Speechless

by Anne Simpson

  She protected her belly with both hands, leaning over, and hating the smell of them, their loud voices. Thirsty, she was so thirsty. One of policemen was a friend of her brother, the youngest brother who had a shop in Abuja, but she’d forgotten the friend’s name. What was it? She looked at his boots, trying to remember. They confused her with their questions. So she said what they wanted her to say.

  Yes, she’d committed adultery. Yes.

  She was admitting to zina?

  She didn’t understand zina.

  They talked among themselves; one of them, not her brother’s friend, seemed to be taking her part, but he was called out by the others. He shrugged and drifted over to the wall. Now maybe they would let her sleep. They took her to a jail cell that stank of shit, with a cluster of other women and a clogged drain: ten, maybe a dozen women were inside a cell that was big enough for two. No one made space for her, but she couldn’t sleep standing up, and at last a scrawny woman shifted closer to someone else, simply by inching her buttocks over. Come here, she said. A’isha had to sit beside her, with her arms around her knees; the floor was damp.

  Was it Audu? Was that his name?

  SHE GUESSED THAT WAS what they meant when they talked about her confession. And this confession was what the cuckoo talked about now, as if he knew. He called her the appellant. She had given up all her rights to counsel when she confessed, and, he said, no witness was ever called upon in such cases of zina, because there was no need. It was true she had been pregnant, and this pregnancy was all that was necessary for conclusive evidence of her misdoing; she had given birth to a child, a girl, and that was a fact, yes, that was a fact that could not be disputed. But A’isha was certain that this man, this prosecutor, had never had to sit himself down on a floor that was wet with people’s urine, let alone try to sleep there.

  The courtroom made A’isha think of her primary school, though it was grander, of course, but nothing special once a person walked through the entrance, once a person was sitting down. The chants of the primary school came back to her; she could hear all of them crying out an English rhyme in unison: Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? The courtroom had not been cleaned thoroughly, and reddish sand was flecked across the concrete. Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full. And it was here, in this place that should have been scoured, made to be pristine, it was here that important people like this man in his two-toned shoes made of tan leather and dark leather, this prosecutor, with his complete faith in himself, could help decide whether she would live or die. Her life was in his hands, just as if it were no more than a bit of sand. How could a person’s life weigh so little in another person’s hands? She was sand on the floor.

  Her mother had told her things to give her courage, but now her mother was gone. Her mother was a wavering candle. Sometimes A’isha felt her close by, but mostly she was just not there. She was not there when A’isha had come back after the funeral; she was not in the hut. Her eyes, which had followed A’isha, followed Safiya — what had happened to those eyes? A’isha couldn’t recall the pretty shape of her mother’s eyes, her nose, her mouth. Would her mother ever appear the way she’d been? Or would A’isha always be trying to piece her together?

  She urged herself to focus on what was being said. The grounds for the appeal were being dismissed by the judges, since zina was a word that needed no explanation, since the lack of specificity about the time, date, place, and person with whom the offence was committed was irrelevant, since pregnancy itself was conclusive evidence, and A’isha found herself wondering about the judge who was speaking, about the way his voice seemed to ravel and unravel, so she could hear some, but not all of what he was saying. She chanced a look at him. He had glasses, but they bothered him. He took them off, put them on; they did not seem to fit him correctly, or perhaps they pained his ears. He took up each point and cast it aside, holding, he said, to the law. The appellant could not withdraw her confession. The court confirmed the sentence, which would be carried out once the appellant had weaned her child. Counsel for the appellant would be allowed to appeal, a second appeal, but it must be carried out within sixty days. The judge took off his glasses. And that was the end of it.

  A’isha had sixty days to be with Safiya.

  WE WILL DO BETTER NEXT TIME, said Farih. These judges, they simply want to uphold the previous judgement.

  But A’isha wasn’t listening. She should have known how it would go at the beginning; she shouldn’t have allowed herself to hope. Her life was sand, nothing more. As Farih spoke, A’isha felt the sand rushing through her body, from the top of her head down to her feet, the way part of it slid easily and left another part behind, and then all of it gave way. She was made of sand.

  It will be heard in the Court of Appeals next time, said Farih. That will be quite different.

  How could it be different? wondered A’isha, but she did not say anything.

  A’isha, are you listening?

  A’isha was feeding Safiya. They were in her uncle’s compound after hashing out the appeal at the home of Alhaji Hassan. Farih had taken A’isha to her uncle’s and then she didn’t want to abandon her. A’isha wanted to say to Farih that it would be all right, that she would be all right alone with Safiya. She was hungry and wanted to cook, but first she fed Safiya as Farih talked.

  Don’t be downcast. You are something of a celebrity, Farih went on. Did you know that? People have begun to discover you. People have set up a Facebook group for you and it has thousands of followers. At the Spreading Acacia, I can’t tell you how many people have been calling, asking how they can help.

  How can they help me?

  We tell them they must let us do the work. But really, this has become a full-time job, just talking to people about you.

  I don’t —

  And you remember that reporter for the BBC?

  Mr. Beck.

  Fabian Beck did a story about you for the BBC, about what you were contending with, how difficult your circumstances have been. He mentioned the mob at Hassan’s house — I read this article myself. He has been following your story from the beginning. He has been in Nigeria a long time, and so he understands the situation. They are talking about you all over the United Kingdom, all over the world, in fact. Today there were many reporters, as you saw. Did you know?

  A’isha had thought only of the fact that they lost the appeal. No, she hadn’t paid attention.

  You have no idea how big this has become, Farih went on, excitedly. You have thousands of people supporting you — so many people, ordinary people. They are sending donations on your behalf to the Spreading Acacia.

  A’isha tried to imagine thousands of people, but all she could think of were the men who had been shouting her name outside Alhaji Hassan’s house. A — isha Na — sir. A — isha Na — sir.

  They are discussing your cause on talk shows in America; this is what my daughter tells me. She’s at university in Washington. Georgetown University. She knows what is happening.

  You have a daughter?

  Yes. She’s a little older than you. She tells me about what’s going on, what’s in the news. There has been an article about you in The New York Times and another in The Washington Post. It has been on CNN. Of course, this kind of support in America did not help us win the appeal today, but in the future it could.

  The future, thought A’isha. Sand, and sand, and more sand. The way the horizon was obscured during harmattan when a reddish haze hung in the air, the way the sun was gone, replaced by the reddish nothing. The grit of it on the tongue; the way it made a person want to spit. Anyone could taste it, the future.

  Where is the other reporter? asked A’isha. Sophie.

  Sophie MacNeil? She may have returned home.

  A’isha was sorry about that. They had chased her away. Like a bird, Sophie MacNeil had come, like a bird she had flown; that was how it went. She tried not to feel anything, but Safiya pulled at A’isha’s breast, a quivering pull, the edges of her lips workin
g to get at the deep sweetness of her mother. It left her empty. Why had A’isha felt that there was something in Sophie MacNeil that was like herself? She knew nothing about her. They came from different places; they spoke different languages; there was nothing that made them alike. A’isha had only spent a few hours with her, but even so.

  We needed her article, though, the first one that caused all the trouble. People accused her of being an outsider, even a spy. It’s true she was not Nigerian. But no one would have known about you, A’isha, if not for her. It got the word out.

  Safiya did not want to suckle anymore. A’isha placed her against her shoulder and thumped gently on her back.

  What is the name of your daughter? asked A’isha.

  My daughter? Farih was fiddling with her mobile.

  Yes.

  She is Magajiya. Most people call her Maggie, over there, I mean.

  What does she study?

  Well, chuckled Farih, putting down her mobile. She wanted to study all sorts of things, but she has narrowed it down. She is a girl who could do anything, so she dabbled for a while. But now she is studying politics, policy, governance — why governments do what they do, that kind of thing.

  She can study those things?

  Oh, yes. They have a range of offerings. It is a university that was started by the Jesuits, and it has quite a global community. But it’s strange to think of her in such a place.

  A’isha didn’t know what Farih meant by Jesuits.

  Was she afraid to go there? asked A’isha.

  Oh, when she first went, she called all the time. She was terrified. Of course, it is terrifying, going to another country. But she’s not afraid now.

  You must be proud, said A’isha, cradling Safiya in her arms. She would sleep now that she had fed.

  Yes, very proud, said Farih.

  Does she know her strength? Maggie? Magajiya?

  Farih laughed. I wouldn’t put it that way. She’s a good one for being interested in clothes. When she was a girl, she was always painting her fingernails and toenails different colours — yellow and orange, yellow and purple, pink and purple, you know, with dots, with stripes. Then she would take it all off and start over. I despaired!

  Farih grew quiet, pondering the question. Does she know her strength? I think she learned to be strong by going there. She is learning. She’s young. It takes time.

  Mmmm, murmured A’isha, shifting on the bench. I don’t have time.

  27

  ____

  YOU’VE BEEN INSIDE FOR DAYS, said Clare. You haven’t eaten.

  I’ll eat soon. Sophie sat up, leaned against the wall.

  The sheet had fallen on the floor, and Clare picked it up, tossing it back on the bed. You can’t just give up. She went to the window and raised the blinds, letting the light flood the room.

  Sophie shut her eyes.

  What are we doing here if you’ve just given up? I’ll make arrangements for us to fly home.

  No, said Sophie. The light was full on her face and she looked gaunt. No, she repeated.

  Clare threw up her hands. Why? You haven’t even called Grace, you haven’t got in touch with her. You don’t seem to be thinking of Felix, so there’s no reason to stay. It’s not fair to Thomas and Monica.

  I’m thinking of Felix all the time. I’m thinking that I should never have done the article.

  But you did, said Clare.

  Yes, I did. Sophie spoke slowly. It’s one thing to write an article and another to think that you have blood on your hands. I have blood on my hands. I didn’t see that coming. If Felix dies, I’ll have another person’s blood on my hands.

  Clare saw the mechanic swimming on the ground toward the old woman with the fried cakes. He had almost reached her.

  You didn’t kill those people, said Clare.

  Would they have been incited to violence if not for me?

  You give yourself too much credit. Anyway, you spoke the truth.

  Maybe the truth wasn’t mine to tell. Sophie shook her head. Maybe if I hadn’t got in the way. It was A’isha’s story, not mine.

  She wanted you, Sophie, or she wouldn’t have let you do it. Clare sat down on the bed. Charles, at the newspaper, he wanted you to do it.

  I think he regretted it.

  We tell stories that have to be told. This had to be told. A young woman who has never lifted a finger against anyone else, and yet here she is convicted of a crime. Who is going to speak for her? Do we say that only this person or that person is the one to tell her story? And you, you’re cast into the outer darkness for speaking up? Don’t let the naysayers get to you, Sophie. You’re paralyzed, you’re afraid.

  I am. I’m afraid of so many things.

  Don’t be. Come on, we’re going to get you something to eat.

  Sophie swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat, staring at the wall in front of her, and Clare thought she would never move. But she got up.

  ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THAT? said Thomas.

  How can I leave without knowing? said Sophie.

  They were sitting outside on the patio, a place that had always appealed to Thomas, because it was enclosed by croton plants. Some leaves were deep crimson-orange spears, and some were green, but there were markings of red and orange across the shiny green.

  I’m not sure it’s a good idea, he said.

  She scuffed one sandal against a patio stone. I should at least find out how she’s doing.

  You might not be welcome. It hasn’t been an easy time of it, especially for A’isha, and if you appear —

  Don’t you think I know what I’ve done? Serena told me what a mess I’d made.

  Through the slats in the patio roof, Sophie could make out creampuffs of cloud moving overhead. Wind, pushing them along.

  Her father was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.

  That child had to be strapped to a bed in a room that was like a prison cell, said her father. His body spasmed with every convulsion. His own mother wasn’t allowed to go near. I could go to him, but not his mother.

  Sophie watched a bird with a yellow breast flit from branch to branch of a nearby umbrella tree.

  Wagtail, said Thomas, following her eyes.

  Help me. This is what Joseph was crying out. Help, said her father.

  It wasn’t your fault, said Sophie. It wasn’t your fault that Joseph died.

  You didn’t know how people would react to that article, said Thomas. Yes, someone who is not a Nigerian might not have been the ideal choice to write it. Fair enough, but you did it out of a sense that the punishment didn’t fit the crime.

  I should have thought it through. Felix warned me.

  You feel responsible.

  Yes, for all of it, but especially for Felix. I’m angry he went there at all. I blame him; I blame myself. Here I am close by and I’m not at the hospital, I’m not anywhere near him. But even if I tried, well, only family are allowed to see him and I’m not family. Sophie raised her glass, sipped from it. Her hand was trembling.

  Someone had given the boy’s mother a glass of water and she was standing by his room, in front of the bars. Joseph screamed, and she dropped the glass of water. Water is terrifying for someone dying of rabies, said her father. Joseph screamed and screamed. Her father sighed. The whole of my life has been given over to helping people, to healing them, and for the most part I did a good job. For the most part. Except when I hear Joseph in the middle of the night.

  The wind riffled Sophie’s hair.

  You should be clear about one thing, said Thomas. Felix is in the hospital because he made a decision to go to Minna.

  Sophie could hear the wagtail’s seeoo, seeoo.

  He didn’t know what he was getting into, she said. He thought he knew, but we all think we’re invincible.

  He didn’t know what he was getting into; you didn’t know what you were getting into.

  I’d never do it now.

  What if someone needed you?r />
  No, I —

  Not so long ago I thought I’d never see your Aunt Monica again, said Thomas. Or the children. I was a coward in that moment, I can tell you.

  You had a gun to your head, said Sophie.

  I thought that at least I’d loved the people I loved. Your mother was kneeling near me, and I hoped that I’d go first, not her. I didn’t want to go last. That’s what I mean about being a coward.

  No one would want to have to go through that. It’s only human.

  A thousand things flit through your head. When Hortensia was born, and how she wailed. Monica, when we first met, when she was wearing that dress with a pearly belt buckle. A doll that I took from your mother when we were children. It all came to me in a rush.

  Sophie set down the glass of water on the table by her chair.

  I wasn’t afraid of it for myself, but I wanted to be able to tell them, to tell Monica, not to be sad. It would be such a small thing, dying.

  No big deal, she said.

  He laughed.

  I was a coward, I’m still a coward, she said. It was almost a relief when Serena told me I wasn’t wanted. To leave, to get out of there.

  And you took her at her word.

  I had to. She took a breath. But I want to see A’isha.

  THE COMPOUND WHERE A’ISHA LIVED didn’t look like the same one Sophie had visited with Felix. It seemed smaller, with fewer outbuildings, and the thatch of two of the huts had been blackened by fire. The guinea hens, disturbed by the car’s arrival, flurried away past the house, the one, Sophie knew, that was occupied by A’isha’s auntie and uncle, but A’isha herself was nowhere to be seen.

  Sophie could see Felix standing beside the black car eating groundnuts; she saw him bowing to a man, elaborately greeting him as they met; she saw him playing a game with the children when he took yams from his car, sunglasses up on his head, but he wasn’t there, and his car wasn’t there, and there was only one child, who seemed to be tracing something in the dirt.