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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