Picturesque

A peculiar calm prevailed over the atmosphere. We had just performed janaza prayers for the dead woman. Hemmed in by a half-circle of relatives, her mother alternated between moments of madness when she banged convulsive fists on the cold cement floor or tore at her hair and eerie episodes when she merely stared on stone-like. Expecting and dreading it, she would remain to witness this last journey. Hassan, father to Leila and husband to Alima, stood beside the main entrance to the house sobbing like a forsaken baby. I moved about shaking hands, saying his “thanks for coming” and receiving consolatory hugs. Later that evening, I kept company with Leila while most men headed for the cemetery, some kilometres away. Processions unnerved me and Hassan had insisted on going. Leaving Leila, I drew farther from the crowd; the widower’s misery a noose around my neck. “Breathe Abu, breathe” came the caution to failing lungs. “What reason can you call to account for such melancholy?” How I yearned to wipe those tears of his face, to envelop the weak frame in an embrace and murmur; “I am here for you.” I cannot really explain the strange pull that forced me into Hassan’s world. All I know is happiness was being by his side. You know that feeling you get when someone with whom you have been fated is close by but you haven’t seen him yet? The nervous tingling that makes those hairs at the nape of your neck itch? That’s what it felt like with him. He was not so striking a man. There’s the matter of a rather massive head balancing most precariously on the thinnest, longest neck imaginable. He wore glasses…small, round black-rimmed ones that swallow a little of your beauty and replace it with a nerdy look. He was short, had a massive nose, was bald as a Buddhist monk and had eyes fixed so far apart, they gave an impression of fleeing towards the opposite ends of his wide face. His bow legs were somewhat shorter than normal and deeply browned. Regular feet were always housed inside regular palm slippers. *** “Be quiet Sonia. Do you hear that? Quick, check while I hide these papers.” “How do you know it is Amina? For goodness sake, stop tapping the table so hard.” The truth is, I was sick and tired of my freelance editor’s mood swings. Her hatred for my wife was as irrational as it was puerile. Amina has been nothing short of nice to her. “God have mercy. Where are you off to in such anger?” I could have as well been talking to the wind as she was obviously done with me for that day. “Later” she cried, banging the door shut. *** On the day our paths crossed for the first time, sun rays and dust particles attacked with unwavering, unforgiving fury. Outside, surviving yellowish- green leaves attached to browned branches swayed gently to the suffocating breeze. Boredom had chased me from my room and qadr- destiny was about to bring us together. I was tired after a morning spent fighting burnt debris off the windows of my boys-quarters apartment. I had undertaken this insanity despite my vicious nosebleeds because of Usman. As the first streaks of dawn tore through the sky and upon flattening my face across the glass pane, I could not see my quiet, handsome neighbour lacing his sneakers in preparation for a customary jog. I hadn’t quite worked up the courage to initiate a friendship with him and that made me irritable. My brain registered the details of the stranger’s frame. He seemed lost. He turned to his right, looked behind him and walked a few steps in the opposite direction before turning back to face me, arms akimbo. I debated going over to offer him help but decided since he was too proud to say Salam or seek help, he could sort himself out. As I set in motion a procedure for ordering visual apparatus to explore more cheerful views, his full lips straightened into a grin and an arm was raised in salute. It was one of those quirky, everyday smiles; the ones that say “I’m nervous, save me.” I remember thinking the green backpack hanging loose from his left shoulder would look really good on me. His eyelids contracted to build a partial cover over sapphire pupils as waves of happiness coursed through my veins. I remained rooted to the spot and shuddered when my heart suffered a tightening twitch. It was time to acknowledge his greeting yet, I kept gawking. Like black clouds pregnant with rain drops, we drifted closer to each other, and he asked a question; the direction to a mosque, I think. Feeling light-headed, I tagged along although, I don’t quite remember my reply nor being invited; so strong was this strange pull on me. My atheism still in its first bloom, it was the first time in months that I stepped into a masjid. The brothers made no effort to hide their surprise at seeing Abubakar who let Shaitan lead him astray return. I forgot to make ablution but when Hassan raised his palms above his shoulders and proclaimed; “Allah is the greatest,” I lifted my unbelieving, unwashed hands and repeated the words. While we stood straight, eyes peeled to the floor, Hassan recited the verses; “In The Name of Allah, Most gracious, Most merciful…” I contemplated how it would feel to run my rough fingers through his soft-looking beard; so black and curly. “Allah is the greatest” and we bowed keeping our backs straight. “It must be heavenly to have such fairish skin” I thought, giggling inside while smoothing creases on my trousers. A cursory inspection of my nails confirmed what I already feared; they were long, uneven and dirty. I sniffed both armpits and recoiled from the discouraging odour. “Why did I not bath and wear something nice today of all days? “Allah is the greatest” came the call ordering us to touch our foreheads to the carpeted floor. “I wonder if he has a girlfriend. Surely, he does not indulge in alcohol so why the pot-belly?” We became fast friends. “We will be together in paradise, Abu” was his favourite phrase. He spoke to me a great deal about his childhood spent hidden in a madrasa- an establishment of learning ruled by whip-wielding teachers who enforced memorization of the Qur’an. I watched over him with a deep proprietary feeling. I hated the people who always flocked around him. Did he like me more than them or were we all equal possessors of his affection? When he spoke to me, I’d grip his slender fingers and listen like my life depended on it, never actually understanding anything. My throat would go dry while I nod, saying in a broken voice; “Insha’Allah.” Perhaps, he sniffed out my disbelief and felt sorry for me. The shura appointed him deputy Iman. I stood at the first row behind him whenever he led prayers, baritone voice resonating from the pulpit two times every day. Weekends he spent, doing house to house dawah- giving fiery sermons against boko-haram and encouraging guardians to send their wards to school. He’d have rice and chicken at these homes; most people went out of their way to make sheikh happy. His schedule was simple; sleep, prayer, eat and more prayer. He kept a beard, put on trousers which never extended below his ankles and talked to everybody with shyness and tranquillity. When we were both free, we fixed movie nights after Isha prayers; sitcoms, using bowls of street popcorn and Coca-Cola as snacks. He had a very healthy laughter which exploded from deep within his larynx and away through the mouth making him jerk uncontrollably to and fro. He’d wrap his arm around my shoulder or grip my knee trying to draw me into his amusement. What anxieties I lived through! There were those times however, when I would suddenly turn and catch him deep in thought, staring at me like a lost child. His eyes seemed to bore into my soul. It took all of me in such moments that felt like arrows to my heart, not to damn it all and confess my secret. I’d smile and ask what worried him. He’d smile back and reply; “Masha ‘Allah, nothing.” It seemed to crazy old me like there was a second Hassan and like a footballer of an opposing team, we were in battle; he for something he wanted but dreaded and I for something I could only ever wish for. People started talking about us. More like warning him off me. “Sonia, remember Yusuf with the cleft palate; always praying and fasting away his “trials?” Did he not tell you I was different and did you not believe him?” “Suddenly, you had so much work to do whenever I wanted to visit. Everyone avoided me like a plague.” The peculiar thing about sadness is that it gives you no time to do things that can release you from its hold. You think more and more about your deplorable state which only drags you deeper into depression. “I loved him. Is that what you wish to hear, heartless fellow? Shall I be judged even after everything you now know?” “Yes you are unfair. Your situation is far worse than mine, unfortunate friend, for I have loved and a soul that has not, is not alive.” “You think I too have not....” She stopped suddenly, hands over her mouth, dragging the words back in, as if by sheer force of will. Whatever she planned to say, I would never know. When I catch her eye, there’s anger, shame and something else within. I am not sure I want to know. *** I should tell you of the sore-throat which drove Hassan into the waiting, willing arms of Alima. Hassan’s bride; tall as a Russian model and graceful as an Arabian princess. The goddess who bumped into his world undoing months of bliss. She was perfection. Even Abu, who does not fancy the delicacy of women... yes, I can say that with conviction. Immaculate. Picturesque. Beautiful. Dainty. Young. Whenever she smiled, her dazzling white teeth with its beauty gap lit up the world. My once feathery blue, romance-laden sky, she transformed into a dull brown scourge of lonesomeness. Everybody loved her. I suspect they liked Hassan even more because of her. Nobody ever seemed to notice the slight limp on her left leg or its one extra toe. In the clinic where she worked as a nursing assistant, patients could not have too much of her. Complaints of their many imaginary illnesses met an attentive ear. She laughed when spindle-legged, dirty children with runny noses and swollen bellies came running into reception. They fought to sit on her laps not caring for the uniform and devoured the sweets she offered, scurrying off before they were hailed in for check-ups. The morning it all went wrong was foggier than usual. Hassan and I languished on my living-room cushion, wrapped up in sweaters and socks watching a repeat wrestling match on television. His sore throat had plagued him for almost one week. When he inhaled, it sounded like a fuel- starved truck moving up a steep hill. “Why don’t you go to the clinic?” I advised for the umpteenth time, bored and dozing off. Ray Mysterio was about to deliver a flying kick that would cost him a hip and the world wrestling entertainment title. “Anything they give you would be better than your warm water and salt therapy.” Hassan obliged. He went later that evening. He returned with lozenges minus his common sense. Hassan and I never discussed his relationship He would ask; “And how is sister Amina?” “Fine, Alhamdulillah.” “And the little one? Still giving you trouble?” “As always.” She should be paid in tears, then we’d be millionaires.” “Masha’Allah. I must pay you all a visit as soon as possible.” Then would follow the most uncomfortable silence during which time, we both struggled to keep our wooden smiles in place. He would gaze around while I head bowed, drew shapes on the earth. If he was waiting for me to ask, he will wait forever. With Alima, it was easier. She maintained the marriage would take place whenever Hassan wanted. I became used to knowing they were together but not together. Until Amina dropped the bomb. Hassan had come to our house in my absence, to seek her opinion on engagement rings. How dare he do this to me without warning? I shrugged off a jab of pain and conjured my killer smile, baring all the teeth. “I am very happy for them. May Allah bless it.” I felt prickly sweat below my epidermis. My body itched in one thousand different places and I was certain my face had crimsoned. “Rather fast though” I ventured to add squeezing all the fingers of my left hand with the right. Amina seemed amazed. “Abu he is perfect and he wants her.” In a way I pitied her. She still wasn’t over her obsession with him. “Alhamdulillah” was my reply. Like a hungry pig in a sty, I stalked them online and offline. I listened to gossip and loose talk, brought up their names in conversations which had nothing to do with them just to hear people’s opinions. Never was there any sign of a quarrel or break-up. Her social media photos and status updates spoke simply of passion and contentment to my disdain. I wept without shame. Every second was spent wishing a protracted illness upon my rival. Even when invitation cards for the marriage ceremony of Alima to Hassan were distributed, I persuaded myself something might still happen. I could bare my mind to Hassan and make him choose. A suspicion that his choice would not be in my favour delayed this occurrence. However, I gathered my courage days to their big day; helped in part by a modest codeine overdose. It was to be the turning point of my adult life; a confession once unfrozen, never to be forgotten. I spoke to my hero of a concealed love and to my surprise, he hugged me close and brushed the tears which streamed down my shamed face. I rubbed his off with the back of my palm and managed a shy smile. “Bu, I must marry her” were his words; using a name he called me only while we were alone. To my hungry ears and wounded heart, it seemed he said other things I longed to hear; “I’d rather have you.” “You will be there?” A statement more than a question. My nod was barely perceptible. In those moments, I struggled against a particularly intense wish to shout. This must be how heartbreak feels. “I won’t miss it Alfa” I replied, with my own nickname for him. We laughed awkwardly and somehow without thinking or even planning it, our lips touched. My palms cradled his face while his clutched my shoulders. The finger marks would be visible on my skin when I take off my jersey-turned-T-shirt later that evening. His taste was salty and our kiss long, broken only because in the end, we both needed air. It has been five months since her burial. Hassan left four months, three weeks and five days ago. You see, I keep count. As the moon, shining and shimmering in its orb takes over duty from our sun. When daughter and wife retire for the day and my house goes still. I pull aside huge curtains and peer at the scintillating stars. My thoughts are of Hassan; beautiful reveries of what different turns our lives could take in a different world. Too soon, my knees grumble and I seek the bed turning away from the back of my wife; the poor woman having given up on unimpressive appalling lovemaking, now comforts herself with sleep while I battle insomnia.

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Friday's Epiphany

Friday Omokhudu Momoh resolved at exactly six pm on Friday, the twenty fifth day of September, not to die. He came about this decision not after any deep thought as to the consequences or serious planning. Rather, while singing along to the tune of “All Things Bright and Beautiful” flowing into his room through the open window; from the enthusiastic choir of Miracles and Blessings Ministries- Center of Overwhelming Breakthroughs. He could pick out his wife’s voice; the loudest of the lot. This was to be the day of her deliverance from him after all. Of course, this is not why she suddenly became a believer. It also had nothing to do with the money she being a widow and all, would get from his office or his gratuity that was expected to follow; everything had been discussed in nerve wrecking detail. Bedridden and completely paralyzed on the right side from a stroke, Friday had pondered over his affairs a great deal in the last three months. He used to be a dark complexioned, middle aged man with big bulging eyeballs almost at opposite ends of his fat face, a small flat nose and thick Negro lips. Now, one of his cheeks was sunken like an inverted rainbow. His yellow teeth; from chewing too much tobacco, were tiny as a baby’s with an extra set jutting out from the upper jaw. A protruding stomach and very thin legs added a twist to his five feet, ten inches. The room in which he lay was bare, save for the bed and a calendar from last year hanging by a nail on the wall. It stank of piss but Friday was immune to the smell by now. Some tiles were missing from the floor. As he counted down the seconds until eight pm when his son would put on their generator, he saw them. The door opened an inch and a pair of red eyes peeped in. “What?” “It is six o’ clock. I have mixed it. Should I bring it?” Using his one good hand, Friday pulled out a note on which he scrawled haphazardly, “Wash trouser. Change bed sheet.” The boy folded his arms across his chest and a grimace slowly covered his face. This was not the answer he expected. He shut the door with a bang. Friday could hear music resonating from the living room. Returning his gaze to the crack, he observed a troupe of ants as they marched in and out of the hole. He seemed to blend into their lines which then spread out before him. He blinked. Friday was unusually tall for his sixteen years. He worked as a clerk in one of the big consumer goods stores in Ibadan. He looked distinguished in his "Employee of the Month" portrait hanging above the cashier's head. The job was simple, match whatever is on the shelves with the books. Sometimes, he took an item he fancied and wrote it off after all, one must eat from where one works. Every day, he made two trips wading through an assortment of sweet smelling perfumes, sweat and body odor as he joined old and young inside death-trap taxis setting off for different parts of the big city. “Bodija! Bodija! Enter with your change.” “Bodija before market. How much?” “Two-fifty oga.” “Two hundred nko?” “You get change?” “I get.” It was inside one of these infamous taxis seven years later, that he met Oghogho; the woman he would eventually marry. The first thing he noticed was how she looked too bourgeois for her environment despite the bathroom slippers she had on at seven in the morning. It took him twenty minutes before he asked, steeling his mind against her rejection; “Can I have your number?” He had startled her and she stared at him, surprised. The taxi went quiet; you could hear a pin drop. All eyes were on him and her, his face itched in one thousand different places. She looked him over before taking her slender palm off an expensive looking bag to collect his phone and key in the digits. He exhaled a sigh of relief. The passengers resumed their idle talk. The conductor gave him a thumbs up. For the rest of the journey, neither spoke and when she alighted, he paid her fare. They met at restaurants and parties and hotels. Life for him, became broad strokes of color. Everything and everyone was exciting. He liked looking forward to seeing her. He ditched buses and taxis for cabs and if a chauffeur fussed over money, he gladly abandoned his change. She never invited him to her home. He never asked. He gave her all he could spare and she never requested for more. If she slept off after they made love, he stayed awake and watched over her, running his fingers down her black velvety skin. When she told him she was pregnant, he wrote home and said he had found a wife. He blinked. Friday emptied the bowl of eba and well stocked egusi soup his wife laid before him. He reclined on the sofa and started to pick his teeth with his tongue. The triplets slept on a mat by the baby cot, inside which one of the twins slept. Oghogho sat on the chair opposite, cradling their only son and her growing stomach. “Give me more drinking water.” She leaped out of the chair and hurried to the drum were the tenants of 101, Olumide Avenue, stored water outside their face-me-I-face-you apartment. Skillfully pushing away dirt, she filled her husband’s stainless steel cup and returned. “How was the market today?” “Hmm, everything is so expensive. I bought half mudu of garri because the money was not enough. The way these children eat, it is only God that will save us.” “Hmm.” He knew she went to see her father. Had the old man finally capitulated to his only child? Since financing their wedding, they had not gotten a kobo from him. “Try and bring something home tomorrow o.” "From where? Did Chief Ovie keep money somewhere for his son in-law to collect? See, don't just annoy me." He turned away, feigning sleep. He was angry. It was a deep despair at being unable to provide no matter how hard he tried. He blinked. It was close to ten pm on Thursday, tenth of June. Friday had been on the highway for almost seven hours. His pocket was filled up with petty change; enough to hit Area One bar and spend on his new girlfriend before returning home. He took off the black cap and fanned his head. “This police work no be beans o” he admonished Aliu; his understudy. “Take over. I dey go rest small.” He sat on a log of wood under a tree and emptied his pockets. After months of begging and heavy spending, today he must seal the deal with Jennifer. While musing over their proposed date, an unusual sound caught his ears and he squinted. It was Isiaka, racing down the road in a crazed fashion. “Thief o. Thief o.” Ojo and Aminu on the other side, disappeared into the bush as shots cracked the tension filled air, putting an end to Isiaka and Aliu. Friday tried to move but his feet were frozen. The boy had bought them drinks for his birthday that morning. Blood pouring out of the hole in Aliu’s head got to him and formed paths on both sides of his feet. He felt nothing as bullets pumped into his chest and he collapsed writhing, a few centimeters from the now still bodies. He blinked as his eyes tore out of the crack. Friday realized he was naked. His trouser and the bed sheet lay on a heap by the door. His son, dressed in a white singlet tucked into super tight jeans held halfway down his buttocks using an imitation designer belt, stood by the bed holding a stainless steel cup. As the boy brought the cup close to his lips, Friday screamed incoherently; “Ahhh ahhh naaa naaa naaa wan da.” A teardrop rolled down his cheek as the cup jammed his teeth and its contents spilled unto the bed. The boy was furious. He pulled the pillow out from under his father and held it over his head. Their eyes locked for no more than a second and Friday could feel the boy's hatred. "I am sorry" he whispered, before the darkness crashed into him causing his ears to ring. Although, he struggled, it was useless. When his soul left his body, he shat and pissed himself.

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