Port Manteau, The Bait

Port Manteau, The Bait

With

Abubakar Sulaiman Muhd

17/10/2013

The phone rang while she was eating dinner with her family and relatives who came to commiserate with her over the mysterious disappearance of her new baby. She had been making phone calls the whole morning to contact labs to conduct DNA test for her. The family and herself particular were in grief and anxiety over the mysterious death of her baby.

If there was anything she would have loved   to see in her life would be the little face of the baby close to her, to press her cheeks against hers out of sheer love. And this was the time but turned out to be painful and tearful. When she became six-month pregnant she retired from doing any gut job. She took her maternity leave from work three months back. She had been attending her ante-natal clinic test when she was eight-week conceived. By that time her bony ankles were no longer visible as before. The last scan showed that the baby in her womb was of female sex and the Expected Day of Delivery (EDD) would be 15/07/2013. With her knowing this, she became full of cheers.  

Ummi had a train of provisions for her unborn baby. She went to the nearby shop to buy her babygros. The white ones and pink, she said, were good to the little ones. She bought perfume, necklace, earring, bangle, ring and exclusive Holland wax for her own appearance on the naming ceremony. She named her unborn baby ‘ little Amira’ and the name went down the list of a close lady school’s register to reserve her admission since the last twenty-four-week scan showed that she was having a baby girl. Nevertheless, she had not given much hoot to anything than the need to deliver her baby safely into the world for as soon as the baby came, it would be shown the love and care that would be promising and special Heaven and Earth put together.

She had been a member of a gymnastic club at Zoo Road where she went for exercise to make her body go along with her new condition. The first time she went, she was taken a tour of the facilities. First she was taken to a large gym hall with polished wooden floor that contained all sort of machine for exercise. Patrons in different spandex sportswear were walking, circling or running. Second she was taken to a twenty-three meter swimming pool. Her attention went to the architectural dynamite grandeur of the place that bore the features of modern decorum. The water was bright blue from the underwater lightening, sparkling turquoise like a huge aquamarine gemstone moving in a beautiful stream throwing and catching light as it reflects the glow from the shiny sun. The pool had stone surround on its either edge and at the both ends marbled Romanesque steps with a silver banister for easy in and out. Children who gave company to their parents were put to a sweet William corner romping on carousel, others with toys. 

A day after she came back from the hospital where she delivered, her husband came to tell her that the baby was born dead, miscarriage and was immediately interred as the religion says. She was sitting in a chair knees pulled up to the chest, arms wrapped around her legs, snuggling up to keep off the pain of her caesarian wound. She had expected that the baby was taken to the home of her relatives or somewhere else nearby, but he came to tell her this sad story.  

“Impossible”, she shouted, “just tell me where my little Amira is.” She protested, she could not believe what he was telling her for how a baby just born yesterday would die and buried without her relatives knowing about it. Although she was anaesthetized but at least her relatives and the doctors should have the wind about the death. She stayed still in a moment’s shock delving in her fond memories. She remembered when she looked into the pram where the baby was at hospital after been recovered, “Ummi don’t wake up the baby”, the nurse warned her. “I’ll just have a little look.” She replied. Though her own health condition was not stable but she managed to look into the cradle and snapped few shots of the baby’s face with her digital camera. She peered through the cot and saw a little flabby thing sleeping in it with soft clothes sewn on it ‘beautiful face’ in a pale maroon writing.  She bought the pram and the clothes when she was six-month pregnant where she spotted them on a shop window at baby plaza mart. Whatever she saw and fancied her, she bought them for the baby even though by that point she had already filled the nursery wardrobe with enough clothes and babygros from the exclusive boutiques she favoured to keep her Amira going for the first three years. She envisioned the situation in her mind’s eyes when she would be pushing her baby in a cot for shopping, cuddling her for warmth and protection, and kissing her for love and affection. Though modern, but she remained objective to the modern idea of bottle-feeding her baby. She read somewhere that one of the advantages of breath-feeding is that it gives opportunity for the mum to get close bond with her baby. And for that reason she was determined to take care of her baby in person. Wiping her vomit, washing her shit, washing the spoiled clothes, changing her diapers, daily bathings, vigil at midnight, all this, she said, were her motherly responsibilities. She was determined to make everything perfect.

She rose and made towards a table where tellphone was lying. She picked the mouthpiece and began dialing a number before he came and yanked wrench the gadget off her grip.

“This is bad,” he roared, “do you think I would kill my own child?” he challenged. “Whom are you calling?” he asked.

“The police and the doctor. I have got to do something quickly over the death of my daughter.” She replied.

“I will call them myself.” He spurted out curtly.

 “Bashir give me the phone right now or else I will get the kitchen knife and stab you.” She threatened in sobs and heaves of agony and tears.

“What got into your head? Are you mad?”  He roared again. This time around he slapped her on both cheeks, first with the palm and second with the back of his hand. Over a year before today, they had never exchanged foul language, never quibbled, never sulked or even rowed. She thought of the pleasantries he had been telling her when he called at her home for the night talks during their courtship. The placatory words, soothing phrases, the mouthwatering ‘my better half’ rabin raina, ‘apple of my eyes’, ‘if not you then sink in the well’, idan ba ke be sai rijiya, ‘the only one in my heart’, all these endearments. It was just then she realized that the modern world is so romantic, full of fleeting  love phrases and ceremonial infatuations that does not go beyond words of mouth which the suitors use to deceive each other while in courtship. She used to think that they lived along because they were in love, but in retrospect, their feeling seemed entirely unnatural.

“You are speaking with the police Division II Kano metropolis. How can I help you?” The police followed the number they recently received a call from and got disconnected in a moment when he fetched the phone off her.

“Yeah….officer it is alright”, he stammered tingling with guilt. “It’s mistaken call…it is a private matter. My wife is having post-natal depressing, she runs out of her Prozac drugs and mistakenly called you as her doctor.” He lied fretting with guilt.

As she fell down she felt the pain of her caesarian wound come afresh as her weight fell on her belly. Her brain flared back into her memory to remember how come she got into marriage with her wicked husband. It was disgusting and wretched. Ummi had been in love with her true lover. Umar, the man she kept in her heart and promised to marry and live in the Promised Land. She came out one day to visit her aunt at the next houses of the same quarter. As she was passing by, Umar and his friends were sitting at a place. One of the guys saw her and appreciated her. She was stately as she walked gracefully. Her fingers, toes, eyelashes were all stunningly tall as she herself was beautifully tall with her big round eyes. She was sought-after by all. San kowa ƙin wanda ya rasa.  She took few steps then stopped few feet away out of earshot. Umar understood the gesture and moved to her place. They held a brief discussion and told him that he could see her tonight in her aunt’s home. Alas! one of the guys eavesdropped the scrap of her last words. Came the night and he raced up against Umar in arriving at the place. He disguised under Umar’s name and called her out. When she came out and found that it was not Umar, she returned inside. Bashir had been a cult group member that slaughtered babies for worldly materials. He hid his real persons, and from then on he flexed his muscle and began fighting to subvert Umar. He zipped off his “Ghana must go” bag and began disbursing handouts to her close and influential relatives. He gave them money lavishly and within short while bought the majority of them. They inclined to accept him without thorough investigation of his affairs. As for the betrothal, he gave two dozens of port manteau each filled with ostentatious materials. The first one, for wrapper only, second for lace materials, third for bedding wears…..the twelfth carried headgears, the fourteenth cosmetics…..the twenty-third Italian shoes and the twenty-fourth was for leather bags. Each one of the box carried one thing or another. You know the game: money is welcomed, as they say, even from the dirty bag. As for the marriage, the highest bidders among the suitors would win it all. Period. Though Umar had been known throughout her family as her fiancé, de jure and de factor, but this did not stand a taboo to them or an object of shame in the society to backpedal and changed the whole arrangement. Despite him being the ideal suitor, the betrothal he gave was returned to him and the engagement thwarted off in favour of Bashir. Umar was opted out from the contest as he could not match his financial strength with his rival’s. Her matchmaking mother and her close associates in the family worked so assiduously from underground to the surface till they saw her separation with Umar. They had been spearkings behind the moves till they orchestrated his sabotage.

Entry from the Police Book

The police had arrested him after they had found some air of suspicion in his statement and went ahead to conduct investigation after they came to the house and found his wife in a delirious state. They later arraigned him at court No. 17 Nomansland Kano. The entry of the case filed against him is as follows and it is the statement made by Ummi herself to the detective in charge of the case who submitted it to the court as hard evidence during the trial.      

      

My name is Ummi Mahmud the mother of a newly born baby called Amira who disappeared immediately after her birth. I love my daughter more than life, more than everything in the world put together. She has a perfect long face, long hair, white eyes with dark retina and perfect tiny mouth like a little pink flower. Her fingers, toys and eyelashes are all breathtakingly tall like mine.  She smells clean and new and fresh and powdery. She has the way of tucking her hands and feet neatly together like a ballet dancer. She does not cry in the random like other babies do, her cry is like song sung by busy bees.

On Monday 15/07/2013 she was delivered at emergency caesarian section of Murtal General Hospital. It was not post-natal depressing as my husband said, but the happiest day of my life. As the doctors and nurses were wheeling me from the delivery room I heard one of them shout to my husband to bring the clothes for the baby. That was the time it dawned on me true that I delivered my baby. Despite my health condition I managed to crane my head out of the pillow and had a look of my little Amira (tears). I even took her pictures in her first white clothes with my digital camera. A day after I was discharged from the hospital my husband came to tell me that my little Amira is dead (heaving in tears), a statement witch I did not agree with. I held my husband as the prime suspect because when I tried to call the police at the first instant to report the case he denied me the phone. When I asked him whether one of my relatives or neighbours had the news of her burial, as he said she was buried, he failed to convince me. When I checked my camera to look for the pics, I found the images deleted and the memory found broken under the chair. When I contacted the hospital to give me the placenta and umbilical cord for comparison with the baby in the grave he claimed to be my Amira’s, for the DNA analysis, the hospital told me that my husband had collected them on the very day of the birth.

On the 16/07/2013 Mrs. Mahmud called police Division II   of the metropolis to report the information pertaining to the matter of her allegation that her daughter was abducted and killed,(see index). Immediately, under the instruction of the Police Area Commander, a file was opened with case no. N31017-745-Q for further investigation and the case later got transferred to the CID unit at the police HQ in Bompai, Kano.

Further sleuth probed that Bashir and five others were found members of the mafia organization where they slaughtered babies for worldly materials. Bashir in particular is charged of five serious crimes of which each carries grave penalty according to section 14, paragraph 6 (c) of the state constitution.  First, he is charge of belonging to an illegal criminal organization and the penalty is 20 yrs in prison. Second, he is charged of abduction which is another crime that attracts minimum of 15 yrs prison term for it’s equivalent to human trafficking and child abuse. Third, he is charged of murder attempt for beating his wife without regard to her health condition which in itself carries life imprisonment. Fourth, he lied to the authority that his wife was suffering from post-natal depressing which can attracts 5-yr prison term with hard labour, but according to the judge discretion. And the gravest one is the murder of his own child which carries death penalty by hanging.

With this, Mrs. Mahmud felt that Bashir had just got his deserts but not as compensation of her beloved baby, ‘the little Amira’. Whenever she remembered the disheartening situation her family put her in, she developed a bitter feeling towards them for they paved her way to her razing agony. They capitalized on her beauty to satisfy their material demands. They deprived her of happiness in life and replaced it with sorrows that remained protuberant forever in her mind. The missing of her little Amira was so painful beyond measure.