A bird that flies from the ground onto an anthill doesn’t know that it is still on the ground
The sewing machine whirred and chased the silence into the corners of the living room. Binta squeezed some more oil under the presser foot. She rummaged through the cardboard box next to the machine and found a bundle of cloth.
‘Are you going to sew that today?’ Fa’iza gestured at the cloth with the remote in her hand. She was sitting on one of the seats with little Ummi perched on the armrest beside her, her eyes on the TV.
Binta looked at the girl over the top of her glasses. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’
The two women sitting across on the sofa looked at each other – Kandiya in her dampened hijab and Mallama Umma with her shrivelled face and sunken eyes that had witnessed sixty rains and sixty-one harmattans.
Kandiya cleared her throat. ‘Mallama Umma, perhaps we should leave now.’
Mallama Umma looked down at her hands, the wrinkled fingers blackened by henna. It was something she did whenever she was confronted by a challenge such as this. In her six decades, she had dealt with all sorts of children – nieces and nephews and grandchildren – not wanting to go to school. To her, the challenge posed by Hajiya Binta’s case was not entirely peculiar. She shifted forward on the seat. ‘Hajiya Binta, we have been waiting to see you and you just came in and went to your sewing machine as if we were not here.’
Binta looked up at the women, and then turned to her niece. ‘Fa’iza, go to the kitchen and prepare the kasko.’
‘Me? But Hajiya, I want to watch this—’
‘Fa’iza, go now and prepare the kasko before Munkaila and his family arrive.’
Grumbling, Fa’iza got up and left. Little Ummi curled up on the chair, taking over the space Fa’iza had just vacated, and picked up the remote that Fa’iza had dumped on the seat.
‘And you, what are you waiting for? Is there any age mate of yours here?’
‘But Hajiya—’ Ummi’s protest trailed off into a grumble in the wake of Binta’s fiery glare. She left, rocking from side to side like a swaying palm tree in irreverent winds.
For a while after the children had left, the whir of the sewing machine filled the room.
‘Hajiya Binta,’ Mallama Umma seized the opportunity as soon as Binta slowed down, ‘we have been worried about your not coming to the madrasa.’
‘Mallama Umma.’ Binta’s brow furrowed as she examined the stitches she had just made. ‘Wallahi, I respect you, but your coming to my house with Kandiya is a bad idea.’
‘Mhm!’ Kandiya gathered the folds of her hijab around her bulk. ‘Mallama Umma, I will be leaving now.’
Umma put a hand on Kandiya’s thigh. ‘You women should stop behaving like children, haba.’
‘This is the woman who came and insulted me in front of my granddaughter and now she comes here pretending she cares about me. Munafurci kawai!’
‘It is not hypocrisy,’ Umma spoke quickly before Kandiya could snap out of her shock. ‘Whatever was said then was out of anger. Or have you forgotten how the Prophet, peace be upon him, admonished against anger, saying laa taghdab.’
‘Leave the Prophet out of this, Mallama Umma. Leave him out of it.’
Umma smiled. ‘You know you can’t leave the Prophet, peace be upon him, out of anything, Hajiya Binta. We all live by his teachings and he admonishes us not to hold grudges against one another.’
Binta pressed down the foot control and the women had to wait yet again.
When the machine stopped, Umma cleared her throat. ‘Ustaz Nura and the students, too, have been wondering if you’ve been ill, but your neighbours assured us of your good health. So we thought we should come and find out why you haven’t been to the madrasa for some time now.’
Just then, the power went off and Binta hissed. She detached the foot motor and slipped on the pedal cord.
‘I haven’t been feeling too well, actually. Nothing serious, just ciwon tsatsaye.’ Binta put her foot on the treadle.
‘You see, we are growing old already – healthy today, ill tomorrow, which is why we must prepare ourselves for our encounter with Allah, the Merciful. A moment lost can’t be regained and we never know when death will come knocking. Every step you take to the madrasa is like walking on the wings of angels and Allah will reward you. You know this, Hajiya Binta, and yet you allow yourself to lag behind.’
Binta sighed. Thoughts of her sins weighed on her. There she was, at fifty-five, cavorting with a hemp dealer who was younger than her youngest child. Faith reached out a hand and squeezed her tear glands and she leaned closer to the machine, pretending to thread the needle so the women wouldn’t see her tears.
‘Are you all right, Hajiya?’ There was a note of concern in Umma’s voice.
‘I’m fine, Mallama Umma, thank you.’ Binta raised her head and worked the treadle with some desperation, hoping to mask her tremulous state of mind. Her voice had almost betrayed her. She tried to focus on guiding the material into the feed dogs but the machine was running too fast, clattering as it ran, and the material zipped through her fingers.
There was a sudden racket as she lost control. The needle ran across her fingers, sending jabs of pain through her nerves.
‘Inna lillahi wa inna illaihi raji’un!’ Binta grimaced.
The women jumped to their feet and Fa’iza came running in from the kitchen. She froze when she saw the blood. Binta wrapped her wounded fingers in a piece of cloth and turned away from her niece. When the stabbing burned its way to her brain, she fell to her knees. The women were torn between attending to the agonised woman on the floor and the dazed teenager, with sweat on her upper lip, trembling like the last leaf of a baobab caught in the chilly gust of harmattan.
Munkaila arrived with his wife and children while Binta was still in the kitchen making masa and filling the corners of the house with the aroma of taushe sauce. She abandoned the kasko and, mindful of her plastered fingers, hoisted her youngest grandchild, Khalida, into the air. The eighteen-month-old baby squealed and buried her face in Binta’s shoulder. Zahra, who had just turned four, put her arms around Binta’s legs and pressed her little body against her. Sadiya, their mother, stood smiling proudly. When eventually she stooped to greet her mother-in-law, Binta looked with disapproval at Sadiya’s translucent powder-blue veil, with its gleaming sequins, hanging from her shoulders and looping over her chest. And the silky hair peeking from beneath Sadiya’s scarf. Sadiya noticed and adjusted the gyale.
Binta had had reservations about Sadiya when Munkaila had first brought her to Jos back in 2005. She thought the woman looked too delicate; her hair too lustrous, fingers and waist too slender, hips too narrow, nose too tapered to take in enough air, with eyes so wide they readily betrayed her frailty. Her beauty was such that when she stood next to Munkaila, with his dark, pudgy face and blunt nose, she made him look like the Beast. Binta had concluded that if her son had not made some money, Sadiya might not have married him – her rich father certainly would not have allowed it.
They all settled on the plush rug in the middle of the living room. Fa’iza knelt by the food flasks and proceeded to serve out masa on the plates, which she passed on to Binta who doused it with miyan taushe and topped it with choice pieces of meat.
Munkaila observed Binta’s swollen fingers when she reached out for another plate. ‘That looks bad, Hajiya.’
‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ Binta smiled.
As if that was her cue, Sadiya reached out and took the plate in Binta’s hands and picked up the serving spoon. ‘Don’t worry, Hajiya, I’ll take care of this.’
Binta watched Sadiya’s wrist deftly flicking as she ladled sauce on the plates. She disapproved of the way Sadiya soused the masa with too much sauce. Rich, spoilt children had no idea how these things were done.
‘Come and fetch your plates, kids.’ There was a tinkle in Sadiya’s voice as she beamed at the children.
The little ones had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching Tom chasing Jerry on the screen. Ummi, delighted to have someone to boss around for a change, commanded Zahra to fetch her plate. Fa’iza carried hers and was heading to her room when Munkaila’s voice made her stop.
‘Fa’iza, are you sure you are all right? You’ve been acting funny, you know.’
Fa’iza smiled with none of her teeth showing, and proceeded to her room.
‘What’s wrong with that girl?’ Munkaila directed the question at no one. Little Ummi sidled up to her uncle and whispered in his ear. He listened with a furrow on his brow. ‘Why? What happened?’
Ummi leaned in further and whispered some more, her eyes gleaming.
‘Get away from there, ’yar gulma kawai.’ Binta’s voice had a mocking tone. The laughter of the adults rang up to the ceiling. Ummi made a face and went back to her place.
Sadiya shook her head, sipped some water and carefully set down the glass in the middle of the intricate pattern on the rug. ‘Hajiya, you will teach me how to make masa this good, wallahi.’
Binta laughed drearily. ‘To make good masa, you need an open flame and you can’t stand the heat.’
‘You don’t even know how to stoke firewood. The smoke will chase you all the way out of the house – all these gas- and electric-cooker girls who can’t put their breath into embers.’
Munkaila, mouth full, directed impatient gestures at his mother, then his wife. They waited for him to swallow. ‘I’ve been telling her how much richer food cooked on firewood tastes.’
‘Oh, trust me, you won’t want your wife smelling of all that makamashi; all that burnt rubber and whatnot.’
‘People have stopped using firewood like that.’ Munkaila motioned meaningfully. ‘It’s not healthy for the environment. That’s why I had to get you the gas cooker.’
Binta nodded. ‘I am fortunate, I know. But my neighbour here, Mama Efe, she sent her daughter to buy kerosene at the filling station the other day and after spending half the day in the queue, the girl was knocked down by a bike on her way back.’
‘I hear the queues are back at the stations,’ Sadiya addressed her mother-in-law.
Binta’s eyes popped. ‘Back? They never left.’
‘And we produce oil in this country, saboda Allah fa!’
‘Bad leadership, that’s all.’ Munkaila’s smirk grew more profound. ‘Bad leadership kawai.’
‘And I hear they are already asking this president to contest.’ Binta paused and took a sip from her glass. ‘Do you think he will?’
‘He’s not supposed to because of this zoning agreement they have in the party, but he is in power now, I’m sure he will find a way around it.’
‘If only Yar’adua had not died—’ Sadiya reached out and wiped the sauce running down her chin.
‘Wallahi fa,’ Binta agreed.
Munkaila swallowed the food in his mouth noisily. ‘Are they any different? Their interests are all the same, I think. They are all in it for what they can get.’
‘I‘m sure Northern leaders won’t allow it.’ Binta emphasized this by waving her spoon before her face. ‘Oh no, they won’t.’
‘Hajiya ke nan.’ Munkaila’s tone was condescending. ‘Northern leaders, Southern leaders, what good have they done the country?’
Binta had her mouth full and couldn’t say anything. Just then, the power, which had come back on a while before, went off again and the children, in accustomed fashion, moaned in despair. Binta motioned to her grandchildren to come over for more helpings and she fished in the sauce for chunky bits of meat, which she judiciously placed on their plates.
The little Chinese-made generator with its blue tank sputtered and roared to life. Fa’iza pulled down the changeover lever and the power came on. The children yelped in delight and ran back to the room.
Munkaila had brought the machine in the boot of his car. He had removed it from its pack and set it up in the shed – a little affair of roofing sheets nailed together to keep such devices from the elements. The landlord had built the shed and, because she had had no other use for it before now, Binta had used it as a sort of purgatory for her broken furniture and fitments. It was some distance away from the house so the rattling noise wouldn’t be unbearable, like Mama Efe’s, which kept Binta awake until it was turned off late in the night.
Munkaila straightened and slapped the dust from his palms. Binta had been standing over him, showering him with prayers of prosperity, good health, and loving children to take care of him in his twilight years. His ‘Ameen’ was accompanied by a deep-throated, luxuriant laugh; the sort that Binta had never got used to hearing since he became rich.
‘Hajiya, we need to talk.’ He looked around, as if assessing the appropriateness of having a proper conversation in these surroundings.
‘Really?’ She was slightly disturbed by the grave expression on his face, by the tone of his voice.
He led her away from the rattle of the machine to the foot of the wall. He twirled his car key around his finger and allowed a moment of silence to grow between them. ‘I am worried about Hureira. She has been calling to complain about her husband.’
‘Oh, la ilaha ilallahu! This girl and her troubles!’ Binta slapped her palms together before holding her chin between her thumb and forefinger in a posture of deep concern. ‘You know, she called me two days ago and said they were quarrelling again and I asked her to maintain her home.’
‘Well, obviously she isn’t listening because she called last night and said she was going to slit his throat.’
‘That girl has a leper’s temper, wallahi, just like your father, God forgive him.’
‘Haba, Hajiya!’
‘Well, it’s the truth and you know it. All this for what, mhm? See what this girl wants to do to herself; divorced already and now trying to end another marriage. If Hureira terminates this marriage, she will have me to answer to, wallahi.’
‘What I think needs to be done now is for you and Hadiza to travel to Jos and talk to Hureira and her husband. I have spoken to Hadiza already—’
‘Can’t she even see how Hadiza is living peacefully with her husband?’
‘It’s all right, Hajiya. Just call her and talk sense into her. If it becomes necessary then you might have to go and reason with her in person.’
He watched her fold her arms across her chest, the way she used to after she had argued with his father. She had always captivated him, folding her arms like that and quivering with rage – an anger that would thrash around inside and then expire in a sullen sigh.
He considered the grey patterns on his white snakeskin half-shoe and sighed. ‘Hajiya, there is something else.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not about Hureira. It’s about you.’
‘Me?’ She felt her heart lurch.
If he had glanced up at her face then, he would have seen the look in her eyes and the furrow on her brow that distinctly spelt guilt in bold letters. ‘A man came to see me.’
She still held her breath.
‘Mallam Haruna, he said his name was, the man who has been coming to see you.’
Finally, she breathed out.
‘Are you all right, Hajiya?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
He looked at her, but the letters on her forehead had already dissipated, leaving only a half-hearted frown. ‘You know him, don’t you?’
She grunted.
‘Well, he said he’s serious about marrying you and he came to ask for your hand. I spoke to Hadiza about it and she seems to think it’s a good idea that you remarry. But I don’t know what you think.’
She grunted again.
‘Hajiya, you need to say something.’
‘Did I say I want to remarry?’
‘But Hajiya, ten years is a long time.’
She snorted. ‘Look at this boy. What do you know about life to talk to me about marriage?’
‘Haba, Hajiya, it’s not my idea, you know. Hadiza seems to think you need a man around and I don’t know how you relate with this Mallam Haruna.’
‘That will be enough.’ Her frown deepened.
He did not miss the note of finality in her voice. They stood awkwardly, their silence filled by the roar of the new generator.
‘Ummi tells me Fa’iza had a fit earlier today. What was that about?’
‘Blood.’ Binta adjusted her headscarf. ‘Fa’iza has issues with blood, and meat too.’
He came that night, Mallam Haruna, in a starched kaftan with a transistor radio pressed to his ear, and a cap that caught the light of the bare yellow bulb on the wall. He had a long history with radios running back some forty-two years. He was sixteen when his father had died in 1969 and bequeathed his son his prized possession – a black Silver radio with dual bands, a type they don’t make anymore. He had listened to the world unfold around him, an endless river of tales streaming into his ears. He listened when the civil war ended in ‘70, listened when Murtala toppled General Gowon in ’76, listened when Murtala himself was assassinated months later, listened when General Obasanjo handed over to Shagari in ’79 and listened when Obasanjo returned in ’99. Neither of his two wives had been a closer companion than the string of radios he had had over the years – and he had told them that in no uncertain terms. He was an honestly blunt man, Mallam Haruna.
Fa’iza went out and spread a mat on the veranda for the guest. Mallam Haruna thanked her and sat down. Because he was enraptured listening to the BBC in Hausa, he did not notice how long Binta took to come out. When she did, it was the fragrance of her perfume that first caught his attention. She stood for a while looking at a gecko primed to seize a blowfly under the glow of the bulb. Mallam Haruna sat looking at her, covered as she was by her enormous hijab whose hem fell to the ground around her feet.
The gecko moved, astonishing her with its speed. She barely glimpsed the fly’s wings disappearing into the reptile’s mouth. She moved away from the wall and sat as far away from her guest as the mat would allow.
‘Ina wuni?’
He answered her greeting, wanting her to look at his cleanly-shaven face. He had had the wanzam shave off the grey hair sticking out of his ears and nostrils. He was glad for the light; it meant that his efforts wouldn’t go unnoticed.
But her head was turned the other way, looking now at a cat sitting on the fence, staring at her with iridescent eyes.
‘You got a new generator.’
Binta had known him long enough to know that he had a way of making questions come out like statements. ‘Yes. My son bought it for me.’
‘Oh, Alhaji Munkaila. He came.’
‘As if you didn’t know.’ She was still looking at the cat, its white-tipped tail held up by its side like a defiant flag.
‘Wait.’ Mallam Haruna pressed the radio closer to his ear. They were interviewing the former minister of petroleum Alhaji Shettima Monguno. He was appealing to everybody to support President Jonathan, explaining how people were mistaken about the agreement the ruling party had of zoning the presidency to the North for another four years, and how voting in Jonathan, a Southerner, would be the same as voting in a Northerner because he was merely filling in the gap that President Yar’adua, a Northerner, left when he died in office.
‘These people are amazing!’ Mallam Haruna exclaimed.
Binta leaned further away from him still, resting her shoulder against a pillar. She hissed, long and hard. ‘I hate radios, wallahi.’
‘What! You hate radios! You don’t want to know what state the world is in.’
‘What state? Is it not always the same; bomb here, bomb there, murders here and there and hunger and war elsewhere?’
‘You are being so pessimistic. Good things happen too, you know.’
‘Switch it off.’
‘What!’
‘The radio. Switch it off.’
‘Haba Binta—’
‘Switch it off or I leave.’
He looked at her and switched off the radio with a heavy sigh. The generator continued to hum from a distance. The cat stood, arched its back, and took long, elegant strides on the fence. Then it settled down again to chaperone the cheerless couple sitting in the humid night, beneath the harsh light of the naked bulb.
‘What did you tell the person you went to see?’
‘Who? Munkaila?’
She said nothing.
‘I told him I want to marry you.’
‘And you think he can compel me to marry?’
‘Hajiya Binta, you speak like a child, wallahi. We are building a relationship—’
‘Look, we will talk about this some other time. I can’t stay out in the night like this.’
‘Why?’
She stood up. ‘Because the cat has been looking at me.’
‘Cat? What cat?’
She pointed. He saw the animal now, eyes gleaming with the intensity of jewels. He shooed it away but the cat sat unmoving, staring back. He picked up one of his shoes and feigned to hurl it. The cat only stared. When it finally stood up, Binta did not wait to see what it would do. She ran into the house, the folds of her hijab flapping like a curtain in the wind.