Speechless

by Anne Simpson

  Tani used a spoon, but why? She didn’t look like she was enjoying herself. She made A’isha think of a desert woman, a Tuareg, because of her eyes and her polished skin, though she was not at all a woman of the desert. She was a slim column. When she sat down, A’isha wondered how she managed to bend herself so gracefully. A’isha shivered because of the air conditioning; she had put an extra wrapper over her shoulders so she wouldn’t shudder. Tani, though, seemed to thrive in the chill.

  The alhaji took some pounded yam and dipped it in the stew. He saw her watching him.

  Eat, he commanded, not unkindly.

  She followed his example, but how would she get through the lake of groundnut stew before her? But, oh, it tasted spicy and hot. It was wonderful. She ate more.

  Both of them, the alhaji and his wife, had put themselves in danger by inviting her into their home. It had probably taken some doing, since A’isha was under her uncle’s protection until the appeal, and then —

  There is someone who wants to talk to you, A’isha, said Alhaji Hassan. He is with the BBC, the World Service. He held up a hand, though A’isha had not spoken. I know you’ll wonder why I think you should speak to a reporter, given that things are still chaotic in Kaduna and Minna, particularly.

  Tani made a little sound of protest.

  I think that if the international community knew about your circumstance, Hassan continued, more could be achieved for your benefit. They do not know. They accuse Sophie MacNeil of every sort of offense, but my own feeling is that she was trying her best for you, trying to do the right thing.

  A’isha had trouble comprehending most of what he said, even though he spoke in Hausa, but she understood the last part about Sophie MacNeil. She scooped the stew with more pounded yam, intent on her food now. She tried not to devour it.

  His name is Fabian Beck, said Hassan. He’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. And don’t worry; I will be with you.

  A’ISHA FELT SHE HAD SEEN Fabian Beck somewhere before, but she hadn’t encountered many white men. Didn’t they all look the same? She decided that they were odd, especially their noses, and their eyes, which frightened her: Fabian Beck’s eyes seemed to flare, the bluest part of a flame, deep under his brows, and there was the smell of him, too, entirely different from any other smell, maybe because of his pale skin. She tried not to look at him when he asked her a question.

  Hassan told me that a date has been set for an appeal for you, A’isha, he began. This is good news.

  Fabian Beck seemed to be asking a question without asking a question.

  She looked at Alhaji Hassan, who waited for her to speak. Yes, she said.

  Has it been difficult for you? asked Fabian.

  Yes, said A’isha. I had to leave my mother.

  The riots — began Fabian.

  She does not know much about the fighting, explained Hassan.

  People died, I know, said A’isha. She could hear Safiya beginning to waken in the guest room, the soft grizzling, and knew that soon the cries would be full blown. I must go, she said, with a dip of her head to Fabian.

  In the guest room, as she sat on the edge of the bed with Safiya tugging at her breast, A’isha wished she did not have to go back to sit with the men. She had never sat together with two men before without other women being present. But when Safiya had finished suckling, A’isha returned, carrying her.

  This is your child? said Fabian.

  Yes, this is Safiya.

  He surprised A’isha by leaning over and tickling Safiya’s foot. It seemed altogether strange and unwelcome, as if he had tried to touch A’isha’s body. She sat, her eyes on Fabian’s sandals, which he had not taken off at the door, aware of the skin of his feet and ankles and toes, especially his toes, pink and curled. She shifted her gaze to Safiya.

  The father of the child, Fabian said, has been named by you, but he himself did not acknowledge to the authorities that Safiya was his child?

  No, said A’isha. She felt a sudden heat in her chest.

  So it will continue to be a case of your word against his word, said Fabian.

  You are right, this remains a problem, interrupted Alhaji Hassan. But there were several aspects about the trial that can be contested.

  People were shouting some distance away.

  I have asked a lawyer based in Lagos to help with the appeal, he continued. Her name is Farih.

  The shouting swelled and receded and swelled. A’isha stood up, dropping the thin cloth that had been around her shoulders, so it made a puddled shape of deep red and dark blue on the rug. Salima ran into the room.

  Father, she cried. People are coming! Where shall I go with the children?

  A’isha pressed Safiya close to her. She went to the guest room, where she hardly knew what to do with herself, with Safiya. Sit in the corner? Lock herself in the bathroom? Between the flowered curtain and the screen of the window, she saw men arriving with machetes, a length of broken pipe, a spade. They were calling her name, chanting it.

  A — isha Na — sir, A — isha Na — sir.

  It would end as it had so many months before, when they had dragged her off to the police station.

  Alhaji Hassan had gone out of the house. He spoke in a calm, reassuring voice. What do you want?

  We have come for A’isha Nasir, said one. The whore. And we have heard that a spy has come.

  A whore and a spy! At my house, said Hassan. You are mistaken.

  The men roared. They cried out her name in parts, breaking it. A — isha Na — sir.

  You are holding spies in your house. You are keeping a whore in your house!

  I am doing nothing of the kind.

  They were getting the better of him, A’isha could tell. Soon they would strike him down; they might beat him to death. She wondered where Tani and Salima were hiding with the children.

  You are not thinking of what this will cost your families, cried Hassan. All of you, before you do violence, you must think of them. How will they survive when you are packed off to jail?

  A — isha Na — sir.

  She should go out there, get it over with. Maybe if she went, they would spare Alhaji Hassan and his family. She swaddled Safiya tightly, put her on the floor under the bed to hide her, and went swiftly out of the room without looking back. When she reached the door of the house and tried to open it, Fabian Beck put his hand on hers to stop her; a pale hand on her own dark one, sharp white stones of his knuckles.

  No.

  But I am the one, she said.

  She let go of the door abruptly and so did he. It was her trick to get him to release her, and, once free of him, she opened the door. Something streaked past her — little Rasheed. She could not yank him back, because he’d gone straight for his grandfather outside.

  Fabian closed the door and hauled A’isha away. They’ll kill you. He kept pulling until she sank down behind the white leather couch.

  They could hear the high, sweet sound of Rasheed’s voice.

  Grandfather, what are they doing?

  Go inside, Rasheed, came Hassan’s voice. Go.

  No, I want to see! There is my friend, Hirsi. Hirsi! You’re here.

  A laugh from someone.

  Ha — he is crawling up your leg, Hirsi! Watch yourself.

  Rasheed, cried Hassan.

  I am in the arms of my friend, Hirsi! I can’t come, sang Rasheed. He giggled. It was the sound of bubbles.

  There was a roar from the crowd, but not the same as before.

  He will turn me upside down, Grandfather. You see how he does it? Do it, Hirsi! Please turn me upside down!

  Wild squealing of a boy’s laughter. A ripple, then a bright burst from the crowd as people laughed.

  Rasheed. We have business here.

  No, Hirsi, cried Rasheed. Please, again! I like being upside down!

  Another roar.

  Rasheed, Rasheed. It was Hassan. Come, my boy.

  I am with Hirsi now. He will take me to his house and feed me goat mea
t.

  The crowd whooped and hooted. Goat meat, someone cried. Hirsi, give us all goat meat!

  When they quieted, Hassan said, Go now, to your homes. There is no need of trouble. Go to your wives and children. You are good men.

  I am a good man, yelled Rasheed. I am a good man too.

  Rasheed, you are wild, said Hassan. Come to me now. Thank you, Hirsi.

  But I am a good man, Grandfather, said Rasheed. Aren’t I?

  Your soul is good, Rasheed, said Hassan, as they entered the house. Let me look to see — Yes, they are going.

  A’isha rose out of the shadows behind the leather couch, wanting to disappear through the floor into the ground below.

  A’isha, said Hassan. You must not think —

  Does that mean I am good, Grandfather?

  Fabian Beck plunked himself down on the couch, taking a small notebook from his shirt pocket and scratching in it rapidly with a pen.

  Oh, Rasheed, Salima cried, one hand on her chest. Anything could have happened to you.

  Hassan put up his hand to stop Salima. He got down and put his hands on either side of Rasheed’s face. You are good, Rasheed.

  Then I am the same as my soul? Rasheed persisted. Yes, the same as your soul.

  But where is it? My soul?

  Hassan picked him up.

  A’ISHA LAY IN BED BREATHING, listening to a distant motorcycle. She’d been awake for hours; she needed her heart to grow quiet, but it would not, so she breathed in and out, in and out, trying not to think of what could have happened to Alhaji Hassan, to Rasheed. What could have happened to her, if Fabian Beck had not gripped her hand and pulled her away.

  The far-off motorcycle came closer, closer, and light swept A’isha’s room before it vanished, and the sound cut off abruptly. The motorcyclist banged the door of his house as he went inside, a man who had stayed out late. She couldn’t stay out late; she couldn’t escape. She could go nowhere. She had to be still. She had to do nothing and be still.

  Over and over, Alhaji Hassan’s words to Rasheed came to her. The way he bent down, kindly, and took Rasheed’s small face in his hands. Rasheed had a soul. Why didn’t A’isha feel her soul inside her? Why didn’t it help her?

  It was one thing to think of the goodness of souls, their sweet purity, which she knew was true of a small being like Safiya, next to her. But it couldn’t be true of A’isha. Could it? If she had a soul, she would like it to accompany her, a bird that could be inside her or outside her. A bird that she could look at sometimes, a wood dove maybe, a bird she could look at when it left her, when it returned, one that she could think about whenever she liked.

  My head.

  My body.

  18

  ____

  AROUND DAWN THE PHONE RANG. Sophie couldn’t find it at first because it had slipped down between the cushions of the couch where she’d fallen asleep. It was Felix, finally, it was Felix. No, it was Simon.

  Soph, I need you to come — he said.

  What’s wrong?

  — to Minna. There’s been —

  Sophie couldn’t make out what Simon was saying because dirt was being shovelled over what he was saying.

  What is it? She was sharply awake. What happened? Where’s Felix?

  He’s — all right, it’s just —

  His voice was wobbly, but she needed him to speak clearly. Simon, she said.

  My brother is coming to get you. His car is a Toyota, a silver one. His name is Franklin.

  Who? Franklin? she repeated, trying to figure it out. Simon, tell me about Felix.

  He lost a lot of blood. He’s hurt. They hurt him. Simon’s voice went up and down. But he’s alive, he’s talking.

  I’ll come, she said. I’ll wait for your brother. Franklin.

  He’ll call you on this same mobile — the one I gave you. He’s going to come for you with Aurora.

  Through the French doors came a spill of clear, early morning light. The world was still cool, still unmade. Sophie stared at the elongated shadows of the furniture on the floor. She was clear, almost steely. Franklin knows how to find you in Minna?

  Yes.

  We’ll be there as soon as we can, she said.

  SHE MET AURORA in the foyer, tears sliding down Aurora’s face, and together they went to where Franklin had parked the car.

  I shouldn’t have let him go, said Aurora. I did say that it wasn’t a good idea, you heard me say that, didn’t you, Sophie, but if there’s something really wrong — Did he say whether he was all right? Simon? — and Felix, I feel terrible — for him — for Felix. But I don’t know if I’ve ever — you, how are you? — you seem so calm.

  Franklin was a larger, squarer version of Simon. He opened the passenger door for Aurora, the back door for Sophie, impatient to be off, because it would take so long to get out of Lagos. Sophie noticed how the traffic stopped, started, stalled, how on every side there were cars and motorbikes worming between other cars and motorbikes and lorries, and people threading across the lanes of vehicles with basins and boxes on their heads, someone selling candies in silver wrappers who knocked on the window; she took all of this in, but it was distant, remote. Felix had lost a lot of blood. Simon called, not Felix. Sophie might have seemed composed to Aurora, she might have seemed calm, but her hands moved together, apart, together. Yet Simon was the one who was crying, not Sophie.

  Ahead of them, a man was seated rigidly on a bicycle, his shirt crisply white, as he slipped between a tanker truck and a yellow minivan. The cars lurched ahead. Left on Bajulaye Road, then the Iyana Igbobi bus stop, and a right turn onto Isaac John Road. Light slathered Sophie’s eyes as Franklin steered around a woman in a gorgeous turquoise dress. Felix could die before they got there. One hawker, chasing a car, dropped his plastic basket of drinks, which were crushed under a taxi. He picked up a few bottles as the driver honked at him to get out of the way. The man surfaced, screeching, his mouth turned into a wide O.

  What had happened to Felix? Did he have a head injury? Would he be able to walk or had they attacked him from behind, mutilating his spine? The traffic slid one way, then the other, with cars melting into one lane, back to the next, and the hawker with the anguished face was left behind. They negotiated Oyebanjo Street and Latude Labinjo Avenue, passing the church before merging into the flow of cars onto the ramp for the highway. Ikeja, where Felix’s mother lived, was close by. She’d laughed with him about her trip to Los Angeles. The back of Sophie’s neck felt frigid, as if someone had put ice cubes there. Hello, it’s Sophie, she might have to say. I’m calling about Felix. All that she felt for him drifted behind her out the window, a pale flutter trailing from the car as they sped along the highway. Oh, Felix, Felix, Felix.

  They went north, through Ibadan, Ilorin, and then Bida, before arriving in Minna. It took hours, most of the day, before they arrived at the hospital. They got out, Franklin locked the car, and Sophie and Franklin followed Aurora’s gold sandals, takk takk, across the asphalt to the entrance. The parking area was being resurfaced, but only a portion of it had been completed, and the road roller stood to one side. A driveway passed under an arch with the barely visible name of Blessed Saint Margaret Hospital with Blessed Saint Margaret crossed out. It was terrible to walk under the arch. The driveway became a gravel track that circled a garden where a tangle of overgrown roses grew, and a dust-covered sign over the entrance read Minna-Bida Specialist Hsptl. It was as if, up to this point, the day had been scratches on a surface, but now they’d arrived, now they’d have to face it.

  Simon met them, and Aurora embraced him. He greeted Franklin, and put his hands around Sophie’s, but one of his hands had been bandaged so it was a white paw.

  He’s sleeping, said Simon. But he was asking about you.

  Felix lay on a cot with tubes going into him, immobilized, in a ward with six beds, with a person, or what might have been a heap resembling a person, lying in much the same way on each one. A sheet had been folded across Felix’s midsection
, and there was a bandage on his chest, with a tube snaking under his skin. His arm was held up and bound to the side rail of the bed. The other hand was not leashed to the rail.

  Ahh-uhh, said Aurora.

  They went closer. Felix’s head had been bandaged with gauze, but rusty reddish brown showed through the white. A thin, livid gash knifed across the bridge of his nose, but this was the least of it. On a pole hung a clear bag of fluids and a bag of blood — dark, burgundy, shaped like a lunch sack — with tubes feeding into Felix’s body. A machine was beeping.

  Franklin and Simon were talking behind Sophie. She wished they wouldn’t talk; she couldn’t concentrate. A beep, and her mind went soft grey as if with obscured with fog, another beep.

  Felix, said Aurora, leaning close.

  Simon stood beside Sophie now, and spoke quietly to her. It happened so fast. It was in the market. The main market. I lost sight of him and the next thing I knew he was —

  Beep.

  Sophie was trying to figure it out. It was Felix. He was a bundle on a bed. His eyes were closed; he was in another realm. She could see there were other injuries. His legs stuck out of the sheet that covered his midsection and had been propped up on pillows. The machine beeped and beeped.