RUMINATIONS

Gentlemen. Ladies. People. 

This is not a work of fiction. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Nor was it ever throughout the extensive phases of its development. I am not weaving tales today, as is often the case, where Fatima is concerned. 

It behoves me to confess that the product you are consuming is an unforeseen yet welcome consequence of multiple sterile attempts putting together a feature for my newest employer. A great friend of mine swore by his scrotal folds that my work, this one you presently ravish, falls under the category referred to as essays. I have accepted his words as true, and provided a befitting title to crown my words. 

Let us skip the niceties. They are almost always a waste of time. Without much doubt, you know me and what I do to maintain an honourable existence. In the spirit of cautiously craved success, I hereby begin our (fortuitous, I hope) relationship with a rendition of my truest thoughts; an autobiography of sorts if you will. Charles Dickens wrote Hard Facts. George Orwell exposed the danger of totalitarianism. Fatima offers you, her cognitive content on paper. 

You see, when the good people at Radio France International’s Mondoblog who deemed my application worthy asked what I shall be talking about on their platform, I replied: health, politics, and literature. To be quite clear, I fully intended to keep my word. 

But what can Fatima say about health that you do not already know? Consume less grease? Exercise more? Drink half a gallon of water per day? Disavow cigarettes and alcohol? A Johns Hopkins-led study found that those who don’t smoke, maintain a healthy weight, exercise, and make healthy food choices reduce the chance of death from all causes within that time frame by an astounding 80 per cent. However, if a tanker was to fall on you—and the probability of this happening in a city like Lagos is at worst significant, just like an overweight diabetic with cardiovascular disease, the angels will erase your name from their dossier before you ever set eyes on the gates of a hospital.

1. It is as shocking to me as it is to you. I read the acceptance email five times to be sure my glaucoma wasn’t jiving like that time it made me believe I was well on my way to winning the commonwealth’s five thousand dollars for a story I wrote in one week.

2. According to a 2021 census, about 3,000 tankers besiege Lagos state on a daily basis translating to an upsurge in deaths from trailer/tanker related accidents.

They say in Nigeria, you are one medical emergency away from losing your life. In no other place will these words play out with as much accuracy as the accidents and emergencies section of a typical healthcare facility. Apropos negligence, our private clinics are locked in combat with their disreputable cousins from the public sector. It is not uncommon for a patient in serious distress to give up the ghost having received neither empathy nor medical care, inside an infirmary manned by tenured agents of health. Whether we are in robust shape or decrepit, everyone shall exit stage left in the end. I have seen heads displaced from their bodies (upshot of a spat over soggy spaghetti between a knife-wielding elder brother and his reckless-talking younger sister) and stood witness as a whole human was grinded into marsh when he raced across the expressway in pursuit of whatever bread the day had to offer.Many wither away (through no fault of theirs) inside pristine hospital wards like the one in which I ply my trade, under the influence of heavy hitters such as cancer and hepatitis; surroundings a salad of dwindled hopes, bleach and air freshener. After seven years, death is no longer a dreaded caller. It’s a black mamba devoid of venom. The newspapers are filled with reports of a crowd keeping watch—phones in hands and video cameras on ready, as four young collegians of sound minds and bodies, were burnt to crisp; barbecue style, by an apoplectic mob for the crime of helping themselves to their debtor’s property.I dare not soil your imaginations by narrating other unhappy tales akin to this one. It suffices to beware that Nigeria is saturated with individuals scrounging through dregs of the economic ladder. And poor people have a nasty obsession with jungle justice. Let us leave our wellbeing in God’s hands and tackle politics were the only constant is a conspicuous lack of change. I beg you to consider the similitude of a man who inherits a house and some land—an heirloom, from his father. He lives in this building with his sons and tills the soil to provide food for his family. The homestead; a picture of pervading peace. Two hundred miles away, another man is kicked out of his home by the clan head of his village. He is told he and his offspring are no longer welcome; that his blood is impure. But both villages fall under the jurisdiction of a king who takes up the matter.

3. This particular event happened one unremarkable morning, on my way to a job which I loathed, but persevered at for two years. All of us passengers and our taxi driver paid the poor soul our full respects by devouring the scene for about six seconds, discussing life’s worthlessness for the next twenty, then promptly putting it out of our minds forever.

4. I am sometimes consumed by a terrible desire to send away relatives of deceased patients from wards and walkways. Their misery presents itself to me as a properly cast but horribly unwatchable movie like Adam Sandler’s The Cobbler.

Our monarch, against the definite demands of an overwhelming majority, solves the quagmire by carving out a small piece of earth belonging to the first man which he hands over to the second. Two families are thus pushed into becoming unwilling neighbours. Several years later, the second man; now rich in money, sons and allies, decides he wants everything. He accosts his host the same way his oppressor once did taunting: “Go away. All you own is mine. My forefathers occupied these lands two thousand years ago.” He cuts off his host’s water supply. To deny the victim entry and exit rights, he sets up roadblocks everywhere. Old and young are arrested by him; killed whenever he feels affronted. Allies, fearful of an insatiable bandit, propel his machinery of deceit by telling the world that this predator is protecting himself from the hate of his neighbour.The unfortunate host cries to the clan head who tells him: “I urge peace and restraint. Both of you have rights to your land.” He places himself at the mercy of the king whose contribution is: “Come to the palace. Let us share what is left of your land between you two.” If he and his children were to fight back against their tormentor—for persecution is indeed worse than slaughter, should we consider it atrocious? If they were to form a militia whose goal is to recover their stolen property, by what right can anyone label it a terrorist group? When a thief and his victim are enmeshed in an argument, can it ever be skewed against the thief? God worshipping is not a sign of truth or kindness in the hearts of men. Let us digress. According to WordWeb: Free English dictionary and thesaurus, - Hypocrisy is insincerity by virtue of pretending to have qualities or beliefs that you do not really have. Synonyms: falseness, hollowness, lip service. Congolese children as young as seven, for less than two dollars a day, go in the mines to harvest cobalt that ends up in our smartphones. We then use these gadgets to make long posts about the evil of child labour. Men are sold at auction inside modern-day slave markets in Libya following the very necessary liberation of the Libyan people from Muammar Gaddafi. It is of no consequence that they weren’t under any overt or covert distress. Or that the country was one of Africa’s most prosperous. Robbed of their local paradise, the desperate amongst our sons are left with no option but to stack themselves inside boats and undertake pernicious trips across the Mediterranean. For all their efforts, these immigrés sans papiers are more often than not, swooped up and thrown into jail cells in a country populated by individuals with a virulent hatred of visible melanin. Folk who fail to acknowledge that if their government and her friends stopped impoverishing us, we would not seek a third-class life amongst them. Twenty years and thousands of corpses later, nobody has chanced upon Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction (WMDs). Syria is a boiling cesspit of Isis, Al-Nusra, Hezbollah and Jabhat Fath al-Sham. In Afghanistan, the Taliban pushes Islam to the side and grows rich on the buying and selling of opium. These same turbaned sheikhs insist women remain indoors, wear the niqab outside their homes and not work. In France, the government orders women to expunge their hijabs and burqas. In Iran, women must not not wear their veils. My Nigeria, eager not to be left out in this buffet of madness, offers up for your culinary delight, a dish of evil-minded politicians who rule over overwhelmingly crooked citizens, throwing just enough splashes of good governance at their subjects, to keep us oppressed but satiated. Every four years, we slaughter ourselves for their ambitions, while they grow fat on our collective riches, clinging unto juicy positions with every vein of their existence until Satan himself, carts away their miserable souls. A governor in this cursed country was proud to announce on satellite television that he gifts five hundred naira and a backpack to every nursing mother post-delivery, because “five hundred naira is big money to the poor.” For reference, five hundred naira is one dollar and twenty-two cents. Once more, it is imperative we take a break from sombre politics to shine a torch instead, on my final and most delightful pick; literature. Borrowing a leaf from the phenomenal Oscar Wilde, I remind you that a narration—like this one, must never be viewed through the lens of morality. Stories are either well-written or badly-written. C’est tout. P.S if you’re a fan of the classics, there’s a huge wave by wokeists to make our beloved books “less offensive” by essentially rewriting them under the guise of removing “offensive verbiage.” You may want to grab a copy of your Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Death on the Nile, or James Bond, whilst they are still in the form Roald Dahl, Agatha Christie and Ian Fleming intended them. The sun will shine on those who stand before it shines on those who kneel under them. We have dispensed with the heavy stuff and must now tackle lighter issues. It occurs to me that my intentions ab initio for this new work position are of secondary importance. What I’d really like to do right now (clasps palms and clears throat multiple times) is talk about ... husbands. No, to the continuing dismay of my mother, I do not possess one. It is why I wish to discuss them. What can be more menacing in life for anyone, than the threat of lonesome old age? The lack thereof, of husbands in the lives of old maids like me, warrants research or at least a diagnosis. Yes Madame la Féministe, once a lady—irrespective of her accomplishments, crosses the dreaded thirties without a companion by her left and right, in front of her sagging face and behind her aching back, she gains membership into a special consortium. Bienvenue à cette assemblée spéciale mes sœurs. You may pick a seat from the unlimited options available. On commencera très bientôt. To kick-start proceedings, we should elucidate the key issues: i. We do not have husbands. ii. We are not averse to the notion of acquiring these desirables. iii.We do not despise the emotional companionship offered by marriages and/or civil partnerships. iv. We are not physically displeasing. There are amongst us, a few stunners. v. Our spinsterhood is NOT a psychological issue stemming from “childhood trauma.” Therapists in the audience should please take note. vi. We would like to own that certainty of self which allows one to take a pick from the table-spread and say, “this one is mine.” Directory of hypotheses: i. None of the suitors en lice can offer a life more pleasant than what we have, thus presenting a win-loss situation, with us at the losing end of the bargain. ii. The proliferation of closet homosexuals on the prowl for the perfect camouflage wife. Beware of 40+ “never been married” Abuja guys. iii. Men whose estate total one car, desirous of a prey to bear responsibility for their feeding, clothing, housing and sexual urges, in return for a spurious romance. The first question these clowns ask their potential prey on a date is, “do you live alone?” It is followed by “do you like cooking?” iv. If you are from my neck of the Sahara, you must give serious consideration to the possibility that your village people are at work on your case. v. Etc. I hereby open the floor to comments, contributions and possible solutions.

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Ode To A Love Affair

He was a blooming acacia in the desert wasteland that fed me life. 

Brown limbs shooting far and wide poisoned every crevice of my shrivelled epicentre with love. 

The gentle breeze and blazing heat extolled his virtues. 

Adorning him with sweet smelling pom-poms which ferried me back twenty years. 

To the era of sand castles and Aunty Bilkisu’s raw honey mixed into our breakfast pap. 

When the earth cracked from under us, thirsting for blood, I learned fortitude from his steadiness. Verily, with every hardship comes ease. 

Saints, allow me eulogize my lover. I was genie and his desires were master. 

Allah’s vicegerent ordered ghusl and sixty days of fasting. 

Sikiratu, he said, face turned away like I was fresh excreta, the baby in your womb came from zina—one of the worst sins. 

In our Khulthum’s mouth, two tiny teeth sprout from premature gums. 

I am Pa and Ma. Teacher and Playmate. Beginning and End. 

Do I confess that a vengeful revenant poured venom into her father’s heart? 

He is on my lips and my breasts. 

On the red cushions and naked wardrobe. 

In this place where he really truly lived, only an echo remains. 

Nothing is crueller than crushing silence. 

Love has made a mad woman of me. 

She who stakes claim may try to sponge my stripes but he will remember. 

I am hope. 

Like streaks of light dancing through darkness, welcoming dawn. 

I am the cackling dance of mother hen around well-fed chicks. 

Scented grains of sand quenching their thirst in a storm. 

I am joy and laughter uninhibited. 

A scarlet letter is just that ... alphabet on cloth. 

I am his heaven from her hell.

The Plea

The boy stood barefooted before the elders of his village. A remarkably thin and bronze complexioned youth, he was tall for his seventeen years and cursed by the devil with an effeminate kind of handsomeness. Blood gushed from a wound under what remained of his nose. A strip of black fabric knotted at both sides covered his privates. The wise old men of the kingdom; all naked, save for red damask wrappers tied around their waists, sat on low wooden stools. Their sombre expressions and a noticeable absence of either kolanut or palm wine bore witness to the nature of the boy’s crime. They had decided on his guilt, and this was judgement—what to do with him and how to do it. The mutilated, decaying remains of his father lay exposed on a dirty brown sack. No one recoiled from the stench. To his right, his mother, stripped bare, sprawled on the sand, pleading for mercy. Her long, intricately woven braids were scraped off and her breasts hung loose like full buckets of water. They plastered her with ashes from her head to her toes. Three women stayed behind her, dispensing slaps whenever her crying caused a distraction. Pa Osagie; the most senior in the group cleared his throat. Satisfied everything was in order, he commanded: “Speak Nosakhare.” The accused ran his palms over his chest. “It happened during the early hours of Oba market day. Baba’s shouting woke me. At first, it sounded as if he and mama were having their normal arguments, but his voice grew louder and angrier. When I got to their room, I saw him squeezing her neck. I grabbed his legs, begging him to free her. She was making strange sounds. He colour began to change. He said we wanted to kill him with juju but he will ruin our plans.” “Lies, Oghogho,” Pa Osamuyi yelled at the boy’s mother who seemed to have an unlimited supply of tears. “Tell us what you did to my brother or I swear, the gods will strike you down by nightfall. You killed him before he could take yams to Idahosa’s house. Because your son has been testing the daughter. Eating from his father’s plate. Coveting his own father’s betrothed.” Two drops fell from the swollen eyes of the unfortunate soul and he brushed them off as if their presence shamed him. His demeanour changed, and the thick lips parted. His mother’s heart pounded against her breast as with her very being, she willed him not to confess that truth. Nosakhare recovered fast. He frowned at the rotting mass beside him and his uncle. In his look, a clear warning. “Allow him finish,” Pa Osagie grumbled, aware that he had lost a golden opportunity to discover the reason for this madness. “Papa left her and dived under their bed for his cutlass. I sharpened it that morning. He looked at me weird and somehow, I knew he meant for us to die. I dragged Iye from the floor and begged her to run away fast. She disappeared into the bush and I, Idemudia...me, his first son...he chased me round and round our house. At the back, he tripped on a stump from the mango tree and fell on our grinding stone. His whole body shook and went still. There was no reason to call for help since he was died on the spot.” As if as an afterthought, the accused cried out: “How is his death our fault? Idahosa knows I have never been alone with his daughter. I can swear to it. When I go to their house, it is not to see her. Why should you punish us for my father’s misfortune?” He untied the cloth around his waist and let it drop the ground. Limping a little, he grabbed his mother by the stomach and lifted her from the sand, supporting her weight with his injured shoulder. “Continue,” Pa Osagie instructed, choosing calmness in the face of such defiance. “Get to the end.” “I left to get mama. Together, we brought him into the bush and cut him. She put the parts into a sack while I dug the hole. We buried him as fast as we could.” Horror plastered itself across the face of the old men when the boy finished his tale. Their red eyes, like admirers of a mural in a studio pierced into him, seeking perhaps, a glimpse into his soul. Only Idahosa looked unfazed. He drew shapes on the earth with his biggest toe. Pa Osagie was the first to break the silence. “Osifo was as wicked as two devils but where did you and your mother find the strength for such...wickedness to his corpse?” “Tell it again,” he whispered in his bird-like voice. “Maybe I will understand this time. You are leaving out something or perhaps there is a hidden meaning to your words.” Hearing this, the boy’s mother heaved a sigh and fell. It was clear she would never rise again. One flick of the old man’s finger and the women dragged away her corpse. “Now it is just us men, Nosakhare. Tell me the truth, but mind that your life depends on it.”

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Apocalypse

I zip up my raincoat, grab a cutlass, readjust an oversized helmet and double-check the torch hiding next to my privates. It’s not dark enough here to use it, I decide. My destination is a wide cave within the rocks behind my house. I pray I find it empty or somebody may be doing some dying. My mother says a quick prayer and draws the sign of the cross over my head. In Igarra, one of few surviving cities, the end of the world is an everlasting, moonless night pregnant with untold horrors. The black sky tears open in pain as waves of shattering thunderstorms give way to sparks of blood-red lightning. Powerful quakes burst the earth open, swallowing strong men whole. Ravaging flood pours—drops like spikes. Some people, lighting their way with various devices, speak of happier times. Of a once shining sun and scintillating stars. They claim God ordered Angel Jibril to blow his golden trumpet before time as a punishment for our sins. A young boy calls out for help whilst I’m hurrying past. I stop and ask where he is headed. Instead of answering, his tiny hands stretch out, enveloping my legs in a death grip. I shake my torch. It lights his fingers. They resemble talons. I stare at the blind, milky eyes for some seconds before shoving him off. A couple more steps and I stumble over Prophetess Grace’s mangled corpse lying by the roadside. She used to be my brother’s lover. Her hairless head resembles a pest-infested corn farm. Why did I ever lust after her? It seems like ages ago that I watched her from our hideout, dancing round a burning quarry. “Follow me and the spirits shall keep you safe from that” she cried, pointing to the ravenous pit. The devil’s soldiers donned in glittering crowns of thorns and riding giant, silver horses, gallop towards me. Satan himself, informs me that in less than three hours, I’d be damned enough to earn my place amongst his party. The coldness of his words causes a shiver down my spine. I fall to the ground and kiss the sand between his feet. He lifts me up by a single, blood-red, flaming fingernail and carves the infamous cursed letters into my forehead. I feel faint, but when I touch my skin after, it is uninjured. A blinding headache seizes me upon entering what was once my family home. There’s thick smoke like a midday shadow drifting out the open windows. I sense movement. Whether man or beast, I cannot tell. It excites me, though I run off as fast as my legs can manage. I convince Baba, Mama and Ayo to make the journey as soon as I return. We stay on a line; palms latched onto shoulders of the person in front. I remain in charge of our only weapon. The torchlight flickers, stays on for two seconds and dies. Halfway through, Mama suddenly stops and starts crying. Something cold has wrapped itself around her feet, she mutters. I sense a kindred spirit. Deep in my subconscious, I order the snake to seek another victim and it vanishes. She begs us to try our luck out of town. Somewhere like Okene where there’s still a little daylight, at least. We’d have to deal with the pygmies; mean spirited imps ready to devour anything with a heartbeat. She and Baba have a fierce, low-toned argument which ends with Ayo smacking her hard on the face. “Sorry,” he whispers. We arrive and they race inside, leaving me to play sentinel. Baba used to say while massaging shea butter into my misshapen knees; “Fear is your only enemy. You must fight for your rights, Yomi.” It’s a different man who envelopes Mama in a bear hug, terror splattered all over his sixty-three-year-old face, cheeks hanging loose like full buckets of water. I watch their heads bang, teeth gnash, and listen to a steady stream of prayers flow back and forth. They disgust me. My fingers twitch around the cutlass as hate courses through my veins. I lift the weapon and strike.

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Fear (A Poem) #repost

 Have tasted my fear?

Fear that creeps from the edge of your toenails to the tip of your tongue, vivid like bitterest gall.

Fear that plays on the chords of your soul like an accordion, offering on a platter, salvation laced with damnation.

Fear that sings an ode to your life: a fleeting, tasteless, undeserving memoire.

Fear that forces you to anticipate the hours, minutes and seconds before you die.

Have you tasted a fear so dire, your heart sizzles in its presence, swelling and shrinking like a frightened gazelle.

Fear which like a starved coyote, devours your mind until nothing is left of you but stale blood and withered flesh.

Fear which digs its rabid canines into your tensioned nerves making them bark in and out of tune.

Fear which swells and festers once the three hands of that old, grandfather clock strike the unholy hour, yet impotent, lies in wait from dawn till dusk.

Fear which stakes a claim as confidante and tormentor, carting you from the botheration of society into blessed solitude.

Fear which makes cockroaches of strong men.

I ask again: have you tasted my fear?

A Requiem for Izuafa

You did something evil ... mean ... wicked to he who was dear to me as my own self. You feasted on his naivety because you found him pliable. You were consistent and decisive in your words and actions. You made your victim’s life a torment while promising power. You left nothing but destruction in your wake. He succumbed so you sought out his kin to continue what you began. The world would have been better if were you never born. You were like a traveling salesman, only what you purveyed was death and destruction. 

Now years have passed. Boys have become men. The past is a distant memory. You are a new person ... a rebranded copy of your old detestable self. You have even found God. A couple children bearing your name and one could not imagine the new you used to be the old you. But you are mistaken in the security of self you feel. 

Old things have not passed away. Old things will never pass away. You must partake in the feast you laid out long long ago. How can it be that you do not suffer for your sins? If fiends who roam in the dark wish you well, surely the morning angels must snatch joy off your hands. I do not forgive. I refuse to forgive. Not for the sin of murder but for the torment that followed. You are cursed in this world and in your grave and in the hereafter. You are cursed for all eternity because your existence ab-initio is an anomaly.

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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Sweet Melody

The foreigner walked into Rock of Ages Medical Center on a fateful hot afternoon in July, wearing a white agbada and shiny black palm slippers. His left shoulder bore the weight of an old, yellow guitar. He must have walked a long distance for his first request to the receptionist was if she'd be so kind to help him with a glass of chilled water, which he swallowed in one gulp. He looked around as though convincing himself of the suitability of the place. 

“No, he was not sick; not like your kind of sickness anyway; hahahahhahahaha.” 

“No, he was not here to see any patient.” 

Matilda, the beautiful, middle-aged lady manning the front desk quickly lost interest. She moved on to the lady behind him. The foreigner walked straight down the corridor and took a left turn. The label on the door facing him read; "Consulting room 1." Directly opposite him was an open, square shaped field housing the Storex tank that supplied the hospital with borehole water. Some nice-smelling flowers grew there as well. To the extreme right, two rooms labelled "Female ward 1" and "Female ward 2" stood. Next to ward 2, a narrow walkway led to the male section. The foreigner smiled. It seemed he had found what he wanted. 

He matched into the flower bed. 

He struck a chord on his guitar. 

Anita Ekundayo; deaf from birth in both ears was in the nursing station simultaneously talking down her husband and getting an ugly bruise under her elbow dressed up, when as she calls it, "the apocalypse" began. “Nurse Grace not only stopped responding but she carefully put the wet swab and scissors back inside the tray and matched out arms akimbo like a bewitched clay statue.”  

“I shouted at her; you know how loud I get when I am talking so you can imagine but she couldn't hear nothing. I even tried to drag her back before she joined them but she did not budge at all.” 

“Them?” 

“Yes ke. All the patients from female wards, male wards, the ones in the consulting room, the people at the reception; the ones that came to visit their family and friends, even Dr Ogedengbe. I have never ever seen that kind of witchcraft before o.” 

She quickly drew a circle around her head with her thumb and middle finger, before spitting at her left side. “All of them gathered around him inside the verandah.” 

The foreigner regarded his disciples. They watched him in a frenzy. Unsatisfied, he struck another chord with an evil grin. 

Waves of happiness coursed through the veins of the lost souls. It felt as though all that they desired had become a part of them. They shivered in the heat; cheeks flushed red, skin goose pimpled, happy beyond all imaginable limits. Like zombies in need of human nourishment, they gawked at him, wishing and willing him to play, begging with their eyes, their tongues lacking the power to form words.

The matron and Nurse Vivian who never saw eye to eye, held hands and wept in joyful bliss. Two ward orderlies kissed like their lives depended on it. They felt nothing as they bit off and chewed pieces of lip and tongue. The mortician wept profusely until he turned red. It was quite a sight to watch the old, bent man wail while making a solemn vow to release every single body in the morgue. Dr. Ogedengbe and a student nurse took off their clothes and started making love right there on the floor.

Thee foreigner held out his guitar to be worshipped. They all lined up to kiss and cradle it and Mr. Bayo; the gateman who stood at the end of the line, wriggled his thumbs; to show how impatient he was. 

The foreigner stated at the gathering before him again and struck a chord. Then, he walked out of the building. His disciples came filing out behind him with their hands by their sides and their necks seemingly unable to support the weights of their drooping heads. 

 About ten kilometers from the gate of the hospital, a deep ditch had been dug by the road reconstruction company. The foreigner stopped here and struck another chord causing everybody in the street-standing, sitting, walking, driving, riding or running- to fall to the ground and embrace the scorching earth with overwhelming affection.

Yet again, the foreigner struck a chord and the first patient; Adedayo Bankole who'd had his appendix removed that morning, jumped. Next was Mrs. Ladipo with the bleeding peptic ulcer. Turn by turn, all the patients jumped until only the foreigner was left. 

The foreigner then rested against the rampart, played high notes for almost five minutes, laid down his guitar and jumped. 

As dawn arose the next day and the thick fog around the hospital perimeter cleared miraculously, not a single body could be found.

YAWM ALFASL

I dream of Yawm alfasl; the unending night pregnant with untold horrors. A lifeless moon eclipsed by blackened skies. Ravaging flood and terrible thunderstorms. Earth torn open from powerful underground quakes. Folk speak of ages past; of a once glittering sun and scintillating stars. We take to the mountains and caves, like Moses’s kindred in the beginning. 

I awake in a cold sweat trembling from fear and exhaustion. There’s movement in the room; impossible to tell whether man or beast. I lay still till Nurse comes in, carrying a tray of injections. Maybe she’d be kind and unlock my chains today. 

originally published at 101words.org

MARYAM'S RAMADAN

“Salam alaikum sister Maryam. Can I have a word?” Amina shouted gathering together her jilbab and struggling through the crowd to reach a sister who was leaving the mosque in a hurry.

Maryam rolled her eyes in frustration and turned to face the Amirah ruing her failed escape.

“Salam alaikum Amirah.”

“Wa alaikum salam. Ah my jilbab is out again” Amirah Amina said in a mocking tone fingering the blue flowing veil.

Maryam, ever willing to get into the raging war between hijabis and non-hijabis chuckled in reply;

“Jazakallahum khairan. I want to boost my iman too.”

“Masha’Allah may He make it permanent for you. I hope we plan to finish the Qur'an this Ramadan?”

“Insha'Allah Amirah.” She knew she had no chance of finishing the holy book in thirty days. Even last Ramadan's missed fasts were still unpaid.

“You are joining the recitation group right?”

“Your name's not here, but I told Amir it must be an error.” She waved the list like a prize.

Maryam faintly remembered the lecture on Surat Al-Kahf and people passing a sheet of paper round before dozing off as she always did during these meetings.

“Yes, I'll join.”

“Masha'Allah sister au revoir then.” This greeting was her way of chastising her for studying French in the university when the ummah needed doctors, lawyers, engineers and Arabic speakers. The day she informed her of the admission, Amirah only said;

“If you can study French, then why not Arabic? It is after all the language of the grave and hereafter sister.”

The Muslim community in Maryam's small town made up 5% of the total population and she was the only female in her street who often wore a religious veil. She wondered how it felt to show-case long curly hair everyday as other girls.

Ramadan was her favorite time of the year. Her family had tea and toast for Sahur while Iftar was always a party; assorted meals in such great quantities, the entire family couldn’t finish them. There were free date-palms for everybody. The northerners selling beef reduced their prices for Muslims.

The mosque environment transformed into an Islamic literature bazaar during Ramadan; Qur'an recitation blasting morning till night from speakers. Tarawiyy and tahajjud prayers are not compulsory so, Maryam sleeps to the comforting sound of the imam reciting surat after surat. As she shuffled for an ablution spot and any available space for salat, she always experienced an inner glow. Rich, poor, white and colored folks cramped together bowing to a common creator. She reveled in this feeling of comradeship; the knowledge that she was part of a global movement.

Adherents overflow the mosque during Ramadan’s first few days. As the season progressed, the number of devotees declines until only those who steadfastly observed their five daily prayers like her remained.

After saying Ma'salam to Amirah, she got into her car and her delicate fingers hovered above the stereo. In a flash, she picked up her iPhone and deleted all the secular music making a mental note to wipe off her nail polish too. She promised herself one juz of the Qur'an per day; if this didn’t succeed, by Allah “Actions are judged by intentions.”

The phone rang and Muaz appeared on its screen. He it was who’d introduced her to the wonders of fornication since they met. He looked harmless that day, hiding behind brown eyes and a shy smile. Three weeks ago, she was a virgin and now, she is a professional. She knew X-rated sites to visit for help when necessary. They hugged, kissed and sexed routinely but she still held back from shaking hands with other men. Whenever she clipped her veil, she reflected on the four characteristics of a hypocrite as stated by the Prophet. Deep stares into the faces of other sisters could not help her guess at who else lived her kind of double life.

Muaz was waiting for her in his briefs. He didn’t believe in salat so he spent jumat sleeping. They embraced and true to style, he carried her into the bedroom where they fell on the bed. She looked into his eyes happy and carefree. He smiled back kissing her slowly at first and then, hungrily while their bodies danced to match the raw emotion. Theirs was a union doomed to exist in the shadows forever. She matched force with force and when he tore off her bra, she shoved him off.

“Babe what's the matter?”

“Nothing” she replied overcoming an urge to cry.

“Why did you stop?” he asked placing his palm on her shoulder while using the other to cover his bulging erection.

She flinched and leapt up onto the chair facing him, clasping and unclasping her palms.

“I just feel we shouldn't be doing this. Let's discuss something else…anything maybe Ramadan."

“Good grief, not today” grumbled the man. He covered his face with a pillow.

“I have to go” she said with a jump but Muaz leapt up locking their bodies to the wall and silencing her unsaid words with passionate kisses.

From afar, a nagging feeling overwhelmed her. Maryam wriggled free and fled.

She turned on the car ignition and tried to steady her thoughts.

“Alhamdulillah” she proclaimed.

She knew they would eventually have sex again, but she was glad knowing the night won't be spent performing Istighfar, seeking forgiveness. A glow illuminated her soul, and she was so lost in it that, she did not see the bend fast enough, driving straight through the weak bridge abutment into the nothingness below.