What has horns must not be hidden in a sack
‘Ah! Do they have to sing about everything?’ Ummi lamented from her place on the floor as she watched the actors on TV singing and dancing in the Hindi style that Hausa film-makers had also adopted.
‘This is so lame, wallahi.’ Kareema curled up on the couch next to her sister. Abida was in sky-blue lace, Kareema in royal blue.
Fa’iza, baffled, looked at the Short Ones. ‘Lame? This film?’
It was Abida who, equally disgusted, tackled Fa’iza. ‘Kwarai kuwa. How can you come home and find your wife in bed with some idiot and just stand there singing like a moron?’
‘It’s prayer time.’ Binta, who was sitting across the room from Hureira, delivered her observation in a solemn tone that suggested she wanted the crowd to disperse.
‘Wai! Prayer time? Come, let’s go pray.’ Fa’iza rose. She realised that she wasn’t enthralled by the movie after all, since Ali Nuhu was not in it. She waited for the Short Ones to rise and together they headed for her room, swinging their hips as they went.
Abida hissed. ‘I would rather be reading my novels than watching this crap.’
‘Sure, sure.’
Hureira watched them disappear into the room and close the door behind them. She turned to her mother with a questioning look.
Binta nodded, as if assenting to Hureira’s unarticulated assertions. ‘Those are the kind of friends Fa’iza keeps.’
‘Lallai kam!’ Hureira nodded and made clucking noises.
Binta, too, rose to say her prayers, and because it was that time of the month for her, Hureira, nursing a mild grouchiness, was left with her daughter, watching the tedious film crawl to a climax.
In Fa’iza’s room, the girls took turns saying their Maghrib prayers. While Abida sat on the rug supplicating, Fa’iza sat on the mattress flipping the pages of the new cache of novellas the Short Ones had brought hidden under the folds of their hijabs. Kareema stood before the mirror patting her face. When Abida was done, Fa’iza took her place on the prayer rug and performed her Salat. And then it was Kareema’s turn. After saying Salaam, she sat on the rug supplicating endlessly.
Fa’iza tired of waiting for her to finish. ‘Wai! A long prayer like this? What were you praying for so earnestly?’
‘Things.’
‘Boys?’ Abida asked.
Kareema smiled. ‘Maybe. What woman doesn’t pray for a good husband?’
‘Sure, sure.’
Fa’iza was excited. ‘Who is he?’
Abida smiled, batting her eyes like a repository of secret things. ‘She has many.’
‘Sure, and so do you.’ There was pride in Kareema’s understated smile, and in her voice as well. Then she turned to Fa’iza. ‘How many do you have, Amin?’
Abida giggled. ‘She’s still drooling over Bala Mahmud.’
‘Me? Bala Mahmud? Of course not.’
‘And do you know who Kareema has been drooling over?’
‘Kareema? Who?’
‘Should I tell, Kareema?’
Kareema smiled and shrugged. She rolled on the mattress.
‘Reza,’ Abida whispered.
‘Reza? The San Siro guy?’
‘Isn’t he soooo handsome?’ Kareema’s eyes lit up with the incandescence of dreams.
‘Handsome? But he’s—’
‘Sure, I know, I know. But it’s not like I want to marry him or anything, you know. Just tripping, the way you go on about Ali Nuhu.’
‘Me?’
‘Sure.’
‘I saw him the other day, Reza, you know.’ Kareema stirred the conversation back to herself. ‘He looked at me and you could tell there was something.’
‘Something?’
‘Sure. A connection, you know. A spark.’
Ummi came in with a dish of couscous, which she placed in the middle of the room and left. She returned with a jug of water and cups and then ran back to the living room. The girls sat around the plate, folded their legs and ate in silence. But each time Fa’iza looked up, her eyes met Abida’s.
‘What?’
Abida shrugged. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Me? Yes.’
Cutlery clinked. More couscous disappeared from the plate. Then Kareema looked up from the food. ‘Amin, how soon can you finish these books?’
‘Me? Well, it’s Saturday. You could have them back by Monday, at school.’
‘Sure. Great. Then I will give you one in English.’
‘In English?’
‘Sure. Mills and Boon.’
‘All right.’ But when Fa’iza looked up, she saw that Abida was looking into her eyes, yet again. And it occurred to her that Abida’s eyes shone with empathy, not pity, an assuring gleam of understanding like a beacon meant only for her. And she knew that it was because of what Abida had seen in her Secret Book. Fa’iza looked down at the vanishing mound of couscous.
But Abida too had seen how Fa’iza looked at her. She, too, felt what Kareema had, only moments before, referred to as a spark, a connection. ‘Do you still dream?’
Fa’iza nodded.
Kareema looked from her sister to Fa’iza. ‘Dream? About what?’
‘Nothing.’ Abida sipped some water. ‘Just dreams.’
The glare in Kareema’s eyes was accusatory but it faded as noise from the gate reached them. Apparently, someone was intent on barging in. Fa’iza was startled, her eyes widened. The girls ran out of the room and found Hureira standing by the front door, peering into the courtyard.
Binta emerged from her room. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Some men.’
‘It’s Reza.’ Abida, having joined Hureira by the door, and familiar with Reza’s physique, was able to make him out in the dim light.
Kareema pushed her way through, desperate to catch a glimpse of the man who, with increasing regularity, had featured in her fantasies. The women came out and gathered by the front door, their apprehension lost in a maelstrom of curiosity.
Reza and his cohorts, clearly excited, as evidenced by their boisterous demeanour, approached and set down the generator, not too far from where the women were huddled. The San Siro boys stooped in greeting. Binta answered, her pleasure concealed behind the faint smile that made only the corners of her lips tweak. She kept her eyes on the generator, away from Reza’s face, as Dogo proceeded to recount how they recovered the machine. Gattuso and Joe fetched a rag from the clothes line and wiped the machine clean. Kareema inched closer to the boys, closer to Reza.
Finally, Binta, unable to contain her excitement, clapped her hands together. ‘Thank God for His mercies. May Allah bless you all, samari.’
Hureira peered over her mother’s shoulder. ‘Is it still working?’
Reza stepped forward and unscrewed the lid of the tank, shook the device with some gusto and was rewarded with the sound of the fuel splashing against the sides of the tank. Binta saw the blood on his knuckle and shivered. She wanted to reach out and take his hand.
Reza worked briskly, unmindful of the blood. He tilted the generator so that the little fuel left in it would run into the carburettor. He set it down again and screwed the lid back on. He balanced himself, legs slightly apart, and pulled the starter. The machine sputtered and quietened. He pulled again, and again, and finally, the engine coughed and roared.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ little Ummi exclaimed.
Fa’iza had missed being traumatised by the blood on Reza’s hand, for she was looking at his shoes. She was certain, even in the dim light, that they were the same ones she had seen at the front door the other day; the ones that had disappeared as mysteriously as they had appeared.