On the last day in our school, one Friday morning, spume
of clouds gathered and scurried up in the sky. Amidst smiling and patting of
backs, I called Habashiyya aside and gave her a book. Since then, we had never met,
I did not know her home.
*****
Sitting at Bakin Kofa could make all troubles vanish.
There we sat, at night, on the bare floor, in front of a photo studio. We had
the rituals of drinking herbal brew and kunun aya, lengthy phone call with
girls and staying long on social media at night. Abban Sama, Mudi and Wasa took
selfie pictures and uploaded them on Instagram and Twitter.
The brew was principally bought everyday from Sabuwar
Tasha or Kofar Wambai. The owner of the photo shop grew fond of it. And from
him the habit spewed through us and turned us maniacally addicted.
Habitual sitting at Bakin Kofa brought us against the
reality of the place, mosquito bite and dust. We chatted and watched girls and
beautiful cars passing-by through the night.
Adoji said we were stupid. We would be deceived if we believed to assess
girls by their faces.
When a lady came to pass-by, I watched Wasa look her from
the corner of his eyes while he was praying, until she rounded the corner.
Wasa was a little crazy. He
could abuse his mother and his father. But anybody who dared so, it was his
ass. He had been duping his father, collecting money for bogus exams.
NECO, he paid, WAEC, he paid, JAMB, he paid, Post UTME,
he paid, Common Entrance, he paid, November-December, he paid, First Semester,
he paid, Second Semester, he paid.
He paid all his exams and he failed all of them. When his
father said he should resit the exams, Wasa said he would not. “Anybody who
thinks it is easy should go and try his luck.”
He failed all his exams because he screwed up with girls
and drank shisha at school. Ten years in college, without nothing. When his
father enquired about the delay, Wasa said
they were waiting for the Third Semester exams. When he said that, his father brought him back.
In my phone, I abbreviated Habashiyya’s name to ‘Hbshy.’ I
didn’t want Wasa, the intrusive guy at Bakin kofa, to steal her number. There would be many perfect chances. Like
when I plugged the phone on socket and went outside.
Wasa was a hell of a guy. He could change voice in his
phone and call you as a girl. He did it to Adoji when the nearby mosque requested
for aid to buy mic system and Adoji said he didn’t have money. Wasa called him and swindled him five
thousand naira. We laughed at him when he found out.
The road at Bakin Kofa was recently renovated. Half of
the studio building was demolished and the remaining walls were left standing
in barbarous shapes. Before the renovation, the road was slim and everyone was
in a hurry. Gridlock formed in the morning and in the evening. We enjoyed
watching the furious drivers hurl insut at each other. And sometimes little
accidents.
Three people were selling awara at Bakin Kofa. Talba was
a little back from where we usually sat. His frying kits were scattered on the
ground and stayed longer, until people returning from watching soccer at night
broke their journey in his place. They bought awara and argued noisily and then
dispersed when a black pick-up passed.
There was a curfew on motorcycle. The police came and
parked their car in a dark corner. They wouldn’t leave until 1:00am when they
extorted as much money from those they arrested as they wanted.
Half way, between our place and Talba’s, a disused fridge
was placed where Abba sold soft drinks. His large black Back-Go sack of ice
blocks stood beside the fridge. He used some of the ice for the soft drink and
sold out the rest.
I went to Abba’s fridge to order kunun aya. When I dabbed
my hand inside, I was caught unawares.
Fumes of breeze puffed out and hit my face. For me, I loved buying kunun
aya. My choice was informed by my desire to compensate the kunun gyada I missed
at Abu’s house. Somewhere in my head believed that kunun aya and kunun gyada
were siblings.
One day, I was young then, I offended my father and he
vowed to beat me if he caught me. I fled to Abu’s home at Mandawari. I thought
Abu was one of those many aunties from our maternal side because the
relationship between my mother and her was more intimate than it was with my
father. Growing up, I was told her father and my father were children of the
same father.
When I trekked considerably, my mind urged I should ask
where I was, I told myself I might have passed Abu’s house. I could not tell
the line between Mandawari and Sabon Titi, the two settlements interspersed.
Abu gave me kunun gyada after the main food at midday. At
first, I said I would not drink. But she insisted when she feared her estimation
in the eyes of my mother would come crashing down if I told her what happened
in Abu’s house, that she brewed something and refused to give me. “Abun?” My
mother would say in disbelief.
I grew up to discover what deliciousness I had missed at
Abu’s home.
Manchester United were playing Champion League
match. Bature had tremendous affection
for number 7 jerseys. He bought them. He wore them. It was Beckham. When he left, he changed to Cristiano
Ronaldo. One could not talk about Man U
in our area without talking Bature. We often had to remember that Man U would
have a match when we saw him.
He had been watching Man U since the days of Yoke and
Andy Cole, Eric Cantona, Sebastian Veron and David Beckham. A thrill for us who
started watching soccer at 2002 world cup.
He resigned along with Sir. “So which Man U now?” He would
say when someone challenged him. “They have all gone, Paul Scholes, Giggs, Roy
Kean and now Cristiano Ronaldo.”
Na Lawan was a Real Madrid fan, to hear this, his heart was
happy with that.
The other two awara sellers did not have as many buyers
as Talba. The three of them cut their awara the same size and did not dip it to
Maggi and salt mixture before putting it to oil. The awara tasted the same. We bought it from
Talba because before he started doing awara business, we played football
together in the evening at Filin Kuka and watched football at night at Gidan
Kallo.
I liked calling Habashiyya with kunun aya at my side,
seeping it excitedly. I dialed her number, nestled the phone to my cheek and
waited. It was huge relief the breathless excitement of hearing her voice.
Conversation flowed effortlessly.
“Where are you
now?” Habashiyya’s voice came on the
line.
“At Bakin Kofa.”
This was where we went day and night. Habashiyya learnt our conversations happened
there, all time. Each day looked like
the previous one; the same activities, the same people, the same place.
“You like this place.” She began, somehow like a lecture.
“I have recently read some books you may want to read.”
“Alright.” I looked
forward to the time we’d meet. I remembered something to tell her, teasingly, I
said “Aha, where is my Sallah meat?”
“You should have to come to my house, to collect it, and
the books too.”
Really? –I was joking you, Habashiyya. “I don’t know your
address.”
“No 123, Kwalli Quarters.”
“Won’t your parent
say anything?”
“Nothing.” She said reassuringly.
“I am not in town now,
I won’t be back until a week after Sallah.” I said, looking ways to keep away
from the visit.
“Oh don’t worry.” She breathed. “I will split the meat
and keep half for you.”
I was thrilled. “Sure?”
“Sure.” She cooed, a soft air escaped her voice. I
divined the image of a small beautiful layer under her chin. When I checked my
time, it was one in the morning.
Joy filled my mind after the conversation. I went home
and slept in paradise. I did not wake up until late when the faint glimmer of sun
started coming out.
Mother was a killjoy. She came everyday to wake me up in
the dusk. I was glad she did not come up. She exaggerated things. If it was
four o’clock, she would say it was six so we were compelled to wake up before
the subhi prayer time. I went back to sleep if I woke up and found my mother
said something wrong, won’t get out of bed until the right time.
I came out of bed and crouched at the threshold of my
door. My mind contemplated I should go to the furthest end of the house, close
to the bathroom, where the main drainage was, to perform my ablution. I went into the bathroom to relieve my
bladder. I didn’t want my sleep to be interrupted after the prayer till nine o’clock
when I would get up voluntarily.
Between the time I went to the bathroom and my return, a
thief broke into my room and stole my phone.
It was not the burglary that was very disturbing.
Blasé with the collapse of emotional freedom, people
congratulated me that the thief left me the Sim cards. We lived uncertain in
the streets but should have to feel secured and safe in our homes. Now, it was
forced on us we must constantly lock our rooms for as little journey as going
to bathroom. This had taken away some part of my core being. And except for my
good heart, I would have gone to a Mallam to present a complete white hen with
only a dark spot on its head and a hind leg of a pregnant mosquito from the
left for the Mallam to recite Yasin upside-down. If the work went perfect, the
thief, by Allah’s will, would not tarry another day. His stomach would swell
and burst like explosives. When that happened, we would know the person
disturbing us. Perhaps someone we knew.
I was in pain two days out of touch with Habashiyya. I
borrowed a phone from Wasa and used my Sim card and called her. When the phone
rang four, a soft-spoken voice answered.
“Habashiyya?” Someone else picked the phone. “Call back
in a minute.” It was Habashiyya’s mother. I quickly changed my voice and
greeted her.
The phone was taken to her.
I waited. Thirty seconds. Grew impatient. Redialed.
“Haba, don’t call now.” Wasa at my side stopped me. “She would understand you are so eager.”
“That’s very true, Wasa.”
I agreed and cut the call until after five minutes.
“Make your voice so thin. You disturbed my sleep last
night.”
My voice was strong and raspy and Wasa chided me for
speaking to Habashiyya naturally. When I spoke, there was vibration in my chest
and in my back. But it didn’t matter to me how my voice sounded or whether
there was eagerness or not in it.
“Isn’t she your girl friend?” He asked.
My face contorted in mock shock, “Habashiyyar?”
Habashiyya was an intimate friend who understood me
better than many girls I ever had. When
we met first, there were no feelings and we had never made an attempt to
communicate love, the feelings were directed at her best friend, Nini. Any time I had misunderstanding with Nini,
Habashiyya comforted me.
She gave me a book on the day we left college. It was
unexpected gift. I promised her another in return. When I got back home, I
searched my bookshelf and picked a book I ever loved, given to me by a neighbor,
staff at Apapa Port in Lagos. When he saw the cover, he felt I should own the
book. I fell in love with the book after reading. I placed order for another
copy at bookstores near me, not a copy was brought to me.
The click at the other end broke my train of thought.
When she picked up the phone, there was eagerness in her voice.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
We exchanged pleasantries.
“Someone said I should be speaking to you in slim voice.”
I told Habashiyya.
A crack through the speaker, laughing. “Tell him we have
passed this stage.” I did not need to tell him. I had put the speaker on.
Nudging him, I punched in the air proudly and said “you hear” so quietly away
from the phone so that she could not hear. It was true, our relationship
deepened that we accepted each other the way we were.
“Who answered the phone initially?” I asked for
confirmation. I grabbed my bottle of kunun aya, shook the clotting at the
bottom and drank two gulps swiftly to wash down some awara chunk sticking in my
teeth. A sip of herbal brew was awaiting me. Feeling accomplished.
“My sister.” Hearing this, I exhaled deeply in relief.
“But why did you ask?”
She inquired.
“I am glad it was not your friend.”
“So, is it bad if you greet my friend?”
“It is not. I won’t
feel comfortable in her presence.”
“Why?”
“She would always feel that she has some sort of power
over me.” I once greeted a maid of my girlfriend mistakenly. Since that day,
the girl stopped regarding me in high esteem. I had nothing to conceal from
Habashiyya.
“But I would never be like that.”
“I know that Habashiyya. But I won’t like it to happen
again anyway.”
The next, our conversation coasted into the ocean of old
memories. Starting on college friends.
“Where is your friend, Fatima?”
“Which Fatima?” She
asked. And then on second thought, she continued “Fatima
told me her marriage would be in August. But I haven’t heard from her since
last month. We are in September now. I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Oh, not that Fatima.” I
said.
“Fatima was
married already when we were in college.” She failed to recognize the Fatima I
have been meaning to. And gossiped me about another Fatima she thought I was
speaking of.
“I know about that one.” I replied. Fatima, I said within
me, hoping she could have the picture of the Fatima I meant. Agony was killing
me. I felt like beating some understanding in her head.
“Wallahi ban ga ne ta ba.” She said genuinely. Could not
remember her.
“So, do you know Abdullahi?” I asked. I could tell she
squinted her eyes in puzzled memory.
“Which Abdullahi?
What story do you have you keep asking all these people?”
“I have stories.”
“I have stories too.” She said.
“I hope not about Nini.” I said jokingly. “God will judge
you. You two connived to break my heart.”
Nini had got married
recently to another man Habashiyya refused to tell me.
“I am not to blame. I tried my best.” She parried.
“Send me her number.”
“No, I won’t. She is married now.” She said.
“Couldn’t I just visit her?”
“You will get her into trouble.”
“She knew me first before the husband.” Terrible people,
how they mercilessly killed human relations. “That is my problem with your
society.”
“Our society.” She corrected.
I returned the
conversation to Abdullahi hoping she would recognize him, so I would tell her
that he had bottled-up feeling for her when we were in college.
“Abdullahi,
Abdullahi.” I repeated, for emphasis, mildly annoyed how could she possibly be
forgetting people. He was so popular with the class. I told her more about his
features.
“Oh Ango?” She said with a thrill in her tone.
“Yes, yes.” I affirmed enthusiastically.
“I will never understand if you don’t say Ango.” She chimed in. Girls have some ways of
christening people.
“Please keep your
story till we meet.” The discussion wouldn’t be as pleasant and sensational on
phone as when we met physically. From there, I realized the conversation we
were holding was a cozy world of gossip. And we were enjoying it.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “you guys are also gossiping?” She
said in astonishment.
“Everyone loves story. We are also humans like you.” I
replied. “I am a bit sleepy.” I went on to say.
“Go, you better have to rest.” She said with
understanding in her voice.
My heart wondered on the kind of relation we had these
days. Three days on bounce we had warm, hot conversation moving slowly and
slowly beyond the original intent. We were unaware; the natural flow of
thoughts was breaking the cordon into deeper meaning and secret.
“Wait, let me ask you. I am calling you too often these
days, don’t you see any problem?” I
asked.
“Oh, don’t worry.” She said straight. “It is not all time
you are calling. You remember me and call. I feel honored for that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“So aren’t you afraid I will grow addicted? I may wake up
one day and don’t have credit in my phone.”
I said bluntly.
“I will send you money.”
“I am the one
always calling.”
“I will call you some day.”
“All your friends have chosen a fiancé. You refuse to
pick one.”
“I will soon choose.”
“You haven’t
introduced me to him. You should arrange we speak even on phone.”
“I will connect you anytime he comes.”
Fear cut through me. Certain knowledge should best remain
in the dark. Was she joking or was she telling the truth?
“When are you returning to school?” I changed the
subject.
“School has resumed already. But I am yet to return.” She
said.
“Good, I don’t
want you to be hustling and get damaged in sun.” I complimented. She was bona
fide deserving a lighter, comfortable life.
“Lallai ma. You want me to stay at home and get left
behind. I will return next week.” She
cooed jovially.
I refused to call the next day. If I called, it would
expose how intensely agitated and extremely happy I was with the
relationship.
I called after two days interval. The phone rang three
times, she did not pick up. I decided to keep my dignity.
I sat that night at Bakin Kofa looking worried and
distressed. When the preoccupation grew in me, I inserted my index finger
between the pages of the book I was reading.
“You know,” I
shrugged, talking to myself, “her phone might have probably run out of power.”
So I dismissed the whole thing casually. Her mild and polite manner made me
believe in her inherent goodness. In all
my life, Habashiyya was the only girl I could excuse for good when she did not
pick up my call. I honestly felt she wouldn’t deliberately offend me and might
be in a tight schedule at the moment I rang.
I went to WhatsApp to chat her up there. Luckily, she was
online.
“I would visit your school on Monday so that we could
meet.”
“Ok.” She wrote. And I was happy. This washed off my
sadness.
“I would be free
from 12:00pm till 4:00pm.” Joys filled me, immensely. I was on top of the world;
it was herself giving out unsolicited information. We would have ample time to
discuss things, to hold her hand and touch her face and tell her I did not feel
anything.
“Ok, I will phone you.” I wrote. “For now I am reading
and you guys refuse to allow me to concentrate.” As if I was not enjoying her company.
“Kk.” She replied.
When I called her on Sunday night, to remind her of our
meeting, the phone rang and rang and rang and there was no answer. When the
call persisted, she finally switched off her phone.
By now I made almost a hundred called. None deserved her
attention. It was so hard I couldn’t
tell which was more painful when she refused to pick and when the phone was
switched off. The world turned a brackish bondage, lashing me with a bout of
depression. I felt lonely without her
and it was from that moment I realized my life became inexplicably bound with
hers.
Since her facebook was not active and she stopped picking
my call, I went to WhatsApp to talk to her again. I did not complain
straightforward, she would understand I was deeply hurt.
“Well done.” I wrote, mildly registering my pain.
She saw the
message but refused to reply. To prod her up, I wrote, “You haven’t said
anything.”
“How is your
holiday?” She wrote back in Hausa although we occasionally streaked the chat
with a mix of English.
“Holiday is for you.” I
replied. By now she had gone offline. I left a message she would see whenever
she came back.
“I called you and you simply refused to pick up, saw the
call and laughed it off.”
To this, no words came for two days. I had her image in
my mind giggling when she saw the message. I grew too impatient and had logged
on WhatsApp fifty times in the space of half hour.
When Adoji came, the police had gone. Wasa secretly stood
by the roadside and waved at the oncoming riders. When the police did not
arrest anybody that day, three fury officers came boiling in anger. One of them
spoke, the rest swinging wooden sticks menacingly.
“If this happens again …we will break your skull.”
Except for Wasa, the police wouldn’t threaten us because
we didn’t smoke wee-wee. We only used gadagi we didn’t mix with drug. If we
kept to this only, they would rather see us as friends because they used to
come to have two or three cups too.
The drinking was going batch by batch. After Wasa, it was
Adoji, Mudi, Na Lawan on and on. When Adoji was sipping his cup, he asked,
“Would you do it?” I shook my head. The trouble in me was so apparent. I feared
it was written in my face.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un.” I was mumbling
quietly. Adoji noticed my distress. The worry overflowed from the subconscious.
“What’s happening?” He asked.
“Hm…” I groaned. If only he knew what heavy weight was
thrashing me inside.
“I was just thinking about the world.” He would
understand. These days people were experiencing difficult times. Beneath me I
knew this wasn’t true. If she had only picked up the call or replied the
message…
I logged on WhatsApp several times, but whenever I got to
the message space, I returned without typing anything. I attempted dialing her
for the umpteenth times but had to cut the call half way when I feared the
damage would escalate if she chose to ignore me. What a hell of scandal if our
friends knew? That my best friend had rejected me.
The pain became unbearable, I went into the studio room
and wrote her a letter. As I staggered up to walk, I lost control and
collapsed. When I spat, there was blood.
76 Muhammdu Buhari Road
Dala Local
Government
Kano State
123, Kwalli Quarters
Kano Municipal Council
Dear Habashiyya
Please forgive me, I am dying.
Take heart, the weight in me is too painful. I feel guilty for what happened and take full
responsibility. If it is for my feeling, I did not plan it. You are the only
girl I find so easy to initiate a conversation with. And it would be unbearable
for me to lose you.
Heartbroken, sad, lonely and worthless, without you,
Habshiyya, I couldn’t breathe normal. If this love feeling will ruin our
relationship, I must confess to your hatred.
Umar-Faruk
I crumpled the letter and tucked
into my pocket.
