Bilkisu

  

I could not believe what was happening was happening in real happening. Everything seemed to me Alice in Wonderland. I knew the road very well, but thought it was another world. A signboard nearby read Murtala Muhammad Way, Kano. 

After long separation, parting way despite our feelings, I spotted her face in Adai-daita Sahu while I was crossing the road.

  

I always played Babban Yaro when I would visit her. Showered a nice sugar bath, shampooed my hair and combed it neatly until it was shining. Seeing Bilkisu was like seeing a king.

I liked wearing transparent outfits that showed my white underwear, put on white cap stripped-black and wore expensive wristwatch to sleep comfortably on my hand. Then, I would shower myself an ocean of beautiful perfume. Wherever I moved, sea of eyes followed me as the scent caught people’ attention. My siblings too marked me with this appearance. They  could tell  where I was headed to when they saw me sporting good.

Today’s visit was quite extraordinary. Seeing I was in a hurry, I refused to take bath. I wanted to share in the world of those who did not bathe each day. Fools who were yet to realize the advantage that came with lack of daily bathing, in the form of skin protection against cut by accumulated dirt, went ahead to bathe every day. Besides, bathing wasn’t anything better than what we did in the river when we were young.

  

Because I was always clean, Bilkisu wouldn’t be able to detect any sign of unbathing in me. The smart appearance and exotic perfume would take care of that. Like defense attorney in the court of law, the way I appeared she could volunteer to defend me if someone raised doubt about my claim of bath. How many times girls came out to their boyfriends without taking bath? It wasn’t bad idea if I was scoring out.

I used to put starch on my clothes to make them hard and crusted. It saved me the hassle of regular washing and increased the life expectancy of the clothes which were folded neatly at appropriate angles and used only on special socialities.

  

The clothes I wore to visit Bilkisu were at the bottom of my cupboard. I used them only yesterday to attend a wedding in our area. I didn’t want them to get squeezed, so when I came back I hung them to the rack just above my mattress. I was too lazy to go through meticulous process of folding them and taking them back to their place. All the same, when I pulled them out to go, they were in good shapes and retained their perfect lines. Except minor twists that formed at the back of the shirt from hanging, which took only the simple act of spraying water from my mouth to disappear them. Though a minor detail as it was, it was the kind of thing people always wanted to find in others.

To prevent my legs from spoiling the creases, I stretched my feet  stiffly forward and pulled the trousers cleanly up to my waist and raised my hands up towards heaven and thrust my body head-first into the shirt. A few bounces of my shoulders enhanced the clothes to self-adjust and lie on my body like wet grass slept on the ground.

  

Our meeting with Bilkisu was always a gorgeous business. Bilkisu got overwhelmed with my presence. We would spend hours conversing, and when it was time to go, as I rose we would feel as if it was that time we started. Only Heaven knew how she felt as her eyes would get filled with swathes of pleas and begging, petitioning me to add a few more minutes before leaving.

“But Bilkisu...” I would always say; begging her passionately and explaining before I could make her understand. If I were to follow her, each attempt of leaving would translate into staying and more staying until the only thing left was staying. Trouble was the meaning of my sleeping in her room as nobody would see our heart and intention. But Bilkisu had never seemed to be aware of this. Even bigger trouble was, of course, how to face her parents in the morning demanding explanation.

Inside her room, while waiting for her coming, I sat myself on one of the cushion chairs that formed a semicircle in front of her television set. It took her longer than I expected before she could appear; meanwhile I was getting tired. But I just had to bear it. What of her when me that did not even bathe spent an hour preparing? So, I simply shrugged knowing she was still in front of the mirror.

Suddenly, an assortment of perfume cut through the air into the room. My eyes quickly shifted to the door where she would appear. Seconds later, she emerged resplendent in a mauve print walking like she was not walking, with a pack of a drink in her right hand, a cup in her left. Her earrings danced beautifully in accordance with her slow motions.

As she stooped to pour the drink, her breasts danced loosely in her chest. I wanted to speak, but a restraining hand clamped down my mouth. She cupped the tumbler protectively in her hands and offered it to me like a bird’s net with eggs in it. In the process, the glitzy bangles in her wrists caught my attention, clinking over sensational Hindu flower winding around her arms.

Her necklace was swallowed in partings between her chests. From mere looking, her breasts were plump and juicy. Extreme desire to fumble at her breast instantly possessed me. The notion that they were not too soft and not too hard formed in my head. The sort I liked when we got married. In such circumstance, a thing would stand up in my trousers. I found myself floating in another world, breathless with excitement. I kept shifting my body to hide my erection. Shifting proved too awkward, so I slipped my hand into my pocket and silently held the thing down.

I jolted back to the scene, looking refreshed and satisfied, with remains of unspoken thing in my eyes. “Kai Bilkisu,” the wants and desire were visible in my eyes. I was not sure if she heard me but even if she did, she did not make attempt to cover her breasts. Being together for long made Bilkisu no longer bothered with parts of her body revealed in my presence.

We could smell each other when she dragged a chair and sat opposite me, knees brushing each other’s through the slim gap between us. She was about to speak when a small thud rose as I put the cup to the table.

“Sadiq I know what I am going to do. I will just write a book to tell you my feelings. Words of mouth won’t be enough to say them out.”

We kept quiet for long, staring each other in the face, making meaning out of silence.

“I share your heart, Mai Gadan Zinare.” I said honorifically in Hausa. She deserved the name, because, she was always pristine. Her room always tidy. And clean all day.

A set of LCD screen hung at the far end of the room, air conditioning system, cushion chairs, a fridge and a center table with tea paraphernalia on top. Tissue paper, toothpick and cotton bud also adorned the table top. The room’s atmosphere was relaxed and wafted in various floras. The ceiling had a flowery decoration with tiny beautiful bulbs illuminating dimly from the ceiling. The fluorescent lightening felt cool on my skin.  Soft Persian carpet grassed the entire floor. It was so soft like cotton; you would think it’s there people called aljannar duniya.

With peace of mind came development, with it natural beauty. The great insight she did not lack. Bilkisu acquainted herself with books. Her face so smooth like an apple, her creamy skin shone in the lightning. Adding to her gracefulness her optical glasses sat stylistically on the bridge of her nose. She was ɗaya tamkar da dubu.

Bilkisu wasn’t the sort of girl who needed toshi before she loved me. Whenever I visited her, she treated me with the hospitality of a girl properly raised by parents of Katsina descent; food with vegetable soup of which the moisture of cooking oil and the chicken meat floated over the surface. She never ran out of delicious eatables and palatable drinkables, Kayan Ƙwalam da maƙulashe.  She also kept soft drinks and sweets for her visitors.

The curtain flattered as I held it for exit when she said, “I have big news for you.”

I turned swiftly. “Bilkisu, you always say this and refuse to tell me nothing.”

  

“I have got a nice dream,” she said, batting her eyelashes attractively behind her rimmed glasses.

“Tell me now.” I demanded instantly, eager to disentangle myself from the web of suspense she put me in.

  

“I will tell you later.”

“No, my Bilkisu.” I protested. “I am going to sleep here until you tell me.”

“Sadiq, I will tell you when next you come. Before then, I can fulfill my promise.”

  

The day I left Bilkisu’s father came and announced his decision to marry her to the son of his friend. He once stopped me and addressed me, with a tone of disapproval in his tone. His pursed lips pointed dismissively at my head. Bilkisu said I should have my hair shaved to get a good rating of her family. On that day, I proceeded to the barbershop and shaved, something I refused to do despite the relentless pressure from my mother.

**

I followed behind Adai-daita Sahu she was riding and caught up with her at a red light. Tears flooded our cheeks. We were touched by our sudden reunion.

“Bilkisu, are you still alive?” I said.

“I have been expecting you, Sadiq. You cut off all contact and suddenly forgot me.”

“Forgive me Bilkisu. I could not continue coming with the belief that you were going to marry another person.”

I wouldn’t pretend there weren’t remains of feelings in my heart. All this while, it was the body not the mind and always felt like developing wings to fly to her place. One soul in two bodies.

In only three visits, the guy realized he could not win her heart. Bilkisu didn’t speak and only answered him with yes or no. It was like carrying Dala without a pad. Soon, he ran back to his father and thanked him and his friend and said he could not get into a relationship he was not loved.

  

Since the time of her father’s decision, I tried to forget her. If she called me, I did not pick up. If she emailed me, I didn’t reply. If she chatted me up on Facebook, I ignored the conversation. Her number 070657…07 showed up in my screen to tell me that the guy had backed down but I would not pick up. In a hindsight, I realized I should have answered. Since then, I had been regretting my act.

She rummaged into her bag and produced the book she wrote. “Please keep it close to your heart. It is the treasure of our love.”

We met by stroke of luck. Bilkisu was flying to Kuala Lumpur tonight.

I accompanied her nearly to her home. When we reached a corner, I stopped and asked the tricycle man to take me back to my place. I was flung into vacuum and emptiness, she left without telling me the date she’d return. I didn’t ask her either for no apparent reason at all. But I thought I was too excited or too worried.

I held the book to my chest throughout the drive home, feeling its warmth seep into my body. I was deeply touched, and the contact made me realize the inability of words to communicate her feelings. The warmth oozing from the book through my body stirred a renewed passion in me.

  

It was almost dark when I alighted and headed briskly to the home. I read only few lines while on the ride, but had to close the book as tears started dripping from eyes. When I came to a culvert–jumping over it–­the book slipped off my hand into the gutter beneath.

**

Since her travel, I maintained contact with her online. I inboxed her on Facebook when I wanted to chat her up. Or left a hi if she was offline. Within seconds, her instant reply would beam up. I could go online so early only to find her status reading three minutes ago.

She uploaded pictures of herself she snapped abroad. And that fetched her more people gravitating to her updates. She became a top, big girl than she was before her travel. Because she was abroad, she was too proud to comment on other people’s posts.

I never commented on her pictures. I would wait patiently each day for her to upload. The other day I was worried she didn’t put while I was preparing to leave. I wanted to post a status update about that but nay... I didn’t want her to see the post and realize I still cared. 

First, I went to chat menu to see if she was online.  And. She. Was. I tarried a little until she left; then I posted:

Dear young lady. The beautiful. You do not post your photo yet and I want to retire offline. Please do. I like it only that I can’t bring myself to joining the crowd commenting and liking your picture.

Soon after, I took the post down before she could see.

Each day, I silently scrolled her pictures down to see the praise they generated from her admirers vying for her attention.

“Nice one,” one said.

“Beautiful,” another wrote.

“Kin hadu Babbar Yarinya,” another quipped in.

Even when she returned to the country the droves of fans did not stop. Adding more spice to the great thrill of spying her pictures was the nice words said of her. Such wards always raised her value in my eyes and became a yardstick for me to measure her beauty.  I was convinced I was not going to marry ugly woman.

Except one day.

One guy stood prominent and persistent who at every chance won’t hesitate to call her my wife.

I knew his name, this guy.

I woke up each day from that day with feeling of nervousness and a vague sense of dread. I did not phone her for quite some time now as I got tired of calling her all day since her return to the country. So I went online and inboxed her careful not want her to suspect anything.

 “I can’t recall you.” She fired back angrily to my greeting.

“I hope I am not committing a crime.”

“You are not committing any crime.”

“Thank God I am not going to jail. Do you want me to describe myself?” I wrote back and moved to chat with a friend, assuming a pretentious indifference of some sort.

“I am waiting.” She wrote back impatiently.

Good. And you said you forgot me?

“Alright.” I replied and started telling her my features before I went back to my friend.

As I did not come back yet to reply to her, she grew more impatient. “Go ahead.” Another score. One need know how to handle women.

Instead of telling her who I was, now I described to her her own appearance and taste, and told her residential address.

“I love perfume and wear glasses and live at Tal’udu. Is that okay?” I asked.

“Send me your picture.”

“To do what with my picture?”

“So I can recognize you.”

To recognize me?

“Why can’t you just go to my profile pictures?” I still had to show her even if I had interest in her, it was no longer like before.

“Okay.”

I switched back to my friend. When I returned, I saw that she wrote “Sadiq ke nan.”

“Bilkisu ke nan.”

“Yes.”

“I love you so much.”

“Thanks.”

The heartburn in me increased each day. I badly wanted to find out her relationship with that guy. She wouldn’t suspect anything now since I was calling her frequently. Our discussion on Facebook somehow cleared the air.

“Didn’t you see my call?”  I said when she finally picked up after three calls had gone unanswered. I was already suspecting she won’t pick up thinking it was the effect of that other guy.

Although lying wasn’t her habit, I wanted to test her and asked why she did not pick up. For once she had to lie. To tell me the unvaried, predictable response among ladies.

Bad network.

I wasn’t around.

I did not see any call.

Since she did not normally flash, I expected to receive her return call from the credit I sent her. I wanted to encourage her and make her feel at home. So I sent her a card before I called. But she didn’t. I wouldn’t believe it she would be like other girls who would call another guy with someone else’ money.

The reason she did not answer was that the phone was in silent mode, insider her bag while she was on the way home. When she spoke about the guy, there was no fidgeting in her voice. The description she gave matched my assumption. Immediately, dots began piecing up in my head.

Two months back, Ishaq, our eldest brother, asked me to accompany him to Kantin Kwari to buy betrothal. Last three weeks, the elderly women in our family took the goods to a certain Bilkisu’s home. To my thinking, it was different girl.

Silent discordance was growing inside the family. The stigma would be enormous to have relatives from the same womb fighting themselves over a girl. And our father intervened in Ishaq’s favor after he reported me to him.

Ishaq was the eldest son. He was brought into the family business when age began to eat up at our father. Alhaji offered him a house at Kofar Kansakali, near Custom Training College, but Ishaq would not accept.

  

Since the house he planned to live in was built away from our home, I was happy with that. It would be easy for me to be meeting Bilkisu privately. The only problem was Hajiya. She insisted Kubrah should go live with them before her SSCE result came out. By which she meant the girl would be a spy.

 

“Who do you know there, eh? You can’t leave her alone in a strange place.”

 

Ishaq did not like the idea. He needed strict privacy and complete happiness. He was such a man who could send his children to live with their grandmother. Hajiya didn’t even know that he rejected Alhaji’s offer in the first place because of a graveyard few blocks from the house. It would spoil his happiness to be passing by a cemetery each day. More so at early stage of his marriage.

                                              

 **

Since I could no longer be in relationship with Bilkisu, I was lucky to have a new girl on Facebook. Her name Beelley and had dove couple on her profile picture.

   

I was chatting her while Ishaq was beside me when he came to bid Hajiya farewell for his travel out of the town. Before I was aware, he invaded my privacy to peer into my screen.

“Who is this girl?” I hated it for him to continue pretending I was a small boy. 

   

I moved the phone frantically sideways and said, “Beelley, she lives at Na’ibawa. We met at Immigration Office the other time I took Hajiya for her lesser hajj.”

“Aunty Bilkisu,” Kubrah shouted. “You have a message.”  The phone was in her hand while Bilkisu was away in the kitchen.

Bilkisu ran to the room frantically shouting, “Who is it?” afraid the girl could have any suspicious feeling.

“Safiya,”said the girl naively. It was my new account. She would not understand anything because the conversation gave the impression of women merely in exchange.

   

“Oh, Safiya,” said Bilkisu.  As she entered, she dried her hands to her wrapper, collected the phone and sat down.

Sitting all day at home bored Kubrah off and made her eager to pick at any opportunity that came her way. She was only allowed to the neighbors when Ishaq was out. Or going to buy things Ishaq forgot to include in his shopping. And so, for that, there was a wedding of her friend’s sister at Gadan Kaya which she would not afford to miss. Golden opportunity!

  

“I am coming this afternoon.” I wrote.  

After Ishaq bade Hajiya farewell and left, I went offline and headed to Bilkisu’s place. I’d not use Hajiya’s car. So, I hired Adai-daita Sahu and alighted somewhere away from the house and trekked the rest walk.

  

A few neighbors were sitting close by when I arrived. Except them, the neighbourhood was quiet and solitary. They looked me suspiciously but quickly turned back to their banter as the polythene bag in my hand spoke to them. “He’s on errand.”

Bilkisu was sitting on a chair inside her parlor. The door was already open when I came. Apparently, she read the message I sent her on my way.

Except Beelley, nobody knew my new line.

I slipped off my shoes and tucked them in a safe corner and proceeded to a table and placed the parcel beside television set.

  

“Sadiq,” that was Hajiya’s voice sending me fretting. Forty days after giving birth, Bilkisu visited us at the end of her hotly traditional bathing. Nine months earlier, her belly was big round pot universe, containing two rambunctious babies. One female, the other male. 

  

Why Hajiya shouting my name?  Who told her? I began struggling on the inside, framing answers to Hajiya’s impending questions.

God forbid, I have never…much less with my sister-in-law. I would fire back when she asked.

  

“Come see your children.”  Huge sense of relief, that was. My chest was taking a slow motion, rising and falling in respite.

A deafening silence cut into the room, I was too struck to act, apparently neither Bilkisu too, so thick was the silence it could be sliced with a knife.

Bilkisu and I looked up at each other. Hajiya couldn’t understand this strange look. Confused, she said, “His brother’s children are also his children.” 

  

“Come here my child.” I said, stretching out my hand towards Bilkisu.

She brought forth the female, taller, with darker creamy skin.