Born on a Tuesday (11 page)

‘I did not want to intervene when the matter became heated at first. It is important for all of you to come to an agreement by yourselves not pushed by me or by His Excellency. Now that we have reached a good conclusion, we can say it is your conclusion. Not ours. Peace is easier that way.'

There are photographers, who will take group pictures in front of the deputy governor's office. Sheikh asks me to stand by his side. My stomach is trembling just standing with all these men.

One of the men wearing a dark suit in the deputy governor's convoy takes off his large glasses momentarily and I see that he has one bad eye. He wipes his face with a handkerchief. The scar on his bad eye is unmistakable. I saw that scar every day when I was in Bayan Layi. He may be bigger and scarier but he is the same person I knew in Bayan Layi. I keep staring at him, trying to catch his eye, to see if he will recognise me. He keeps looking around with his mouth bunched like he was about to punch someone. I try to think of his name. I cannot remember calling him anything other than his street name. And I cannot just call out ‘Acishuru.' He jogs with three others behind the deputy governor's car as it starts moving slowly until it picks up speed and zooms off. I wish I could stop him and ask about Gobedanisa and if they saw Banda's body after the police shot him. I wonder where I would be now if I did not run away from Bayan Layi.

Men from the deputy governor's office come to each of our convoys with big brown paper bags.

Sheikh asks what they are carrying.

‘A gift from His Excellency,' the man says.

‘Please open the bag.'

Sheikh peeps in it.

‘Ah no!' Sheikh says. ‘Not money, no. Please.'

The Shiite malam is looking at us from where his cars are parked.

He too refuses the bag he is given. The two men carrying the gifts walk away.

On our way back Malam Yunusa says, ‘But Sheikh, forgive me if I say what I shouldn't, but haven't we conceded too much?'

‘No we haven't.'

‘But what of the mosque? And the car which was damaged when they attacked? Who will pay for that?'

‘Malam Yunusa, the matter is not as simple as you see it. They did not attack me.'

‘Haba? Then who did?'

‘I do not want to sin by assuming. But I am sure that the Shiites are not the ones who shot me. When I am sure of it, I will tell you.'

‘May Allah forbid evil.'

At the mosque, Sheikh asks me to organise the notes and give them to Sale to type and print out. Sale is one of the boys in our movement whom Sheikh had sent to the big computer school in town. He has now been employed as a typist.

‘You, when will you learn how to use the computer, or do you want me to beg you?' Sheikh says to me as he walks out of his office.

‘No, Sheikh. I will learn. I will ask Sale to teach me.'

‘I want it all typed by evening tomorrow. You can go and rest now, but you must sit with him until he finishes typing.'

I nod.

When we began renovations after the attack on our mosque, the owner of one of the biggest computer stores in the market, who prays at our mosque, made a donation of a printer and two computers—one laptop and one desktop. I have seen computers in photocopying shops but I have never seen one this close.

I do not like Sale. His long bony fingers are always twirling matchsticks in his ears. I do not think he is smart at all. He stammers and, astaghfirullah, he reminds me of an earthworm with the way he does everything so sluggishly. I wonder how someone so sluggish and dull can learn to use something as complicated as a computer.

I wake up two hours later to the sound of an explosion and gunshots. I run out to see what is happening. People are running in the direction of the mosque. Some run past and some run in. The soldiers have gone crazy and are beating people randomly at the junction. A boy tells me that someone on a motorcycle tried to attack the checkpoint at the junction. The police shot him. No one knows who the man is.

Sheikh calls to ask if anything is going on in the mosque. I tell him everything is fine and that the commotion is at the junction.

‘These fools want to spoil all of what we have achieved today. I have called everyone. Nothing happened in the mosque, so this is none of our business. We will carry on as if nothing happened. I don't even want people to gather and talk about it. Try and stay in if you can please. Don't go making enquiries that don't concern you.'

‘OK, Sheikh,' I say.

I am worried about Jibril. I try his number. He has not been around since I came home. His phone is switched off. We must talk about this annoying habit of his when I see him; a phone should be kept on in case there is a problem and one needs to be reached. Otherwise what is the point of having a phone? I make my way to Malam Abdul-Nur's house, avoiding the main roads, where the policemen and soldiers are. Jibril goes there sometimes to run errands for his brother's wife or to eat food.

‘Salamu alaikum,' I call out, standing in the zaure. There is no response. I am pushing the reed curtain aside to call out again, when I see the image of two people through the window across the courtyard. It is hard to make out what is happening. I know I shouldn't go in but I step closer and see Jibril, his hands in the air, trying to get into his caftan. A woman walks across, her hair uncovered, clutching a wrapper across her chest. I would not know what Malam Abdul-Nur's wife looked like if I saw her because she never steps out of the house. I walk back and stand outside the house.

Some minutes later Jibril walks out of the house. At first he is shocked to find me there but then he just turns away and continues walking.

‘Why is your phone off?' I say angrily, trying to catch up with him.

He doesn't respond. I ask again and then he retorts, ‘The battery died.'

‘Don't go that way,' I say as he tries to turn onto the main road leading straight to the mosque. ‘The soldiers have started harassing people. Somebody on a motorcycle threw a firebomb at the checkpoint. They shot him and then started harassing everybody.'

We walk in silence until we reach the mosque from the narrow path behind the motor park.

‘What were you doing?' I ask as soon as we enter our room. I cannot hold it any longer.

‘What do you mean what was I doing?'

‘Don't lie to me Jibril, I am not a fool.'

‘I went to run some errands.'

‘Errands with your clothes off ko?'

‘Who said I took my clothes off?'

‘I saw you Jibril, stop lying! And I saw her too covering herself with a wrapper.'

He is grinding his teeth and staring into the ground. I sit on the bed right in front of him.

‘Jibril?'

‘Jibril!'

‘Wallahi, you will not understand,' he says, his voice breaking.

‘Understand what?'

I feel my own heart beating and my hands are shaking.

Many minutes pass. I do not know what to feel, what to say or if I should say anything. I start walking out of the room. Just when I am at the door, he starts.

‘He treats her like a donkey.'

‘What?' I pretend not to have heard him.

‘Like a donkey. He treats her like an animal that he despises. Some days he locks her in her room without any food because his food is cold or there is too much salt or not enough salt. He beats her with a tyre whip. He forces things into . . .'

He stops. Tears start to flow and then he starts sobbing.

‘He forces things into her . . . into her . . . anus! Candles. Bottles. He flogs her with the tyre whip when they are doing it. Some days she faints.'

I sit with him. I want to put my arm around his shoulders but I don't. All of a sudden I feel stupid for giving him such a hard time.

‘Don't worry,' I say. ‘It's not my business. I didn't see anything.'

He snuffles. The sound of his breath is heavy in the silence. It is hard to imagine both of them naked. I wonder what his face would look like, if he would look at her while he was doing it or if he would look away, if they would say anything to each other or just be quiet.

‘Is it nice?' I ask.

‘Yes,' he giggles, wiping his eyes. ‘Very.'

OBSESS

1. Never stop thinking about something: to occupy somebodys thoughts constantly and exclusively.
   
2. Be preoccupied: to think or worry about something constantly and compulsively.
   

Aisha is in my heart like a spirit. When I close my eyes I see her. I open my eyes and any girl that is wearing a green hijab looks like her. She is the girl I am dreaming
. Sometimes
of. Sometimes when she comes in the dream, her face is another persons face or sometimes she is not wearing green hijab. Sometimes she is not even wearing hijab at all and her body is like some of those bodys in EVERY WOMAN. Sometimes I wake up and I am sweating and my trouser is wet. Every time I wake up when my hand is almost touching her body.

I think I am OBSESS.

WHY

Sometimes
a man
somebody is asking me why I am doing something or why I say something and I don't like it. Because it is not
all time
every time that
person
I will know the why. Sometimes you do something and it is only after that you think of the why. Sometimes there is no why. Like if somebody ask me why Aisha is making my chest to do somehow do I know? I just know that when I see her then I will feel something in my chest.

PART FOUR

A Taste of Haram

2010

When I read old magazines from outside Nigeria, I see how foreigners are always concerned with explaining things that have already happened. Everyone wants to tell you what someone was thinking, why someone did a thing, why someone said something. There is no way a person can know such things about another person. Allah alone knows the heart of a person. In the beginning, when I started reading, I too wanted to know why things happened. But time has taught me it is useless. Sometimes you let Allah do His things. What, apart from more unhappiness, is the use of trying to look into what only Allah knows and destines? Surely a man is happier just accepting the destiny of Allah.

But sometimes, astaghfirullah, I wish I could change some of the things that Allah has destined for us to do. I wonder if He also destines it when we engage in acts that are haram. Some things come back to you and you wish your life was like book and you could find that page in your life and tear it out.

Two months ago, not long after I found him with his brother's wife, Jibril asked me, as we went to buy a bag of rice for Sheikh, if I had ever slept with a woman. I wanted to lie to him that I had touched many girls in Bayan Layi the way I knew Banda and Gobedanisa did, but I couldn't lie to Jibril. There is a way he looks at me that makes lying difficult. Plus he tells me everything and I do not think that he lies to me. I know I might have touched girls if I had stayed a bit longer there.

‘Let me take you to a place,' Jibril said.

‘What place?'

‘A place where you can meet women.'

‘Haba Jibril. How do you know a place where there are women and I don't know the place.'

‘It is because you do not want to know.'

‘What if someone sees you?'

‘That is why we will not use a microphone to tell the whole world we are going there ai.'

I looked around to make sure no one was listening.

‘There are two places,' he began, ‘one near mammy market and one behind the tipper garage.'

‘What kind of women?'

‘All sorts. Whichever you want. I have been there twice. The ones near mammy are more expensive because many people go there. But the ones behind tipper garage are cheaper.'

‘Kai, Jibril, I am not sure about this.'

‘When do you want to learn? Is it when you are married?'

‘So you still go there even with her?'

His eyes dropped when I mentioned his brother's wife.

‘I stopped going there when we started.'

‘So you stopped and you want me to start ko?'

‘Well you don't have anyone and I am not wanting you to do anything. I am only telling you there is a place. If you want, tell me and I will take you. Nobody is forcing you to do anything.'

He stood up and walked out of the room. I felt bad raising the issue of his brother's wife.

For two days I thought about this. On the third day, after countless dreams with all sorts of strange women, I spoke to Jibril right after maghrib prayers.

‘How much do I need for that thing?'

‘What thing?'

‘The thing you said you would show me.'

‘Which one of them?'

‘The cheaper one.'

‘Like five hundred for one hour.'

‘Five hundred?'

‘How much do you have?'

‘Sheikh gave me three thousand to pay for his clothes with the tailor this evening and there is three hundred fifty change. I know he won't ask for it. But I want to give him anyway. I don't want him to start mistrusting me.'

‘So, go to Sheikh now and give him the change. And if he says you can keep it, I will give you the remaining hundred fifty tomorrow.'

‘What if he doesn't give me the change?'

‘You worry too much. Go and ask first.'

Sheikh let me keep the change.

We went the next day after isha prayers. As we did not want anyone to see us or ask us where we were going, we did not take a motorcycle. We walked for a while, until we reached the tipper garage. Outside there were people with little kerosene lamps selling kolanuts and fried fish and suya and gurasa. Walking right through the darkness where the large trucks were resting for the night, we went past little red glows and people whispering in corners and open smelly gutters before bursting out onto a narrow street. From different small houses the music—Indian and Hausa—mixed with strong incense and tobacco came at us, strongly. Some of the women in front of the houses were standing alone, smoking, while others chatted with men.

‘Babban yaya!' one girly voice called out to us from in front of a compound.

I turned to Jibril and he motioned with his head for us to go over. I grabbed him as I reluctantly made my way towards the voice.

‘I don't bite. Come closer. Don't you want to see what you are buying?'

It made my stomach rumble that she could tell in the darkness that I was afraid. She had dark lips, a nose ring and a gold mecca tooth. Her scarf was halfway down her head, showing the front part of her curly hair. It was hard to tell if she was young or an older woman trying to look young.

Jibril got in front of me and held her hand which had black and red lalle patterns. I was shocked at how bold he was.

‘My friend is looking for someone to give him a nice time.'

‘The friend is dumb?'

‘He has never . . .'

She smiled.

‘Overnight or an hour?'

‘An hour,' Jibril said.

He gave me a gentle push and said he would be waiting there when I finished.

‘Switch off your phone,' he said, ‘just in case they call you.'

The woman threw the gum she had been chewing in the waste bin in front of a room inside the compound. There were large posters of Indian actors as well as cutouts of naked white women. The bed was just a large mattress on the linoleum floor in the left corner. In the right corner was a table with a mirror, a kerosene lantern and a small clock.

‘Do you want the light off or on?'

‘Whatever,' I said.

‘You need to relax or else you will not enjoy it. And you will still have to pay me for the hour.'

She dumped her clothes on the table and turned down the lantern. The dimness of the light seemed to have reduced the sounds wafting in from outside. I stared at her shadow on the wall.

‘Help me,' she said, turning her back to me.

I struggled for a few seconds before unhooking her bra. She didn't complain. A bra is an interesting piece of clothing. I wonder who came up with the complicated idea.

My eyes followed the bra to the table.

‘Take off your clothes.'

I find that the times that the rope of your trouser refuses to come undone are the times when you are desperate, like when you need to pee urgently. But when you don't need it to come undone, you have to keep tightening it.

‘Can I see this?' I asked, pointing at the bra.

‘Is this how you want to spend your hour or will you fuck me?' She threw the bra in my face.

I had never heard a woman use the phrase ‘ci ni' before. Especially not a naked woman. It shocked and excited me all at once. Air seemed to leave the room and it became harder to breathe. My penis hardened into an erection, but my fingers still couldn't untie the knot.

‘Have you been to Mecca before?' The words came out before I could stop them.

She hissed, snatched the bra and knelt down in front of me. She grabbed my penis through my trouser, first hard, then gently. Rising to her full height, she looked into my eyes as she stroked me with one hand and undid the knot with the other. As soon as it came loose and her hands touched my bare skin I felt it coming. I couldn't control it. Before she could push me onto the bed, I had ejaculated in her hands. She seemed upset at first, but then she smiled and got up to wipe her hands. I lay on the bed wishing that I could press a button and it would all be a dream.

‘This really is your first time,' she said putting her bra back on.

‘Please can we sit in a little? Just until the hour is up.'

I avoided her eyes as she crawled up to me on the bed. She put her arms around me.

‘Don't worry. This will be our little secret. I won't tell your friend.'

‘Thanks.'

‘It will be better the next time. You just need to relax.'

I thought of Aisha. Her eyes were in every flicker of the low lantern flame. I thought of the man who asked during a tafsir if touching a woman without penetration is zina, trying to block out Sheikh's voice declaring any action that could lead to sex between unmarried people haram. In my head I felt shame, but in my heart I was glad I did not go all the way and actually commit zina.

We walked out together and met Jibril sitting on the culvert in front of the compound. I motioned with my head for us to leave.

‘Your friend knows how to work o,' she said to Jibril as we walked away. His face broke into a proud smile. He patted me on the back. I tried to smile back.

‘So tell me, what was it like? How was she?'

‘It was good.'

‘What do you mean it was good? I asked you to explain how it was, how she was.'

‘Please, can we not talk about this?'

He laughed.

‘Toh. Anyhow you want it.'

‘So when are we coming back?' he added after a while.

‘Never.'

He sighed. And we walked the rest of the way in silence.

ANTHROPOLOGY

1. The study of humankind, in particular.
   
2. (also cultural or social anthropology) The comparative study of human societies and cultures and their development.
   
3. (also physical anthropology) The science of human zoology, evolution and ecology.
   

In
On the back of the new book, Baba of Karo, that Sheikh have allow me to open, it say that it is ANTHROPOLOGY. I have read almost to the end of the book and to me I am just thinking that it is a woman telling all the
story
stories of her life. I don't know why they have use the big word ANTHROPOLOGY when it is just a story.

I like the book but if it is me, I will call the book Life Story of Baba of Karo.

Maybe this Baba of Karo is telling lies or maybe it is old people of these days that is telling lies, I don't know. But every time old people is saying that before people is not doing bad bad things, that it is watching bad things on TV that is making people do bad things. But the bad things that Baba of Karo is writing that men and women are doing before before, I cannot even try it now. But maybe the old people don't want us to know the bad things they are doing when they are small.

I am happy that people are not catching other people as slaves the way Baba of Karo say they use to do before among Hausa people.