Born on a Tuesday (17 page)

‘What are they up to now?' Sheikh asks.

‘Who is Jibril?' Alhaji Usman asks.

‘Oh, that is Abdul-Nur's younger brother. He said they killed someone today,' I continue. ‘Someone they said was a thief.'

‘What did he steal?' Malam Abduljalal asks.

‘They said meat.'

‘Meat?' Alhaji Usman exclaims.

‘They chopped off the boy's hand and he bled to death.'

‘We should have chopped off the infidel's hands. A thief like him, chopping off people's hands for stealing meat?' Malam Yunusa seems more upset than all of them.

‘And where is the village head in all of this?' Alhaji Usman asks.

‘Ah,' Sheikh exclaims, ‘I hear the village head is so scared of him that he is as good as one of his members.'

‘In fact, I hear they had a clash with the police only a few days ago,' Malam Yunusa says. ‘A policeman tried to arrest one of their members, and they gave the policeman the beating of his life. If he hadn't run away they would have killed him.'

‘Honestly, I will talk to His Excellency about this,' Alhaji Usman says. ‘How can some Yoruba convert come here and be doing all of this? We will send him back to whatever bush he came from. Sheikh please remind me about this.'

Every time Sheikh preaches after prayers I think that if the only favour Allah would grant me is to preach like this, then I need no more favours. The mosque is full and there is no one making side talk as Sheikh speaks about the death of the governor, the cluelessness of the federal government and why we need to support and vote for a Muslim president in the next elections. Then he starts talking about the Mujahideen.

‘Some of the worst enemies of Islam are the ones who deceive innocent people into thinking they are Muslims. Somebody who has no understanding of Islam and its precepts will go around calling himself a Mujahideen. Islam does not put people in bondage like they are doing, or in fear. These are the people who are our greatest enemies, the traitors from within. You sit on a farm with ignorant people around you and alone pass fatwas according to your whims. How is that sharia? How is that Islam? I tell you, even if they do not get their punishment now, Allah will ask them on the last day.'

I stare at him as he speaks, noticing the bags under his eyes and how his right hand has started to tremble. Many days he preaches with passion but some days with anger. Like today. I can tell when he is angry from the froth at the side of his mouth and the pursing of his lips. He is angry about Abdul-Nur and about losing the Saudi grant and about the policemen at the checkpoints who harass people.

I wait until all the people who want to speak to Sheikh have left before telling him what is on my mind. This isn't the best time, but I can't keep this any longer.

‘About the marriage issue, Sheikh . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Forgive me, I should have told you earlier. I spoke to the girl again.'

‘OK, and?'

‘I should have told you it was . . .'

‘Yes? Should I beg before you say who it is? Who is her father?'

‘Actually, it is Aisha.'

‘Which Aisha?'

‘Your Aisha.'

I can see that Sheikh is trying hard not to show that he is uncomfortable about this. He opens his mouth several times to say something but nothing comes out.

‘Why didn't you say this before?' Sheikh says finally. ‘What was all the secrecy about?'

‘I'm sorry, Sheikh. I did not know how you would react.'

‘I think we should talk about this tomorrow. I've had a very long day,' Sheikh says, and walks away.

I am upset. If I am good enough to handle his money and our movement then I should be good enough to take care of Aisha. Except if, astaghfirullah, all the grand things he says about me in my presence and when I am not there are all lies. But then, perhaps a daughter is not the same thing as a bank account.

I dial Aisha's number.

‘You didn't even let it ring,' I say.

‘No, I was already fiddling with the phone when your call came in.'

‘So I hope your day has gone well?'

‘Alhamdulillah, everything went well.'

‘Won't you ask me how mine was?'

‘Well, if you want me to know how your day was, I am sure you will tell me.'

‘OK, my day was fine. I might go with your father to attend the governor's funeral early in the morning. They have found his corpse and are bringing it this night.'

‘May Allah forgive him.'

‘Amen. So, I spoke to your father.'

‘What did you tell him?'

‘Just that I am interested and I have started talking to you.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He hasn't said anything yet. He was so tired from going around today and he said we will talk in the morning.'

‘And so am I. I have a lot of work to do in the morning.'

‘Oh, I am sorry for calling so late. Is it too late?'

‘Yes.'

‘OK, I will try to call earlier. Rest well.'

‘Umm, sorry . . . about the wrapper you sent—I was only joking earlier. I sent it to the tailor this afternoon.'

‘Women ko!' I laugh.

‘Men ko!' she laughs.

I am staring at my plaster ceiling, thinking of my Umma. Aisha makes me think of her a lot. Who knows what Umma would have said, if she would have liked Aisha.

My mother's voice is leaving me. Her face is clear in my head, her deep eyes, her smile, her slender, beautiful fingers. I close my eyes to bring up her voice, to make her speak in my ear, in my head, but all I see is her smile. Will I lose this too? Her face in my head? Will it all pass and leave behind a shadow where there was once Umma?

Jibril's call wakes me up in the middle of the night.

‘She refused to come with me,' he says, his voice breaking. ‘She just said she would rather stay.'

‘I am sorry, Jibril.'

‘I will leave as soon as he falls asleep. He doesn't sleep until two in the morning.'

‘Where will you go?'

‘If I go back to Ilorin, he will know where to find me. There is nowhere I can hide there.'

‘Jibril, honestly you should have left since. I don't know why you are still there.'

‘I know. I don't know why I was foolish enough to think that she wanted me. Imagine, he treats her like an animal, yet she chooses him.'

‘Just forget about her. You will find another woman, believe me. A better woman.'

‘I don't want a better woman. I want her and I want my child!'

‘OK, I hear you. The issue now is what do you do? You can always go back for your child.'

‘I know a guy in Makurdi. My friend. He trades in second­hand shoes from Cotonou. I will try to go there. Maybe I can even get to Cotonou. I have to go now.'

‘Just take care, and call me when you are settled. Allah guide you safely.'

I am falling asleep at the tap as we all perform ablution. The men around me, who are washing their arms and feet and faces, are talking about the helicopter crash and how they think the president may be behind the crash. Someone reminds the rest of them that the former Inspector General, who was travelling with the governor, had been exposing the secrets of this government. I am not interested in any of this. All I am hoping for is that this sleep does not embarrass me when I will have to talk to Sheikh later. As I wash my face, my eyes hurt from staring at the ceiling all night.

Singing the call to prayer is like a drug, it cures everything for five minutes. Air fills my chest and on its way out forms the words:

Allahu Akbar

Allahu Akbar . . .

My body is transported with those words to a wide dark expanse of nothingness. I am alive. After the call I am as alert as one who has slept all night. Sheikh has not told me how early he will leave for the governor's burial, or if I will go with him. He hasn't said anything and I don't want to ask. I will wait until he raises the issue of Aisha and if he doesn't by the end of the day, I will ask tomorrow.

The sound of motorcycles ridden roughly is drowning out Sheikh's voice as he begins speaking just after the prayer. As the noise increases, I step out to see what is happening. Sometimes it seems to me like a motorcycle is an evil jinn, which, once given to a normal human being, drives him crazy. There are boys in the motor park who are even too shy to speak in public, but on their motorcycles they act like they own the world.

I walk out and see men in police uniforms getting off the motorcycles and heading towards the mosque. I open my mouth to ask what is going on, when they start firing. My head tells me to run into the mosque but my body jumps the short fence and runs into the darkness behind the trees where broken down buses are parked. I lie flat on the ground and hear the men screaming and firing. I get up slowly and peep from behind one of the buses. The policemen are shooting at people trying to run out of the mosque through the doors and the windows. One by one they enter the building. I make to scale the fence, to go and save Sheikh. I stop. His words come to me crisp and clear:

. . . the president and vice president never travel together in the same plane . . .

. . . someone has to take over in case something happens to one person . . .

I am fighting with myself, holding myself down. After a couple of minutes there is silence. They drag Sheikh out and make him kneel by the taps. They take off his turban. One of the men is taking photos with a small camera. I cannot hear what they are telling him as they slap him across the cheek. They tie his hands behind his back and lay him on the ground. Then one of the men brings out a short knife. He steps on Sheikh's head then rolls him over to make him lie on his belly. The man steps on Sheikh's back and pulls his hair to expose his throat. As two others pin Sheikh down, the man begins to cut.

Running

Malam Yunusa's trembling hand makes shadows dance on the wall as he walks to hang the lantern on a nail. In the empty room behind the mosque, six of us stand around the body: Alhaji Usman, the trustees, Sheikh's old uncle Abdulrahman and I. They all agree that being closest to Sheikh, I should do the washing. There is no electricity but Abdulrahman prefers that we use lanterns instead of a generator so that we do not attract attention.

‘Have you ever washed before?' Malam Hamza asks.

‘No, but I have been present at two washings.'

‘Good, so do you know what to do?'

‘Yes, I do.'

I lay three pieces of white cotton cloth on the second, empty table, one on top of the other, and drag the buckets of water close to the first table, where the body lies. Abdulrahman hangs smaller strips of cloth on his shoulder, ready to hand them to me.

I cover the genitals with one strip of cloth and wind another strip around my right hand.

‘Bismillahi,' I begin, pouring water over the body. Starting from the stump of the neck, I scrub off the bloodstains gently and make my way to the right shoulder. As I wash I change the strips wrapped around my hand, dumping the old ones in a basket.

If only it was not wrong to make comments on the body while washing I would curse the people who mutilated Sheikh so. I use my right shoulder to wipe a tear that has just dropped from my eyes. After washing the left side of the body, I put my right hand beneath the cloth covering the genitals and wash. Alhaji Usman helps me pour the water. There is still some blood after the third wash, so I wash two more times. For the last round, I add camphor to the water. Alhaji Usman hands me a large towel. I dry the body and dump the towel in the basket. They all help to lift Sheikh onto the table with the three white cloths. After this my mind deserts me and I am not in control of my hands as we shroud the body and take it into the bus outside.

Four men have already been sent to dig the grave. Alhaji Usman and Malam Abduljalal have been making calls to a few family heads in our movement so that they can attend the funeral which is in one hour.

‘We do not want all the young men to gather and start a riot,' Alhaji Usman says. Everyone else agrees.

Throughout the funeral I am floating. I am suspended in water and the words are bubbles in my ears. Everyone is a fish swimming past me. I do not know how my legs carry me to the burial ground and from there to Alhaji Usman's house. I do not know how my hands perform the ablution in the small mosque in front of Alhaji Usman's house when dawn arrives, how my knees take me to the ground and bring me back up during the prayer, how I finally end up in Sheikh's house, early in the morning, together with hundreds of mourners.

The fresh wailing of the women behind the house pulls me out of my trance. I listen for Aisha's voice. Even though Alhaji Usman begged everyone not to mention the fact that Sheikh's head was taken away, the women have heard somehow.

Sheikh's family is called into the large living room when the governor arrives. Soldiers and men in plain clothes carrying huge black guns fill up the room, glowering at everyone seated. The governor says a short prayer and gives a rambling speech about how this attack was part of an effort to throw the state and his regime into anarchy and how his government will not stand by and watch while people are made to live in fear.

‘As I live and as Allah gives me strength, we will get them,' he says to Sheikh's wife, whose eyes are red and swollen.

‘This is not the only one. They attacked three police stations last night and this morning and killed several people. That is where they got the police uniforms. They are enemies of our people and enemies of Islam and I tell you, insha Allah, we will get them.'

He gives Sheikh's wife six hundred thousand naira to buy ‘water for the guests' and makes a pledge of one million naira to the family. The money will be delivered to them within the week, he says.

Aisha is looking away, distant. She is not crying and her eyes are not red. She is blinking slowly like one who is drowsy. Her face is blank, revealing nothing. She is hunched and her hands are folded across her stomach. I notice for the first time that she has big breasts. Allah forgive me, I do not know why this is coming to my mind at this time.

I am lying down at home around midday when Alhaji Usman calls to tell me about Abdul-Nur.

‘They have caught him. Go to Yunusa's house and tell him. I can't reach any of them by phone.'

Alhaji Usman is out of breath.

‘OK, Alhaji. But who caught him?'

‘The soldiers. They have taken him to police headquarters to hand him over to the police. They arrested him as he was trying to leave Sokoto.'

‘Alhamdulillah.'

‘They need to know because the police may invite them for questioning.'

‘OK, I will go there immediately.'

In Malam Yunusa's house, all the trustees are already gathered.

‘We just heard,' Malam Abduljalal says when I start to recount what Alhaji Usman told me.

They tell me more details. He was caught travelling in a truck, with bundles of crisp dollar notes, trying to go across the border. There were machine guns in the trunk. He cried like a little child as they dragged him away.

‘You cannot fight Allah. Hypocrite infidel! How did he think he was going to win? He wanted us to think it was the police so that our boys would attack the police and get killed. I wish they would give him to us so we can cut him to pieces while he is still alive.'

Malam Hamza is frothing at the mouth, trembling, breathing very hard. The rest of them are quiet, rolling their prayer beads.

‘We will leave the mosque and school closed,' Malam Abduljalal says, ‘we don't want our boys to gather and become agitated. Especially now that, Alhamdulillah, it seems we will have respite with the arrest of Abdul-Nur.'

‘I agree,' Malam Yunusa says, ‘at least for now.'

It is time for isha and we pray together.

After the prayer I ask if they need me to get them anything.

‘Koko. Me, I feel like koko and kosai. Does anyone want some?' They all want what Malam Yunusa wants.

I walk a few streets away, to where Saudatu fries kosai.

‘Young man, how is the city heat?' she says without looking up from the large frying pan.

I hate being called young man, especially by a woman.

‘The city is indeed hot,' I say, hiding my irritation, ‘what can one do but give thanks to Allah.'

‘How is the mourning?'

‘Alhamdulillah.'

‘I hear they caught the Mujahideen leader today. They say he abandoned his people and tried to run away.'

‘How did you hear that?'

‘Haba young man, is there anything that Saudatu does not know? That I am frying kosai on a street corner does not make me stupid.'

‘Yes, I heard the same thing.'

‘I don't know why people would not learn. Someone asks you to die for him, yet when it comes to it, he himself is afraid of death.'

I have no idea where she gets her stories from. She reminds me of a woman who was notorious for gossiping in Dogon Icce. My Umma would say of her: ‘If you are shitting in the bush and you see her walking by, sit on it.'

‘Is that not how they told us that, during the Civil War, the same man who was pushing the Nyamirai to attack Nigeria jumped on a plane and ran away when he saw that his people were defeated? People never learn. Allah knows why he made me barren, because, wallahi, I would strangle any child of mine that chooses to join such a group. I would poison him and, wallahi, I would sleep well after that.'

I smile and take the kosai from her. ‘I will come back for the koko.'

‘No, let this little girl follow you with it.' She hands the girl a big plastic bowl wrapped in a black polythene bag. ‘Maryam, if you like, act like a bastard and don't come back here quickly,' Saudatu says as we walk away.

In the morning the rumours begin. They say Malam Abdul-Nur is no longer at police headquarters in Sokoto. I keep telling people it is a lie and that Alhaji Usman, a friend to the governor, has told me so. It is scary how rumours travel and how the story changes as it travels. Everywhere people are gathered in groups, talking loud and angry. Some boys are holding sticks. I call Alhaji Usman. He tells me he will call me right back.

After an hour, I call Malam Yunusa.

‘We have to be careful with this information because we do not know what is going on or who called from Abuja to secure his release.'

‘Why would anyone release him,' I protest.

‘Well, apparently someone doesn't want him to talk. There is someone involved at a very high level.'

‘What do we tell people? Because I have been telling everyone that it is a lie.'

‘This old man has no answers. But let's wait until we have more information. If people become violent because of this, it is nobody's fault but the police and the government. They brought it on themselves.'

‘Have you spoken to Alhaji Usman?'

‘No. I think he is busy.'

Outside the mosque, boys are gathering and piling old tyres. Everyone has a stick or machete. The police have disappeared from the streets. People begin to scream and burn the tyres and write on walls with charcoal: ‘We don't want Mujahideen.'

A group of boys drag a man to where the tyres are burning. A crowd quickly gathers. They beat him, first with whips, then with sticks. I make my way to the middle but cannot recognise his face because of all the blood. I will not stand by while they do this. I intervene.

‘How do you know he is a Mujahideen?' I ask.

‘Because he admitted it. He was trying to recruit a young boy on our street.'

‘Where is the young boy?'

They push forward a frowning little boy.

‘What did he say to you?' I ask the boy.

‘He said I should follow him and that if I fight for Islam they will take care of me and my family. He gave me money.'

The man is barely able to sit up. Someone hits him with a stick on the shoulders.

‘Because of Allah, show mercy,' he cries, ‘I am a Mujahideen but I swear to you I repent from this day. I can show you where the others are.'

‘Tell us who the others are!' the crowd cries.

He mumbles some names. I think of Sheikh's headless body and I step back from the crowd.

‘Kill him,' people are beginning to shout.

They tie a rope around his neck and suspend him from a mango tree nearby. And pelt him with stones.

In just a few hours tyres are burning everywhere and at least two more Mujahideen have been killed. Malam Abdul-Nur's former house, now empty, has been set ablaze together with the houses of the men who were killed. Alhaji Usman still hasn't called back. When I try to call again his phone is switched off. There are large numbers of people chanting, ‘No more Mujahideen' in the streets. Cars are being stopped and searched. Drivers who are stubborn or who ask too many questions are beaten.

I am floating again.

The streets begin to empty at night when the army trucks begin to arrive. On the radio, the governor declares a dusk-till-dawn curfew in the state and asks everyone to stay indoors or face arrest. The soldiers begin to occupy all the abandoned police checkpoints. I leave the mosque area from where I have been tracking events and head home.

I want to call Aisha. But what do I say to a girl whose father has just been beheaded?

Outside Sheikh's house, where the trustees and I are saying prayers to mark the third day of mourning, a crowd has gathered. We step out and Malam Yunusa asks Malam Abduljalal to address the agitated crowd. Malam Hamza begs to take his leave because he is weak and his bones hurt from arthritis. I bring out two benches and turn them into a makeshift stage for Malam Abduljalal. Alhaji Usman is on my right, his arms folded across his chest. Malam Yunusa is looking in my eyes. He leans in to whisper.

‘You have to speak to the crowd next. I don't want to see tears. This is not the time for it, this is not the place for it.'

I snuffle a few times and heave deeply. The chatter among people is getting louder and I can barely hear Malam Abduljalal speaking.

‘Are you OK?' Malam Yunusa asks. I nod.

In the distance, I see four soldiers approaching. When they get behind the crowd, they stop. Malam Yunusa looks at them, looks at me and mutters, ‘Bastard sons of goats.' I smile. I have never heard him curse before and it sounds really funny coming from him. At some point Malam Abduljalal goes quiet like he has forgotten what he wants to say. Malam Yunusa tugs at his caftan then nudges me to go up. When I climb the benches the whispering stops. I scream, ‘Allahu Akbar!' The response of the crowd is better than the first time I smoked wee-wee. It is hard to describe it, the thunderous response following the silence of an eager crowd, thousands of eyes gazing upon me, hundreds of palms waving in the air holding on to your words, fired up. And in that moment, astaghfirullah, you feel like a prophet. I am not listening to myself, I am not forming the words that are leaping out of my mouth into the air and into the ears of the hundreds of people here. A force is driving me that I do not know, but, wallahi, I love it. I love it even though the soldiers look menacing and have their fingers on their triggers, ready to shoot. I can see fear in their eyes. I love that even though they are coming closer, no one seems to care. The soldiers go round on the right side of the crowd and approach where we are standing. Alhaji Usman steps away from us to speak to them. They are arguing and pointing at me. I keep on speaking. Alhaji Usman leaves them and whispers to Malam Yunusa. Malam Yunusa in turn whispers into my ear.

‘They want the crowd to disperse; they say all public gathering and preaching is prohibited. At this point I don't care what you do as long as the people are with you. Do you want to disperse the crowd or do you want to go on?'

I think a bit about the soldiers going crazy and hurting people, but with the large and angry crowd, these four men will have no choice but to turn away. I smile at him and continue speaking.