Only a wise man can make out the greying hair on a sheep
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.’
‘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?’
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.
‘You’ve been kidnapped,’ Gattuso announced from behind his mask. ‘If you don’t cooperate, we kill you dead. If your people don’t cooperate, we kill you dead. They don’t pay money, we kill you dead. You play pranks with us, we kill you dead-dead. Understand?’ He tormented the sudden silence with the rattle of his cracking knuckles.
The girl held her head in her hands.
It was the chloroform, Reza knew. ‘The headache will pass. You will be all right.’
‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’ There was a hint of an exotic accent to her Hausa.
‘The boy you were with, was he your boyfriend?’
She looked up at Reza. ‘He’s my cousin, God damn it.’ She said the last words in English.
The two men looked at each other.
‘Your cousin, right? How are you related exactly?’
Gattuso punched his palm. ‘You will answer the question. How are you related?’
‘Please, just let me go. Whatever your problem is, I know nothing about it.’
‘Answer the goddam question!’
She started crying.
Reza noticed Gattuso’s increased restlessness, noticed his eyes jumping around, looking for something to smash. He guided him out and locked the door behind them.
They strode back to the living room where Dogo and Joe were playing Whot. Reza sat down and mulled over this new information. He understood now why Moses had called to ask them to hold on to her. Inadvertently, their mission, whatever it was, was still on course.
When her screams, muffled by the folds of emptiness, and the sounds of her fists on the door reverberated around the wide expanse of the house, he went back up, with Gattuso on his heels. She tried to rush past him when he opened the door. It was easy to grab her arm and fling her back onto the mat. Despite the fire that raged and leapt in her eyes each time she reached for his throat, she was weak and still unsteady from the drug. He parried her assault with relative ease but she kept striking wildly. She fell when he slapped her. There was a profundity to the silence ushered in by the sound of him striking her. It was the sort of silence that reminded him of the desolation in his heart.
She sat still, holding her breath, looking into his face as he held her upper arms. He saw a shade of dread crawl up into her eyes and felt her go limp. He enjoyed watching the fear he struck in her eating away her resistance.
‘You will give us the name and contacts of your people.’
She gave them a name to look for in her phone: her uncle, the tycoon.
‘He’d better pay up.’ Gattuso thumped the door.
The girl looked at him briefly, over Reza’s shoulder, and then turned her eyes back to the taller man. Reza stood up and said they would send up food.
Reza halted, still facing the door. When the silence lengthened, he turned and saw her lower her head. ‘What?’
‘I’m having my monthlies.’
His eyes widened. ‘Well, I wasn’t planning on touching you, you understand.’
She shook her head. ‘I need pads.’
‘Oh! Ok. Pads. Indeed. Right, then. Pads.’
He went out and Gattuso locked the door from outside.
Gattuso, who had gone up with the food and a pack of pads, returned to announce that the girl had asked for Reza. Since his return from the pharmacy, Reza had sat beneath the window, legs stretched out before him, looking up at the floral patterns on the ceiling. He had gone out to get the pads, and to explore this largely isolated part of Jabi, where their operation base was, so he could get some air and clear his head. He had felt embarrassed asking for sanitary pads and had been relieved when the attendant did not seem to find his request particularly odd.
On the long trek back, he was comforted by the large expanse of uninhabited buildings lining the streets, some finished but empty, others uncompleted. It was a rich neighbourhood, he could see from the layout and the size of the houses. He had been reassured, as he had been the first time he came to look at the place, that there would be no one within earshot no matter how loudly she screamed.
He looked at Gattuso standing at the foot of the staircase, one hand resting on the railing, eyes expectant.
‘What the hell for?’
‘I don’t know. She just said I should get the tall one.’
‘Tell her I am not here.’
But he saw how all three of them looked at him, eyes full of questions they wouldn’t ask. He got up and dusted off his trousers, put on his mask and brushed past Gattuso on his way up.
The girl was standing by the window, which had been sealed from the outside with roofing sheets, her delicate fingers resting on the burglarproof bars.
He asked what she wanted.
‘I just wanted to thank you, for the pads, you know.’ She turned to face him now.
He wondered why women had to be particular about the most inconsequential of things.
‘I need water, to wash.’
He turned to leave.
‘Why are you doing this?’
There was something appealing and natural about her accent when she spoke English, unlike the contrived nasal accents of the university girls who spoke and gesticulated flamboyantly when they came with their boyfriends to buy weed. He paused, wanting her to say more but still not wanting to answer the question.
‘I just want to understand what’s happening … please.’
How much of what was happening did he really understand himself? ‘You just keep your mouth shut and you won’t get killed.’
‘You’ve killed people before, yeah? I saw it in your eyes.’
Now he thought he saw her disappearing, melding into the blackness, into the night that grew as the walls fell away. That night, six years before, when Mike Two Guns had towered over him, demanding his money.
At thirty-five, Two Guns had dwarfed all the boys with his height, his bristling muscles and the legend of the two pistols he carried beneath his omnipresent jacket, the faded brown one he never washed. He had been the local go-to guy for all sorts of drugs, running his business through the boys, stocking them up with illicit goods they had to pay for in advance of retail, even if it meant from their own pockets. Most times, he slurred and swayed, high on coke or Tramol. Reza had chanced upon him stoned, sprawling beneath the Atili tree in the football field.
Two Guns had woken up to find Reza keeping watch over him and had leaned on the young man’s shoulder as he staggered home. He had never allowed any of the boys to know where he lived. He had always drifted in the background, sometimes springing from behind the trees and walls to deliver a line before jumping back into the shadows. The import of that did not escape Reza.
He had been pleased when Two Guns started sending him to his weed suppliers to restock, or to shake up some of the other boys who were defaulting on payment. The boys had to be milked whenever Two Guns needed money, which was often. He was constantly in debt. No one knew exactly to whom or to what extent.
But then Two Guns started making crazy demands, even on Reza. And when Reza could not pay up, Two Guns prodded him on the chest and blew smoke in his face. ‘Look, Reza, or whatever the fuck your name is, if you need to sell your bitch of a mama, sell her and get me my money. Otherwise, I’ll waste you, you hear?’
Reza knew something had to give.
On a moonlit night when Mike Two Guns was high on Tramol and alcohol, staggering home and singing to himself, Reza followed him. In the football field where he had first earned Two Guns’ trust, Reza snuck up on him and grabbed him from behind. The first three stabs were quick and Two Guns seemed astonished to see blood gushing from his stomach.
Reza stood panting, surprised by how easy it was to stab someone. He had been in knife fights where people had been cut before, he was not called Reza for nothing, but he had never actually stabbed anyone. He thought Two Guns would slump and die, as he had seen in movies, but the man staggered forward, grabbing Reza’s shirt. Reza gasped. Suppressing the fear that came over him, he tried to loosen the grip on his shirt but Two Guns held on tightly, even though he was too weak to do anything else. Beyond the gleam of tears highlighted by the moonlight, Reza could see the questions floating in the wounded man’s eyes. He had to finish it, end the tyranny that had subdued the boys and would certainly swallow him if he let it. He tightened his grip on the handle of the knife and plunged it in once more.
‘Please, just die.’ Tears streamed down Reza’s face. ‘Just die.’
When Two Guns, grunting, had pulled him closer, Reza stabbed him again. And again. He continued to stab until Two Guns’ grip slackened and the man fell, first to his knees and then to the dust, wheezing, choking on his own blood.
Reza had felt powerful as he looked at the dying man as he lay in the dust. He had felt a kind of freedom he had never imagined possible.
He never bragged about it or even mentioned it but the next morning when the corpse was discovered in the field, the boys looked in Reza’s eyes and knew he was the one who had liberated them from the oppression of Two Guns. There was a new overlord, and he resided at San Siro. One after the other they had come to offer him the ’yan daba greeting – tapping their right fists into their left palms and bowing their heads in reverence.
He took over the weed market but avoided coke and the cocktails; they made a man weak, like Two Guns. He wanted to be different, to run his business differently. He would not live in dread of the police, so he made an arrangement with them. It was these little decisions that set him apart.
Sometimes he saw the life dying out in Two Guns’ eyes and the shock of betrayal after he had stabbed him the first few times. Sometimes he remembered how, at that point, he loathed Two Guns for his weakness. He remembered the exhilaration he had felt, something he had experienced each time he stuck a knife into someone he thought deserved it. And there had been the tear-jerking gratification he had felt seeing Two Guns lying in the dust and listening to his wheezing breath fading into the long, long night.
‘Yeah?’ The girl’s voice intruded into his reverie. She was looking at him, expectantly.
He looked at her hair, at her modest breasts, her gracious hips. ‘There’s nothing beautiful about killing people.’
When she looked up, their eyes met, briefly, before she looked down.
He turned and went out of the room. Locking the door behind him, he reached into his pocket for his phone.