Alhaji smiles for her, but his eyes are glazed with menace and not quite in sync with his happy expression. She lowers her gaze, focusing on her speech. Strange. She doesn’t recognize her own words. Even worse, the harbinger of her public disrobing lurks in the shadows.
Her lips tremble as words scrape through, low at first, but with Umi Rashida’s nods, they gain volume. Alhaji leans toward Hassan Yero, seated to his right, and whispers something that makes the oil magnate’s eyes widen. A teeny spark flickers in them—or is she imagining it?
In the name of Allah, Alhaji, don’t you dare, you foolish man.
Alhaji pours himself a drink, raises his glass, and offers a toast.
Why beat yourself up over a mere suspicion? Why, Alhaji? When sugar ferments, it turns to alcohol, which you enjoy and I don’t. That’s the story of our marriage. One of us is in it, the other isn’t.
She makes a hash of her speech, unable to keep her eyes on her paper. Umi Rashida looks daggers at her. But it’s not her mother-in-law’s evil eye that worsens her mental throes, nor is it the way she’s storming towards the stage (raring to save the day). It’s the picture of Alhaji preparing to get up.
Alhaji’s outburst stuns the audience to silence.
It stuns everyone but Bilkisu. She saw it coming—including the drink he flings at her, which misses and catches his mother.
“Hypocrite,” he shouts. “Tell them how you’ve been sleeping with my brawzer.”
Irritated by her deadness, he throws his wine glasses at her. She ducks and it smashes against the glass door. She laughs sheepishly.
Guests surround Alhaji and straitjacket him. But no one thinks of cupping his mouth. They want to listen. Shame on them.
Will someone shut that man up? The voices in her head scream over his words. Wallaahi, billaahi, tallaahi, I swear, you have gone mad. A whistling teapot sings in her head.
Alhaji says things that shock and insult sensibilities. He even tries to demonstrate but can only squirm against his captors. Finally, they drag him out and close the door, putting a stop to the madness: the frenetic beating of Kalangu drums ends with one final thump. Tides of relief wash over her.
Umi Rashida stands speechless, her hijab drenched in champagne. She finds herself in the opprobrious position of crisis manager and shades her face from shame as unbearable as the Maiduguri sun in dry season before scurrying out of the hall, her head bowed, moving rather quickly for an old lady.
Bilkisu’s verbal violation is over. Allah be praised. It’s not amusing to anticipate your accuser’s next words yet feel overwhelmed by a descriptiveness more characterful than you ever thought possible. The past cannot be relived; it’s gone forever. She can drink to that. She fills her lungs with air and lets her shawl fall to the floor.
Silence. Beautiful silence.
But the silence has eyes. The eyes search her face for answers. So many they deafen. Conscious of her breathing, she heaves a big sigh she hopes won’t be her last and hangs her weight on the reading stand. It’s easier to drop dead than to explain her agrarian roots, how her father forced her into marriage to escape poverty, and how it helped her escape a half-brother’s sexual abuse. It started after her mother died and lasted three years. Her father, a lazy man who, with coaxing licks, cuddled up like a common mongrel against anyone who provided for him, had wavered on the matter because that son of his was the family’s breadwinner. Bilkisu’s marriage at thirteen had come as a stone that kills two birds.
Alhaji said things. His words were like arrows dipped in the poison of unvarnished truth. It’s social homicide. What’s left to do but sprawl out on the floor and wait for a slow, silent death? In the filthiest language, he called her a worthless former street hawker and sex worker, a leg-spreading nymphomaniac whose wretch of a father had only been too pleased to be rid of because she was screwing her—brothers.
That malicious hyperbole doesn’t paint a picture of a child in need of protection—the child he married. Far from it. Suppose she returns the favour and tells the world he’s a pathetic one-minute man. That won’t be an exaggeration. But to hell with him and his lack of loyalty.
Alhaji may have raised her, but he destroyed her too. He destroyed her youth and her inner child, him and his brooding personality. Once upon a time, he was the strong male presence she needed. But now, his presence drains her. She was vivacious and funny, once upon a time. Bashir unlocked that side of her. He showed her how to laugh again. And for that, she can’t be sorry.
It will all blow over. Alhaji will sober up. He’ll apologize for embarrassing her publicly and, if she insists, might check into rehab. As a highflier despite her roots, she may come clean about her past and become the brand ambassador for child-rights activists and women groups all over the world—before she goes back to being his bridled wife.
Flustered from weathering his diatribes without a word, her attention returns to the sheets in front of her. And all the lies on them.
“Yi hak’uri. Please forgive us,” she says. “Sometimes he forgets to sugar-coat these things.”
It takes the horselaughs of a few to make her realize her wisecrack. Their amusement spreads as her apology claims more lives.
END
Charles Opara
Charles is an IT programmer, short story writer and speculative fiction novelist who enjoys the flow involved in creating both programs and stories. In 2015, his horror short “It Happened” was shortlisted for the Awele Creative Trust Prize and in 2017, another story ‘Baby-girl’ was long-listed for the Quramo National Prize in his country. His short stories have been published in magazines such as Flash Fiction Press, Zoetic Press, and Ambit Magazine. His collection of short stories, How Hamisu Survived Bad Kidneys and a Bad Son-in-law, is published by Fomite Press.
I’d like to know more!
This one wowed me. I love the flow of the story.