Coloured Ass

“Rahama, I am travelling.”

“Where to? I hope not-”

“No, no not there… Women, you easily get suspicious on everything. Our people in the Horn of Africa, they need help.”

“Which Horn of Africa?”

“Understand this thing. We need to help them. There is a lot of famine and drought.”

“We can go together.”

“There is a war.”

She finally gave in. Quietly, he sighed a big heave. Happiness drenched all over him, like a prisoner pardoned life imprisonment.

He felt under attack all the while she spoke. Every minute felt like in the dock.  He feared she was seeing his mind and quickly wore an air and made to appear as casual as he could. Now and then, he touched his cheek stealthily to confirm his new expression did not go.

The urge to challenge him oppressed her mind. From inside her, a battle broke between trust and suspicion. She gave in, not because she was convinced, but because she trusted him.

Originally, she wished to tell him her hope the travel would not last long. But so popular was the news. He feared she might have already caught wind in town. And acted ahead of possible suspicion.

She moved on with life after he left. But she could not feel at peace with her mind. She slept and woke up, slept and woke up, slept and woke up, but did not succeed in freeing her mind from his strange behaviour.

For greater part of the day, she kept tuning in to news. There was not a single hint of what she wanted to hear. When all effort at the local media failed, she waited agitatedly until BBC Hausa Services came in, in the noon.

The receiver disappointed her. Very old and was unable to catch the frequency clearly. The voice kept fading out and returning briefly before going off again. She hoped she was anywhere in the world where politicians were distributing radio receivers.

Soon, a clean voice came up. By then it was too late. When she looked up to a clock, the news was signing out. She was greatly exasperated.

If she was confused by Shua’ibu’s manner, the late evening news got her more bewildered. She learnt husbands and bachelors in the neighborhood had travelled. Where? She asked herself, one thousand and one question. But each compounded her situation even more.

She picked her phone and started calling friends. Samira told her the same story. Unlike her, Samira sounded unworried. She spoke innocently, with a tinge of enthusiasm in her tones. Her husband had an urgent assignment abroad. Poor girl, she thought inwardly.

She did not go straight when she called Rukayya. She trod her way warily, sounding very casual.

“For too long, we stop hearing from you.”

“Wallahi. Things are too much these days. Children always at one’s heels.”

“How is my brother?” She called Rukayya’s husband my brother since the time Rukayya introduced him before they got married and learnt he was her brother’s namesake.

“You must be taking care of him properly. Else I will help him bring another wife.”

Rukayya laughed casually. “Whoever he marries will end up my servant. I am the queen. Nobody has a place here. You know that.”

“Give him the phone. We need to say hi.”

“He is not around. He travelled this afternoon.”

Everything was confirmed now. But she decided the death of the king would not come first from her mouth.

When she called her sister in Adamawa, she learnt about similar story. Her sister’s husband said he had distant relatives in Eritrea whom he had been meaning to visit. It was just now the time came. If he did not go now, he was not sure if he would ever make the trip, he told her.

In Abuja, on Friday, the Eritrean Embassy was bombarded by thousands. Even though it was weekend, torrential phone calls flooded the office on Saturday and on Sunday. Leaving staff the next day exchanging confused looks.

Shua’ibu had put off announcement on twitter. He wasn’t Abuja resident but travelled there a lot. Of all his visits, he had never given a thought about the embassy’s location. 

Even though he did not give any detail, when the first commenter came, he ran a little faster than himself. “I am there already. Eritrea, beautiful people, beautiful country.”

Oh you have gone already? My people! Shua’ibu mind’s jumped wildly. When first he heard the news, he refused to tell anybody.

He went frantic, struggling to delete the tweet. All the while, muttering words to himself. Rahama would know.

Gossipers would take word back to her. They were very wicked, these people. Poking their noses in other people’ affairs. Everyone should mind their own business.

At Aminu Kano Airport, the boarding queues were seven single files. People pinned their arms by their sides, heads blocked into chess of many others, caged between chests and backs. They heaved forward, veered right and then left, almost collapsing as hard push came from the back. But those in front would put off resistance and push back.

Now and again, a cried kept erupting, soon, the cry would be accompanied by angry calls to stop pushing. 

A few airport officials stood by hopelessly. With each minute, the crowd was getting tighter as more people poured in.

With great strain, Shua’ibu ejected himself out from the queue and went outside to make a phone call. He was contemplating changing airport.

When the phone cracked at the other end, disorderly voices bobbling in heightened his fears.

In Lagos, at the departure lounge, men were shouting rowdily, in angry voices.  Shua’ibu only managed to ask his friend question he already knew its answer.

“How about the situation?”

“Worse, very worse. We are on queue since yesterday. But we are expecting additional ten flights soon. They order more from Ethiopia.”

“Are sure you can arrive on time?”

“We hope so. If I get the seventh or eighth.”

He ended the call and returned inside. As part of him emerged, eyes were already directed expectantly at his side.

“The situation is even worse in Lagos.” The looks in the crowd suddenly changed. He was speaking to his friend, but like was speaking to everybody.  As he moved to get back to his place, someone shouted angrily from the back.

 “This is not good. You people always cheat. We will not allow anybody to jump line.”

The man was shouting because everybody else who was speaking was shouting. He struggled and removed himself from the queue and came forward.

“Haba Mallam, we have been here for a very long time. How can you jump like this? You have just arrived now. Your needs are not more important than anybody’s here.” The temperamental pitch with which he spoke told a lot of his travail.

Scuffle nearly broke out. But the matter was soon settled down when people nearby swore that Shua’ibu was not cheating.

Moment later, Shua’ibu looked up at his screen.

A call from Abuja.

“Man, there is a problem.  As I finished my visa, I just heard the news was hoax.”

He was speechlessly dumb for a while. “Do you think they would refund us?”

Silently, he walked out, and refused to talk to anybody.

Rahama was sitting on a chair, chin in hand, in gloom. She was tapping her feet unconsciously to the floor, in accordance with the humming of trouble in her mind.

Her mind grew too oppressive and tyrannical. She shoved her hand carelessly around and grabbed a phone beside her. Instantly, she went online to read news.

It was just then she discovered.

She was wondering what was there so special that cast a spell on Shua’ibu.  She wanted to find out but each question tightened the noose further.

Voices inside her started up a conversation.

Voice number one. Black men hate black ass.

Voice number two. At a slight opportunity, they would want to identify with something lighter.

If that is the case, voice number three said, it means he is merely tolerating you.

She felt deeply offended. What was there in Eritrean lady I did not have?

She applied herself into his mind to feel what he felt.

Although I could not be White, being married to a Caucasian would be a giant leap closer to the Whites.

Shua’ibu returned at night, speaking in lovely tones and hushed whispers.

“Gimbiya.” There was no answer.

“Sarauniya.” Silence.

Greeted by awful silence and lack of festivities that embraced his arrival, his mind ticked in dread.

She was inside, on her bed, didn’t even bother to come out.

Nervously, he sat near her, on the edge of the bed, afraid to touch her. She felt his eyes acutely on her nape. She turned from the bed, eyes closed but was seeing.

“Which country have you travelled to?” 

“It was a mistake. The journey didn’t even happen.”