Season of Crimson Blossoms (20 page)

‘I am not hungry.'

‘Well, I don't mean now, of course, silly. Perhaps tomorrow.'

‘I have a kitchen and a store full of food. If I'm hungry, I know how to cook.'

He laughed, ‘Binta
ke nan
. Why are you being difficult?' It came out as a statement.

‘Mallam, I am not going anywhere with you. I am not a young girl to be gallivanting about.'

He lowered his head and sighed. He switched on the radio again and began fiddling with the knob.

‘Switch it off,
dan Allah
.'

He put the radio by his side and then picked it up again. Then he removed his cap and scratched his scalp. Finally, he said he was leaving and they stood up.

She shook her hijab. ‘
Sai da safe
.'

‘Binta,' he called as she made to leave. ‘Perhaps, you know, we could go to a hotel, you and I—'

The crickets chirped, the midges buzzed. The night breathed. Finally, she hissed, a long, drawn-out sound of contempt. ‘What the hell do you take me for?' She flapped her hijab as if to shake off his words and went into the house.

He stood alone, next to the bed of petunias Hadiza had planted, listening to the chaotic rhythm of his heart and the subtle, subtle breathing of the night.

Ustaz Nura, the teacher, polished the dirt off his sandals with a damp piece of cloth. He was diligent, scrubbing out the caked mud clinging to the clefts.

Behind him, his wife Murja bristled. ‘So, which one of them is it going to be today?'

He shook his head. That action set his headache off again. It always happened when he had a bad night, as the one before. He had been looking forward to morning so he could escape his house and Murja's nagging.

As the years of their childless marriage lengthened, past the fifth and into the sixth, she had grown more insecure, more suspicious, eager to leap to incendiary conclusions. She was always plucking conspiracies of an impending invasion by a co-wife from Ustaz Nura's cheeky but innocent comments.

Her suspicions were not without reason. Her husband was often busy instructing the faithful, mostly women, on matters of deen, and also applied his services as a counsellor. He helped young women navigate the berged terrain of courtship and marriage. That was how she had fallen in love with him when she had been nineteen and he was a twenty-seven-year-old aalim with a dark, glistening beard, a kind voice garnished with a cultured Arab
accent, and trousers that dangled inches above his ankles. He had impressed her with his informed discourse of Al Ghazali and Ibn Sina, of Freud and Dewey, for he had gone off to university and attained a diploma in psychology as well. But those days seemed so far gone, a distant memory dulled by years of aborted hopes.

And the previous night, when he had returned late from trying to exorcise a vexed djinn that had possessed Laminde, Alhaji Momoh's svelte daughter, and was obsessed with stripping her naked in the most public of places, Murja's restless mind brimmed with other notions.

When she asked him where he had been, tired and bleary-eyed, he had said, ‘There was this girl who—'

That was as much she had let him say before she had unleashed her torrent. And the night that had already been stretched for him got longer.

That morning, as he was trying to extricate himself from the stifling cocoon of her jealousy, a boy came in to announce that the Ustaz was wanted outside.

‘Who? Who wants to see him?' she glowered at the boy.

‘It's Mallam Haruna.'

‘Mhmmm.' She set herself on the settee, scowling at the wall.

Ustaz Nura put some money on the table and carried his
Qassasul Anbiya,
from which he would later regale his students with the miraculous deeds of the prophets. He took an uncertain glance at his wife before hurrying out.

Because of Mallam Haruna's reputation as a vibrant proponent of plural marriage, Murja was certain he had come to bring her husband news of some fresh divorcee or widow waiting to be proposed to. So she went out to the vestibule and leaned on the doorjamb, to listen in on the men seated on the
dakali.

‘I am telling you this, so you can preach to her, Ustaz,' Mallam Haruna was saying. ‘She is your student, you need to preach to her, not so?'

Murja listened to her husband muttering
subhanallahi
as he learned of the impious rendezvous of the widow Hajiya Binta and the Lord of San Siro, that insufferable
dan iska
with short, spiky hair and lips darkened by ganja fumes.

She lingered more and more in her tinted dreams and was astonished by the splash of red each time it came, leaving her gasping and panting in the night. Sometimes Fa'iza fled from the shadows in her dreams. Other times, she dared to chase them, quietly at first.

It was Hureira who first noticed, long before Fa'iza started screaming. She had woken up to see the zombified girl walking in the dark, arms stretched out before her, going back and forth across the room. Frightened, Hureira had readied to flee as soon as Fa'iza moved away from the door. Crossing the room, she had hoisted Ummi unto her shoulder, muttering a verse from the Qur'an, the one that she had heard as a child would scare evil djinns away:
‘Innahu min Sulaimana, wa innahu bismillahir rahmanir rahim.'

She had felt Fa'iza's hands on her and had frozen, right on the word
Sulaimana.
Quickly, she clamped her thighs together to prevent her bladder from disgorging and had felt how violent her heartbeat sounded. And all the time, Fa'iza's hands were tentatively running over her.

Eventually, the girl had reached for the ground and laid down on the rug, curling into a foetal position. She had snuffled,
mumbled and then fallen silent, her breathing blending into the noises of the night.

Hureira had carried Ummi to her mattress and laid her down. Sitting beside her, she muttered whatever supplication she could pluck from the darkness, from her jumbled and inadequate memorisation, her whispered voice rivalling the desperate thuds of her heart.

The next morning, they took the bus to town, all four of them, to visit Munkaila in his Maitama apartment. Hureira complained about the heat and cursed the slow pace at which the long, seemingly endless lines of cars crawled forward.

Hajiya Binta turned to her. ‘You could always go back to your husband, you know. The traffic isn't so bad in Jos.'

Hureira frowned.

Fa'iza had her face pressed into the window, looking out at the boys hawking chilled drinks and yoghurt, the girls with loaded trays of plantain chips, young men peddling wall clocks, mops, towel rails and just about everything else. She watched a boy, no more than thirteen, run after a bus, balancing a plastic bucket half-filled with sachet water on his head. She saw a bank note fly out of the window of the bus and the boy bend to pick it. Losing interest, she leaned back on the seat and closed her eyes. But Ummi kept pointing out things: two hawking girls racing each other to a customer in a sedan, a motorcycle narrowly missing a youth vending phone cards, a lovely dainty black dress with yellow trimming hanging outside a boutique. No one paid her any heed.

When they got to Bulet Junction, they took a cab to Maitama.

The courtyard, when they arrived, was strewn with the red blossoms of the lone flame tree, whose boughs stretched across the compound like probing fingers searching the sunlight. Under the tree, little Zahra was gathering the blossoms into a glass cup half filled with water, an unlit candle peeking over the top.

Munkaila was leaning against his car parked in front of the house, speaking into the phone. He shoved the phone in his pocket as he walked to meet them and stooped to greet his mother, the tail of his golden-brown kaftan splaying out around him. He put out two of his fingers on the ground to support his weight.

The exchange of greetings drew Zahra's attention and she came
running with her glass of crimson blossoms. Binta wanted to hoist the girl in the air but Zahra was protective of her collection. She hugged her grandma's legs instead.

Hureira motioned to the cup. ‘What's that?'

‘My flowers,' Zahra looked up at her aunt.

‘Zahra does this often,' Munkaila placed a hand on his daughter's head. ‘When the flame tree is in bloom, she collects the blossoms in a glass and lights a candle.'

‘Season of crimson blossoms.' There was something melancholic about the way Fa'iza said it. Her eyes were focused on the glass.

Zahra beamed proudly. ‘I keep it in my room. All day. The candle goes off when it burns to the water level.'

‘Blood.'

They all turned to look at Fa'iza. This time, she was staring into the distance that had opened up before her eyes, stretching beyond the foggy precipice of imaginings. She started when Binta mentioned her name and seemed baffled that they were all looking at her.

Inside, Zahra set down the glass on the coffee table in the middle of the living room, lit the candle and sat watching the flame and the blossoms floating in the glass. And because the news on TV was not as interesting as the cartoons she preferred, Ummi, too, joined her, sitting on the other side so that the glass table was between them and their eyes found each other's through the glass, over the top of the buoyant blossoms.

Binta's face glowed as she sat on the couch, holding the sleeping Khalida in her arms. Khalida was a pretty girl, unlike Zahra, and this prettiness – the dark eyes, the pointed nose, the demure smile – reminded Binta more of her dead son Yaro, than the child's mother Sadiya, who was busy in the kitchen making lunch.

Munkaila finished taking yet another call and put the phone on the footstool close to him. ‘It's time for politics. All these politicians are busy collecting as much money as they can find
wallahi
.'

Hureira giggled. ‘I thought that meant more money for you, so why are you complaining?'

‘True, true. They are asking for dollars, and dollars have been scarce since yesterday.'

‘How come?'

‘It happens like that sometimes when the demand is too much.'

‘And who are you for?' Binta held him with her eyes.

‘Who am I for? Well, I don't know, Hajiya. I am not too keen on these elections.'

‘Buhari will win, you will see.' There was an unnecessary passion in Binta's voice such that Munkaila only laughed. ‘Hajiya
kenan
!'.

‘What happened to this girl?' Hureira asked.

They turned to the TV where there was a headshot of a young woman dominating the screen.

‘Oh, there was a kidnap last night,' Munkaila informed. ‘They tried to kidnap the son of Alhaji Shehu Bakori but the boy got away and they made off with his cousin instead.'

Binta slapped her palms together. ‘Oh, such a pretty girl.
Allah sarki
!'

Hureira shifted on her seat. ‘Who is this Alhaji Bakori? His name sounds familiar?'

‘Ah, ah, you don't know Alhaji Bakori, the tycoon? Anyway, you are not into politics so it is no surprise. He is a politician and businessman. The girl just came back from London where she has been schooling, I hear.'

Binta pinched her cheek with a thumb and forefinger. ‘May Allah help them find her! I pray no harm comes to her! And may her abductors taste the wrath of Allah.
Tsinannu kawai
!'

They muttered their ameens and then fell silent.

‘Let me help Aunty Sadiya in the kitchen.' Fa'iza rose.

Munkaila nodded. ‘
Toh, Allah ya bada sa'a
.'

But instead of making her way to the kitchen, Fa'iza stooped over the glass and stared at the flower. The longer she stared, the more scrunched up her face became. Eventually she shivered, threw her hijab on one of the empty seats and made her way to the kitchen.

When she left, Munkaila turned to his mother. ‘What's wrong with that girl?'

‘Djinns,' Hureira sounded certain.

Binta eyed her. ‘Oh, shut up for God's sake, who asked you?'

‘But Hajiya,
wallahi
, I know.' Hureira looked in the direction of the kitchen and lowered her voice. ‘You should see what she does
at night. I've told you, that was how it started with our neighbour's daughter. She needs exorcism, I swear.'

Munkaila gaped. ‘Exorcism,
kuma
? Hureira, you can truly run your mouth.'

‘
Haba
! Imagine what she might do when she is possessed. I am afraid for my daughter,
wallahi
.'

Binta hissed. ‘Then maybe you should go back to your husband.'

‘
Gaskiya,
Hajiya, I don't like the way you keep shoving this thing in my face each time I say something.'

‘Oh, shut your mouth and don't be talking rubbish.'

‘Oh no, I won't. Each time I say anything you bring up this issue of … of—'

‘Of what,
mara kunya
? Of what?'

‘That is enough, both of you,' Munkaila's voice filled the room, bearing a steely but quiet authority.

After Sadiya and Fa'iza had set the table, Binta asked for her lunch to be served on the rug. She was not used to eating at the table, she said. And so, out of deference, they all joined her on the floor. All but Munkaila, who set his plate on the footstool and drew it close to him, between his legs.

Binta watched with fascination and mild disdain as Sadiya's wrist flicked and her bangles jingled as she served the sauce. She watched her sit down, smile demurely and start eating with what Binta reluctantly admitted was commendable grace.

Hureira, having satisfied herself that the djinns that had taken possession of Fa'iza were easily agitated by blood or its likes, watched guardedly as the girl spooned some tomato sauce onto her rice and retreated to a corner.

Later, while Fa'iza was doing the dishes, Sadiya came in and stood behind her. Fa'iza turned to her and smiled. It was brief, nervous, betraying perhaps a deeper unease, like a mirror cracked from within. Whatever it was, Sadiya did not miss it.

‘You have been quiet, Fa'iza.'

‘Me? Quiet?'

‘Yes, Fa'iza.'

Fa'iza shrugged. ‘I just don't feel like talking much.'

‘And why is that, if I may ask?'

‘Why? I don't know,
wallahi
.'

Sadiya sighed. ‘Have you been ill lately? You look listless.'

‘Ill? No. I am fine.'

Sadiya moved closer and started rinsing the dishes. They worked in a silence punctuated by the squeaks of clean, wet dishes, by the splash of water in the sink, by the clink of utensils.

‘Do you want to talk about your problems, Fa'iza?'

‘Problems? What problems?'

‘About what happened, back in Jos. About your father and brother?'

The dish in Fa'iza's hand slipped back into the sink, spilling water onto the worktop and the floor. She moved to get the mop but Sadiya held her arm.

‘Don't worry about that. We will clean it up when we are done.'

Fa'iza turned her face away and deftly wiped her eyes with the back of her arm. Sadiya noticed. She waited. But then she felt a shield crawling up over Fa'iza, she felt the moment slipping away from her. She didn't know how to deal with these things, but she knew someone who did.

When the dishes were done and neatly stacked on the draining board, Sadiya clapped her hands together. ‘Listen, Fa'iza. I am thinking you might want to go into therapy—'

‘Therapy? What's that?'

Sadiya chuckled. ‘My uncle, he is a doctor, a psychologist. He helps people like you, people with emotional … issues, you know. Perhaps, we could go see him someday, if you feel like it.'

Fa'iza looked at Sadiya with evident incredulity. Her laugh, when it came, after a long interval, was hollow and ringed with sadness. It made Sadiya want to cry.

‘Aunty Sadiya, I'm fine,
wallahi
.'

‘It's just to talk, I promise. Nothing more.'

Fa'iza again contemplated the proposal.

‘You don't have to say anything now. Perhaps you could think about it. I will take care of everything when you are ready.'

From the living room, Hureira's euphoric cackling, riding above everyone else's laughter, floated into the kitchen and made them turn towards the noise. After a brief moment, Fa'iza turned back and looked at the neatly stacked dishes and shrugged. ‘I am going back to the living room.'

Sadiya nodded.

The relic of laughter was still evident on Binta's face when Fa'iza rejoined them, for she was still grinning and shaking her head. They were watching
The World's Funniest Animals
. Fa'iza wondered what was it in the grainy videos of animals doing stupid things that had triggered such an explosion of wild hilarity.

Binta was wiping the tears from the corner of her eyes and was still giggling when her phone chimed. When she looked at the screen and saw who was calling, she looked up to find everyone looking in her direction. She went into the dining area and turned into the corner so they would not see her. But they heard her voice clearly asking the person on the other end of the line to call her back.

The girl with silky, tousled hair, sat on the mat, still looking groggy. The vein on her forehead remained prominent, dark against her skin. Her eyes were heavy as she raised them to the two masked men, one short, the other tall, standing across the bare room, not far from the locked door.