by Anne Simpson
She felt her mother’s hand, the thin fingers. She leaned down again to hear the halting words.
Don’t be afraid.
She held her mother’s hand. She stayed where she was, and then it was time.
Be well, murmured Nafisa.
And you, said A’isha.
It was as if A’isha were outside her body as she stood up, gazing down at her mother on the mat on the floor, outside her body as she moved to the door, the light, the car parked in the middle of the compound, outside her body as she walked toward Safiya being dandled in the shade by Talata. Don’t be afraid. Be well.
The driver had been given a plate of rice and beans and he was eating it out of an enamel dish on the edge of the porch where there was shade from the roof. She watched his hand go to his mouth, scooping the rice into it. She couldn’t watch as he opened his mouth, put the rice into it greedily. He was intent, and soon he would be finished.
She’d forgotten the soap and towel, but she couldn’t make herself retrace her steps and go back to her mother. Instead, she took Safiya, sound asleep, from Talata. A’isha was exhausted after a night of quickly shifting dreams — the compound in flames, Safiya nowhere to be found, her mother gone from her hut — but to make herself go away was worse than any nightmare.
A’isha touched Talata’s shoulder.
Her uncle came out and greeted the driver. It was her uncle who had told her the head man thought she should leave, and her uncle was pleased about it, A’isha could see. So that she wouldn’t have to listen to the men talking, she left them and walked with Safiya to the neem tree, though the sun burned, and even under the green light of the tree, A’isha felt exposed.
Here she had spoken with the woman who had come from Lagos, the one who reported for the newspaper. Sophie. A’isha had been intimidated by her foreignness, her clothes, her way of speaking English, her good-looking boyfriend, but most of all, by her hair, curly and thick, that she flung over her shoulder as if it were a nuisance. What would it have been like to have hair like that, hair that could be flung over the shoulder? A’isha’s own hair was cropped close to her head and covered by a hijab. It was partly because of Sophie that A’isha had to leave now, but A’isha didn’t regret talking to her. No. She had wanted to speak, and Sophie had listened.
TALATA PULLED AT HER HAND, and A’isha looked down at her. Talata had been sent to bring A’isha back to the small group that had collected around the car: A’isha’s uncle and auntie, several nephews, and some friends were talking to the driver, a cousin of the head man. Two smaller boys were kicking a deflated soccer ball, turned yellowish with age.
A’isha moved out of the pale-green and dark-green lights of the tree that had protected her all the time she had stayed in this place and walked across the compound. Her sandals kicked up small whorls of dust as she went, Talata at her side, and her arm, crooked, holding Safiya, who was waking now, and would soon want to be fed. Out of the corner of her eye A’isha could see her mother’s hut, with its drooping curtain.
Still with Safiya in her arms, A’isha retrieved her belongings, the bundle that she had knotted in a sheet and put inside a plastic basin. Talata took the basin and put it in the car. Surprisingly, A’isha’s auntie gave her a baby wrapper, and said goodbye to her, but her uncle said nothing. A’isha leaned against the car door, not wanting to sit inside until the driver was ready to go. It would be too hot. There, he’d opened the driver’s door, put on his sunglasses. Someone offered him a bottle of water for the journey.
A’isha got into the car when Safiya started crying and she covered her daughter lightly with the baby wrapper as she suckled. A’isha’s milk, coming down, was a relief, though the car was a furnace. Talata crouched by the open passenger door, telling A’isha she would look after her mother, and A’isha, hearing this, had to gather herself, defend herself against the kindness. Under the cloth, she felt the small tugs of Safiya’s mouth on her nipple.
Know your strength. Be strong, A’isha murmured to Talata. It was what A’isha’s mother had said to her minutes ago, her mother who was alone with her own pain just across the compound.
Someone told Talata to get out of the way and closed the passenger door. The driver got in and started the car, turning up the air conditioning to full blast and sipping from his bottle of water.
You are ready?
Yes, she said, though she was not sure she was ready. She was certainly not ready for her mother to die and leave her. She was not sure she could bear it by herself.
The driver put down the drink and they drove away, turning out of the compound, and going too fast along on the highway. A’isha glimpsed a girl washing clothes in a bucket outside a hut and yearned to be that girl, with nothing to do but wash clothes in a bucket, but she disappeared, a flash of red and green, a girl who knew nothing, who might live her entire life knowing nothing. It wasn’t fair to think of her this way, but A’isha couldn’t help herself.
13
____
IT RAINED HARD AFTER THEY LEFT ABEOKUTA, large drops pelting against the windshield and reducing visibility so that the road in front of them was curtained with grey. It was the tail end of the wet season, but today seemed as though the rains would go on and on. After the news about the fatwa, Sophie was jittery. Felix had woken her early and asked if she wanted to try to cross the border to Benin. They would go to Imeko that day and if all went well at the border crossing, she could continue to Cotonou in Benin and from there she could fly to Germany. He thought she should get out of the country without letting anyone know.
What about my mother? asked Sophie.
It’s better to do this quickly and quietly. Anyway, let’s see how things go.
My mother thinks we’re staying in Abeokuta, but I don’t want her to make the trip to Abeokuta if I’m not there.
Your mother will understand, he said. Wait until we get to Imeko and use my mobile. You can call her from there.
A few cars curved around the potholes, slipping into view and disappearing into the rain. And the checkpoint, too, arose out of nowhere: just a couple of policemen wearing ponchos. Two chairs. Two oil drums, a two-by-four from drum to drum, blocking the way. Behind them, a derelict shed with an old tin roof.
Not again, Sophie said.
Felix slowed down, sighing, took the papers from the side pocket of the car, and unrolled the window. Hello, he said politely.
The policeman was laughing with his friend, slapping his palm with a high five. Under his plastic poncho was a gun, a rifle, probably an AK-47.
Sophie hoped it wasn’t loaded. It looked like the two of them were playing a game of some kind.
Now the policeman turned to peer into the car, the rim of his baseball cap dripping. End of play. You are coming from where? he said to Felix.
From Abeokuta.
Where are you living?
Lagos.
And you are going where now?
To Imeko.
Come, come, now, good man, said the policeman. No one is going to Imeko.
That’s where we’re headed.
You and this beautiful woman? He looked at Sophie appraisingly. I think you are not going to spend a sexy, sexy night in Imeko. Not with this very beautiful woman. Leave her now, I will care for her. He laughed. Oh, no, I see what you are thinking. You are not going simply to Imeko, no. You are hopping the border? Yes, this is what I am thinking. He switched into Yoruba and spoke only to Felix.
Felix undid his seat belt and got out of the car. Don’t worry, he said to Sophie.
But how could she not worry when she watched the soldier study Felix’s papers, made him stand against the car, legs apart, while he was frisked. And then the policeman came around to Sophie’s side of the car. She rolled down her window. It was still something of a game, she thought, and she knew most of the rules. What to say, what not to say. But it didn’t matter; this kid with the rifle would see how she was a frightened rabbit, trying to leave the country after all that ha
d happened, trying to scurry down a hole.
Very nice, he said. Beautiful woman, come out of the car now.
She got out of the car. It was raining, but not pelting.
You are slow slow, he said.
He frisked her gently, firmly. Then he bent down and slid his hand along her bare ankle, up, up. He stopped. He gave her a playful little pat, as she stood, splay-legged against the car.
Mmmm, no dancing? No pleasure for me. He laughed as his friend came around the car. Not for Mr. Adejole, uh-huh?
Sophie didn’t move. A sudden spray of rain drenched them all. Now her hair was wet, her face, her shoulders and arms.
Ah, now, said the policeman who had frisked her. Too much rain spoils the pleasure. It is sad for us that you have to go away, he said. To Imeko. He laughed, a long, ringing laugh. His face was broad and happy. I mean no harm, beautiful woman. Your man will give us dash.
They went around the car, leaving her. She reached into the car and got her raincoat, pulling it on; it wasn’t warm, but she felt a little more protected, looking out from under the hood. If she weren’t allowed to cross the border, what would she do?
You can get in the car, Sophie, said Felix, coming around to her side. It’s all right.
He opened the door and she got in. Everything she wore was damp. She fastened the seat belt, breathing in and out, waiting for Felix to leave, but he was busy chatting to the policemen. She sat fingering the ring her mother had given her, a silver ring with a band of heart-shaped leaves and fruits that might have been grapes. She twisted it on her finger as if it would help her, as if there were some power in it.
The rain stopped and the sun shone through a band of cloud. What were they doing? Negotiating? They were talking, talking. One of the policemen threw off his poncho and put it on the chair. A slash of yellow. The road was a rich red-brown colour after the rain, and water glimmered on the drums; the trees at the edge of the road were dripping.
Felix switched to English. And so, there is no place in Imeko to stay the night? No guesthouse?
Five, six, seven checkpoints before you reach it. Nobody there when you arrive, said the grinning policeman. They are all waiting to nab you at the checkpoints.
That place is worse than the hind end of a cow, said the other. All three broke into laughter.
They flipped back into Yoruba. Felix could have been talking to his friends on a street in Lagos, in no hurry to get moving.
A large bird settled on the roof of the shed, dark feathered, its neck thrust forward like an old man’s. A buzzard? No, a vulture. Another two birds flew down and landed beside it.
One of the policemen shrugged his rifle off his shoulder and pointed it at the birds.
Baaa, he shouted and blasted a shot.
Sophie jumped. The three birds took to the air, ungainly, even in flight.
No good omen! he yelled.
Now, finally, Felix got in the car and turned the key in the ignition. He waved to the men; they motioned him on and said something in farewell that made him laugh.
What did they say? said Sophie.
They were all right. They could have made me pay a bribe, but I talked them out of it.
Sophie leaned back, closed her eyes. Fear was something she could feel moving lightly over her skin. It was worse when she couldn’t sleep. They had stayed with Felix’s sister, Serena, in Abeokuta. Felix hoped the whole business would calm down, but it didn’t. There were rumours on the news that Sophie was a spy, that she worked for the CIA, and that the fatwa, first issued by Deputy Governor Alhaji Nuhu Mohammed in Niger State, was supported by other states, like Kaduna, Sokoto, and Zamfara.
Felix’s sister’s place was no refuge. Just after they arrived, Sophie overheard Felix and Serena while the evening meal was prepared in the kitchen. Serena’s voice rose, Felix’s voice remained low. Sophie, stalling for time in the bathroom, stared at the leaves of the banana tree, their rippled edges, and the spatterings of rain running down those leaves, rain that began and ended, began and ended. In the bathroom, she was safe. She was safe from the newspapers, safe from the police, safe from the reports of violence in Kaduna.
She put the toilet lid down so she could sit on it to phone her mother. There was no answer. She phoned Uncle Thomas, told him she was in Abeokuta, and that she and Felix were hoping to stay put for a while. Uncle Thomas was at work, and she could tell she’d interrupted him. She was about to say goodbye when he stopped her.
Are you well, Sophie? he asked. Will you be all right?
The banana leaves were a blear of green shapes outside the window. Yes, she said.
I’m hoping that is the case, he said, in his quiet, formal way. I’ll tell your mother that we spoke.
She turned off Felix’s phone. She could still hear Felix and Serena talking, and plugged her ears with her fingers.
We weren’t talking about you, Felix told her later. We were talking about what to do, talking about options.
But Sophie knew she was a bag of laundry they’d all be glad to be rid of. Serena and Anthony had a small guest bed, too small for two. What they’d talked about, Serena and Felix, had to do with Sophie. It had everything to do with her, but it would be worse if she argued.
Now, heading north from Abeokuta, Felix and Sophie passed lush trees, their branches and leaves jewelled. It seemed that they kept moving through veils of mist into another world as she dozed fitfully at the edge of sleep. She slipped over the placid estuary at home, where the surface of the water was puckered silk, and under the surface, the eel grass pulled, as if it were the long hair of some undersea creature, strands drifting against the hull of the boat. On and on she’d paddled in the old kayak, threading a different route through the islands from that of her parents in their kayaks, until finally she was alone, drifting under the railway bridge, frightening the water birds, the ducks and cormorants, hidden in the grassy islands just beyond. She stopped to drift under the shadows of the bridge on the current, and stared, mesmerized, at the vista opening up in front of her. It was a place she’d known all her life, but she’d never found this secret part of it. Past the bridge, the water narrowed into a river that branched into two forks, and she decided on the right fork, paddling toward a small cove with rock walls of white gypsum: she was inside a Greek temple, floating through the mist that rose from the water’s surface.
And then she realized the light was fading, and it would take time to get back to the railway bridge, back to Williams Point, and across the harbour. Above the rock walls of the hidden cove, the sun was rosy orange, run through with a soft arrow of grey cloud. Soon the great orb of the setting sun would disappear altogether. She’d have to paddle quickly all the way back to get home before dark. Left, right, left, right: it became a rhythm of hard work, but if she kept at it, she would get there in time. Here was the bridge; she glided under it as a yellow-eyed eagle watched her from the highest branch of a dead tree. She was part of two worlds at once: the murky water, sometimes deep, marked by the ripples of a fast current, sometimes shallow, tangled with eel grass and clams along the silted bottom, and the evening air that brushed her face, her bare shoulders, her hair. She was conscious of urgency as she paddled, scooping the water on one side, scooping it on the other, and always, she had the sense of moving between the mystery of what was below and what was above, a portal into the world of water and the world of air; she’d entered both worlds at once. Yet she was leaving it behind, paddling hard, hard, hard.
No, she wasn’t in a kayak. She was in a car. She was fleeing the country, that’s what she was doing. What had happened to the kayak, the evening air, the water spread out like a blue tablecloth?
You okay? said Felix.
I’m fine. What about you?
He stretched his neck. All right.
They slowed down again; this was what had woken her. Another checkpoint. Then another, and another. Felix was always polite, coolly expert in negotiating their way through. Finally, they stopped to eat at a r
oadside stall. There was a roof over one section, crude benches, where they ate chicken from tin plates without speaking. From the dark of the roadside stall, the freshly washed world seemed to sparkle. Hens and a rooster pecked in the dirt beyond: heads jerking up, down, up. A child laughed, ran past. She wore nothing more than a long T-shirt. A gaggle of others pursued her, and after a moment, there was shrieking — they’d caught her.
It’ll be all right once we get you to the border, said Felix.
They hadn’t talked about what would happen once they crossed it.
The chicken was well roasted, delicious. He licked his fingers, drank his beer thirstily. It was time to go, but neither of them made a move.
The light turned to gold, gleaming on their car, parked at the side of the road, glinting on the wrench that a teenaged boy was using to fix a generator. He leaned against the base of a dead tree, one foot out, one foot tucked under him. The rooster waddled past them, comically thrusting its red comb forward. The afternoon was passing, and she hoped they would get to Imeko in the daylight. Felix finished his beer, set it down. Now a vulture flew down and landed on one of the broken branches of the dead tree.
What is this bird of evil omen? she murmured.
What?
The cops back there, the police. They said that when they saw the vultures.
Felix stared at the vulture in the dead tree.
My dad used to tell stories when I was little, said Sophie. Sometimes he made up the stories, and sometimes he read them to me. Or I’d get him to sing. She smiled. He loved to sing. There was one story about a bird, but it wasn’t an evil bird. A hunter was after him. My dad would make the sound of the bird: Tat, ta-tat. Tat, ta-tat. Like that. It must have been a woodpecker. He’d make shadows with his hand on the wall. He could make any kind of animal or bird.
