Brotherly Love
It is hard to understand how it is that big men feel safe with all the policemen around them. Since we started having all these roadblocks and these policemen, who search cars and make people push their motorcycles all along the road in front of our mosque, I have felt afraid.
I feel more unsafe now than the day our mosque was attacked, the week that Malam Abdul-Nur left for Maradi. I did not sleep that night. People threw firebombs over the fence starting a fire that gutted Sheikh’s office and half of the mosque. I had my key to the office and everyone thought I was crazy when, instead of running out, I opened Sheikh’s office to try and get some books out. But the heat and the smoke overwhelmed me. In all of the things that have been happening, it is this that made me angry—all those books from Egypt and Saudi Arabia and London, all gone. It would have been preferable if my room and all the other rooms got burnt but not Sheikh’s office, which was packed top to bottom with books. That was the day my anger towards the Shiites began. But my fear, it began with those police uniforms, those guns, those roadblocks. My fear was fed each time by the petrified faces of motorcyclists, afraid of being made to do frog jumps for offences as little as looking too directly into a policeman’s eyes. Or being made to roll in the dust while being slapped and kicked.
The day of the attack, Sheikh made one of the drivers take him from the hospital with all his bandages to the field where people had gathered, angry, ready to burn down every Shiite mosque and house. He winced as he screamed. He said he would rather die than have them start a war with the Shiites. At first they wouldn’t listen, but he screamed until he found the words that made them calm, that made them pay attention.
Tomorrow is the big meeting. Sheikh made me get a new white caftan sewn even though I insisted that the one I was planning to wear was still fairly new. I am going with Sheikh to take notes, together with Malam Yunusa, Malam Abduljalal and Malam Hamza, who are all also trustees of Jama’atul Ihyau Islamil Haqiqiy. I am surprised Malam Hamza will be there. The last I heard of him, he was very ill at home. The deputy governor is the chairman of the reconciliation committee set up by the governor to settle the issues between the Shiites and us. All the other men proposed by the governor were rejected either by the Shiites or by Sheikh. The Shiites rejected the head of the Muslim Pilgrims Board because Sheikh was also on that board. Sheikh rejected Alhaji Usman, even though the Shiites themselves wanted him, because he didn’t want anyone to say that Alhaji Usman was our patron and accuse him of taking sides at the end. And, when someone suggested that it would be wrong to hold any reconciliation meeting without the Sultan of Sokoto, everyone agreed that he should be an observer on the committee.
I have not been able to sleep since Sheikh told me that I will follow him to the deputy governor’s office. The temptation to tell Jibril everything that Sheikh wants me to do with him is very strong but I keep quiet because I don’t want it to sound like I am bragging. Especially now that I have started singing the call to prayer at the mosque. Wallahi, I love it more than I ever thought I would. Closing my eyes, covering one ear with my hand, holding the microphone with the other and singing:
Allahu Akbar
Allahu Akbar
Allahu Akbar
Allahu Akbar
Ash hadu anla ila ha illallah
Ash hadu anla ila ha illallah
Ash hadu anna Muhammadan Rasulullah
Ash hadu anna Muhammadan Rasulullah
Hayya alas salah
Hayya alas salah
Hayya alal falah
Hayya alal falah . . .
It transports me to a deep place away from everything around me. The feeling is one of being lost inside myself, a dark, peaceful place. My lungs empty as I drag out each line: I breathe in to refill my lungs and empty them again. I am lost in that dark space until I say the last words ‘La ilaha illallah.’ I try to explain to Jibril but he cannot understand how just singing these words can give me the best feeling in the world, a feeling that drives out all pain, all fear, all worry, all want. I made him try it in the room; I told him to cover his ear, breathe in, relax and pretend that no one was there, not even himself. He still didn’t get the feeling. You can tell when a muezzin is enjoying the call or when he is doing it just because he has to, like Abu, who yawns into the microphone when he has to call the fajr prayers. If it was up to me, Abu would never call a prayer.
I spread out the white caftan on the bed and dust the black shoes that Suraj the shoeshiner polished last night. The plastic folder has plain sheets of paper, a notebook, a red pen and a blue pen. It will be a real disaster if I doze off during the meeting especially as I am there to take notes. My eyes are heavy from a night spent staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping.
Alhaji Usman has sent two of his new jeeps for Sheikh to ride in: one with tinted glass and one without. Sheikh resisted very strongly, saying he didn’t want to go in a borrowed car. But Alhaji Usman told him that it was better to use the jeep just so we wouldn’t have a hard time getting into Government House. The thought crossed my mind, that if Sheikh collects money from Alhaji Usman, using his cars for just one day shouldn’t be a problem.
Sheikh is still at home. He went back home after the morning prayers to take a nap. Since he got shot, he has been sleeping much more. He cannot speak for as long as he used to. Last Friday, his tafsir was quite short and he was panting the whole time. Perhaps I just hadn’t noticed but his beard seems to have grown greyer in the three weeks since he returned from hospital. I worry when I walk into his office and find him lost in thought. Sometimes he flinches or ducks as if something was flying in to hit him. The first few times I ducked too, until I realised it was all in his head.
When Sheikh arrives, we split into two groups. Sheikh, Malam Yunusa and I enter the jeep with tinted glass while Malam Abduljalal and Malam Hamza enter the second one. Behind and in front of us are buses containing some of the men who guard Sheikh when he goes out. The deputy governor has also sent a police car to escort us.
The car seats are new and cold. The air smells fresh, like the type of nice expensive chewing gum that Malam Abdul-Nur sometimes chews—the type they sell sometimes in go-slows, only better. It smells exactly like how I imagine it to be in London or Dubai or Cairo or Saudi Arabia. A screen on the dashboard shows what is behind the car when the driver tries to reverse. The dashboard is so clean I have a strong urge to touch it, just rub my hands over it. I do not know when the car is on or when it is off because the engine makes barely any noise and I feel no vibration at all. Kai! The cold is making me want to pee.
No one stops us on the way because of the police car. In the mirror, I see Sheikh sweating. He is breathing hard and leaning away from the door. I turn around and see him counting the beads on his wooden chasbi. He does not look well.
We are the first to arrive. I use the opportunity to ask where the toilets are. The tiles inside are not like the tiles in our mosque. Everything is so white and shiny and I feel like I will slip and fall. I am afraid to mess up the toilet seat so I squat over the seat and aim carefully. I could eat in this place.
The big Shiite malam comes with three men. Everyone shakes hands and does introductions. Sheikh refers to me as Malam Ahmad. No one has referred to me like this before and it makes me feel important. I am glad when the deputy governor walks in with the Sultan, because the silence in the room was very awkward and everyone was trying not to look at each other. I think for a moment about my brothers. One day, they will be Shiite malams too.
The deputy governor has so many people around him. He has someone holding his bag, someone pulling out a chair for him, someone holding his phones and someone writing when he speaks. I wonder why one man needs so many people as if he were a cripple. Sheikh does not even let me carry his bag.
It is hard to take notes when no one will speak straight. Everyone except Sheikh and the big Shiite malam speaks in circles and says many unnecessary things before getting to the point. I hope that the paper I have will be enough.
The men with the Shiite malam are all speaking so angrily. I am afraid that this meeting might end in a fight. I am afraid that Sheikh might get angry and the whole meeting will just be a waste of time.
‘I assume I know why we are here,’ Sheikh interrupts one of the men on the other side, who won’t stop talking.
‘I assume but I will only speak for myself. I am tired of the fighting and of having soldiers insult our people in the name of protecting us. I don’t want to have soldiers around my mosque. I am sure you don’t want to have soldiers around your mosque. If we fight, it is Islam that suffers. Of course I don’t agree with you and the things you practice. But is judgement not for Allah? Let us go to the heart of the matter and stop the accusations. And I will start by saying that I agree that we are at fault in the way in which it began. I am not joking about this. We accept the damage to the mosque and to your house and I am willing to pay restitution. I do not ask for anything in return. I do not seek retaliation or restitution, for my mosque or for getting shot. I do not even make any accusations. I just want the attacks to stop.’
The room is silent. Everyone, including the deputy governor, looks shocked. Even I am shocked. Sheikh leans back into his big cushion chair and rolls the beads on his chasbi. The Sultan has the same blank face he came with. For many minutes no one says anything. One by one, people lean back into their chairs, until no one is resting against their arms on the large round table except the woman writing what the deputy governor is saying and me.
‘Shall we go for a short break?’ the deputy governor proposes after a while.
‘Ran ka ya dade, maybe not yet,’ the Shiite malam says, ‘I want to say something.’
Sheikh smiles.
‘I see that all the arguments we brought have become useless. There is no longer any need to prove anything. If truly Sheikh means what he says, then this meeting will end earlier than we thought. And I thank him.’
‘If not for the destiny of Allah which separated us, we might have been praying in the same mosque,’ Sheikh says to the deputy governor, pointing at the Shiite malam. ‘We used to play football together fa, only I was a much better player than he was.’
Everyone bursts into laughter, first nervously, then freely.
‘On the issue of who was a better player, Sheikh, we might spend all night without a resolution,’ the Shiite malam says.
The deputy governor is shaking his head and smiling. Everyone is.
‘All that now remains, if you agree, is that the two of us, just the two of us this time, will have another meeting to discuss how we want to stop this from happening again and what exactly we need to do now to make sure that our people are on the same page with us.’
Sheikh agrees with the Shiite malam adding, ‘Of course, if His Excellency and the Sultan agree, we can end this meeting and start one between us so that we can free him and his people.’
The deputy governor turns to the Sultan, who nods slightly.
‘Alhamdulillah,’ the deputy governor says. ‘You may use our premises for as long as you want. I will not be far away. If you have reached a decision you can just call my PA and I will come down.’
We all take a break to eat and pray before Sheikh resumes alone with the Shiite malam. Everything is so large in Government House. The ceilings are so high, the tables so big and even the food in the dining room has chicken pieces so large I wonder if it is really chicken or turkey.
As one hour becomes two, I walk out to where the drivers are sitting under the shade of dogonyaro trees where they parked our cars. I lie down on one of the benches. It is cool here and there are many birds around. The flowers are trimmed and look so full and healthy.
When I close my eyes I see the smiling image of Aisha with her green veil and dimple on her right cheek. My mind replays our last meeting, when she gave me Sheikh’s account details and smiled at me. I keep wondering if she just smiled or if she smiled at me. There must be a way of seeing her again.
The drivers are listening to a programme on BBC Hausa Service which mentions the war that ended in Gaza earlier this year. They are talking about how Israel is always looking for ways to kill all the Arabs there so the Israelis can take their land. One driver says that if he had the chance, he would go to Gaza and join Hamas just so he can kill an Israeli soldier. I want the meeting over so I can go and sleep.
Three hours later, Sheikh and the Shiite malam emerge from the office. They are both smiling and laughing and patting each other on the shoulder like they are friends just coming from watching a football game in a viewing centre.
Sheikh asks me to get the deputy governor’s PA.
When the deputy governor arrives he shakes everyone’s hand. The Shiite malam gives a summary of what they have agreed on. They will issue a joint statement to end the fighting and to pledge their commitment to peace. Neither of them will insult the other whether in sermons or otherwise. Sheikh will renovate the burnt Shiite mosque but not their malam’s house, and the Shiites will pay for the books and equipment that got burnt since our mosque has already been renovated. Sheikh agrees. Malam Yunusa does not look too pleased.
The deputy governor talks about how happy he is that there is a resolution to the crisis and how the governor is committed to peace in the state. He talks for so long, I lose track of what he is saying and for a moment I stop writing.
The sultan speaks for the first time.
‘I am here as an observer so I will not say much,’ he begins, speaking slowly as if he is counting his words. I am dizzy looking at him and his big white turban. His outer robe has large patterns embroidered in gold thread. His face is clean: there is not a spot on it. There is neither a smile nor a frown on his face as he speaks and rolls the beads of his long white chasbi. It feels like he is not a human being. I almost forget that I need to write.
‘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
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.