Felix had set up the old tape recorder.

  Only you will have it?

  Yes, I’m the only one.

  I’ll be writing an article for a newspaper. This one. Sophie handed her a copy of The Daily Leader.

  A’isha nodded. She handed the paper back to Sophie.

  Felix will translate for us if we have trouble in English. He knows Hausa.

  I will try in English, said A’isha.

  Say anything you like, A’isha, said Sophie. Felix will just test the sound, see how it’s working.

  Good afternoon, said A’isha.

  That’s good, said Felix.

  You are A’isha Nasir, said Sophie.

  Yes, I am A’isha.

  And you were born in Paiko, in Niger State, where you still live.

  A’isha nodded. Yes.

  How old are you?

  Seventeen or eighteen. A’isha switched to Hausa and told Felix something.

  There aren’t always birth records, he told Sophie. That’s why she doesn’t know for sure.

  You have a beautiful baby, said Sophie.

  Safiya.

  Safiya is a lovely name. My parents gave me my name because it meant wisdom, but my mother said it doesn’t mean I’m wise.

  A’isha looked as if she didn’t understand and Felix translated for her.

  Wisdom, said A’isha. Safiya means pure heart.

  She’ll have a pure heart, said Sophie.

  A’isha drew up her blouse and rearranged the cloth expertly over her shoulder, so it covered her breast. The child’s head was now hidden by the pink and yellow cloth, but she could be heard suckling. One small bare foot was visible.

  She knows — she will know — I gave her this name, said A’isha. To make her strong.

  Sophie was about to ask another question when A’isha added, This is no fault of Safiya.

  No, said Sophie. She cast about for something else to say. Almost two years ago you were married. In 2002. Is that right?

  Yes, my marriage was set by my father.

  Tell me about that, said Sophie.

  A’isha looked puzzled.

  Tell me about your husband, about your marriage.

  My husband was an alhaji, given respect by everyone in this place, said A’isha.

  She turned to Felix and spoke in Hausa.

  Felix said, Her husband told her that he would pay for her school uniform and fees.

  A’isha continued. I was young and I wanted to go to school, but I did not want to marry an old man.

  You were just a girl, said Sophie.

  I said yes to marriage with him. This is what my family wanted.

  A’isha put the baby on her shoulder and patted its back gently.

  I went to carry water with other girls before I was married, she said. They told me that the man lies down with the woman. They laughed. I did not know a man, I did not understand.

  A’isha kept her eyes down. She spoke in a rush. She kept the baby against her shoulder, but she rocked back and forth in her chair.

  The alhaji was older than my father. There was a book in English and he showed me the words to tell me the meaning. I liked the book. It had stories about children.

  And your husband died soon after you married? said Sophie.

  On that day, in the early morning, I was getting peppers that I put on the ground to dry. He fell on the door.

  Against the door?

  Yes, she said, moving her hand to indicate he had fallen down. When I went to him, I knew he was dead. There was no breath. I could tell by his eyes and the touch of his skin. I went to my father after it happened. She turned to Felix and spoke rapidly in Hausa.

  She went to her father’s compound and told him that her husband was dead, said Felix. Her father told her she had given bad luck to her husband. It had only been five months, he said, that they had been married, so she must have thrown bad luck his way. That’s how she put it.

  But he was old. He could have died from a heart attack or a stroke, said Sophie, turning back to A’isha.

  I did not know what to do, said A’isha. I wanted to be in the home of my family. I went there, but my father said for me not to stay. I went back to the home of my husband. I had nowhere else to go. Everyone thought I gave my husband bad luck. I did not want to be married to him, but it was worse after he died.

  The baby burped loudly. Uh-ha! said A’isha, holding the child against her shoulder and patting her on the back.

  They said I had put juju on him and caused him to die, she said. I did not try to go to school after that. I was learning to write many words and I was reading books, but I could not stay there. When I left the house to fetch water, people said I gave bad luck to them. Children ran away from me.

  It was a witch hunt, that’s what it was, said Sophie quietly to Felix.

  I thought to go away to Lagos. But I was afraid. My husband’s family tried to take the house from me. First the women cooked food there. My husband’s brother lived nearby, and his son, Musa, he came to sleep there. In the day, he went away, but he came back.

  Safiya was beginning to fuss, and A’isha rocked her. One leg of Musa’s is short. This leg. A’isha touched her left leg.

  Sophie waited, but A’isha didn’t elaborate.

  Maybe these questions —

  I prayed, said A’isha. Then I stopped. I felt something in myself, and I knew. I thought I will kill myself and the child. It was a bad thought. Because of this I began to pray again. So Safiya was born. After she was born, I took care of her and I did not want harm to come to her.

  Mmm, murmured Sophie.

  It was a time of many things. My father died, and my mother came here to live in the home of my uncle. Now my mother has been told at the clinic that she has a cancer.

  Can she be given chemotherapy? asked Sophie. Radiation?

  She does not want to go to a hospital. And I must not leave this compound, unless I am told I can go.

  There are only a few places in Nigeria where people can get chemotherapy or radiation, interjected Felix. Treatment is just not available for most of them.

  Sophie wiped her neck. Most people probably suffered with untreated cancer, like Nafisa, she thought.

  I have heard that men came for you, said Sophie.

  They came in the night. They shouted. A’isha used a corner of Safiya’s baby wrapper to wipe her forehead.

  They took you to the police station.

  Yes, they took me there. They were pulling me.

  Dragging you?

  Yes. A’isha explained more to Felix in Hausa.

  She was arrested on the charge of adultery, but she didn’t know what that meant. She had to name Musa as the father of the child, and she was asked if she had consented for Musa to father Safiya.

  A’isha said, Musa said to them he was not the father.

  Musa was not charged, said Felix. Only A’isha was charged.

  Where is Musa now?

  He sells bicycles on the main road.

  I think we might have passed that shop, said Sophie.

  All is good for Musa, said A’isha. For me, things are not good. But my uncle tells me to come here with Safiya to the home of my family.

  You were allowed to come here after you were sentenced, said Sophie. After M
usa assaulted you, though he was not charged or sentenced.

  A’isha looked at Sophie.

  Did he assault you? asked Sophie. I mean, did he force himself on you?

  She dropped her gaze to Safiya.

  I’m sorry, said Sophie. I will not mention him. And so now you wait.

  I have the baby and when she does not want my milk —

  How long will that be?

  A’isha moved her head.

  They haven’t determined that, I guess, said Sophie. But maybe now you can get assistance from those people at the Spreading Acacia? That non-profit for legal aid — surely they can help?

  A’isha brushed away a mosquito from Safiya’s arm.

  Felix, I think we should stop, said Sophie.

  A’isha pulled one end of her hijab across the baby’s face so that she would be covered with shade as she slept. She watched Felix putting away the tape recorder.

  Beyond them, near the kitchen, some girls were pounding yam. They were working hard, pushing the long-handled pestles up and down, up and down; they had a rhythm to the work. A’isha’s auntie was sitting on a low stool, knees spread wide under the caftan, shelling groundnuts and giving advice in her loud voice. Up and down, up and down went the pestles. The girls were sweating; they stopped, ran their hands over their faces. They giggled and leaned on their pestles until A’isha’s auntie said something to them and they started again.

  Three boys walked around Felix’s car, holding hands. One of the boys was very small, and sometimes they hoisted him up. They laughed when they looked in the driver’s mirror.

  Sophie rose and ran her hand over her forehead. These boys cared about a car. They hardly cared about A’isha.

  Thank you for talking to me, A’isha, Sophie said. You have helped so much.

  I want you to speak for me, A’isha said.