Of A Story, Memories and Darker Things Still

By Waliyah Oladipo

Water travelled from the brass tap, formed a micro pond, before sipping down the drain. Trickle, form, whoosh, a cycle that any muslim has seen so much they stop noticing. The harsh white light from the solitary bulb on the bathroom ceiling reflected in the sink and for a moment, Amma envied the water, how it naturally escaped the sink without interference, how the reflection was insignificant in the flow of the water. The reflection was another thing, helpless, needing a cause and effect to appear or disappear. She was the reflection, the helpless, pitiable thing,

Without thoughts, she performed ablution. Hand; rinse. Head; rinse. Feet; raise and rinse. It did not occur to her for a moment that she might have missed a step, or done something differently. When you have done a thing five times for twenty five years, it stops being a ritual, it becomes the engraved usual.

A story:

When the sahabas were informed about the prophet’s death, Umar, the most hot tempered of them, ran out brandishing a sword, promising to kill whoever uttered such ludicrous falsehood. In those first few minutes, Umar did not think that such a man could have fallen, his mind failed to comprehend the prophet, an active, prime and perpetual man as what dead bodies were; sunken, hollow, something that had no place in the world but six feet under.

 ***

She stepped out of the bathroom, past the socket that would kill the reflection with a flicker of her hand, past that and into the corner of her room where her prayer mat lay. It gave her a trickle of satisfaction, knowing the light was on, that there was just a tiny bit of something that God had left to her control. Light, noor; the words would never mean the same things to her again. Light was light and noor was noor, and they were two words that said things differently. But she would not think about it now. Not now.

The muezzin’s voice, drifting through the air and into her windows, died down on the last verse of the adhan La ila a ila ‘llaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh. It was such a terrible voice, Amma realized with surprise. Somehow, eight years of the same voice had taken away the adjective, the voice had just meant prayer. Now, it was jarring to discover again that something she had mewed over for the first months those eight years ago was the same, but she had changed so much. Her circumstances had changed, her direction had changed. But she would not think about it now, later, later, when night fell and she could tuck the darkness around her body and drift away. At least, there were still things that remained the same, the muezzin of eight years, the room, and the fact that when the adhan was done, she would pray.

Praying was another thing that came naturally to her. It was like cooking, but in silence, in overwhelming warmth. But now, as she performed the rituals of salat, she realized that there was a quality that salat had lost for her in the past weeks. Now, as she went from her standing to sujud, it occurred to her that this was no different from doing yoga poses, from the mountain pose to the child pose. She wondered vaguely if the thought was taboo. She remembered her conversation with Bilal four years ago.

“Yoga holds no spiritual implication for me.”

“Noori, I know. But you can’t waive away the foundations of yoga just like that. The source is hinduism, this is why scholars have boycotted it in some countries.”

“Oh come on, you know how some imams have to spend time cooking up nonsense because in their country, they have to look like they are still relevant and doing important things.”

Bilal had chuckled and pulled her body closer “You impudent thing, there are other arguments. They say as long as you are cautiously picking out any spiritual intonations in your sessions and poses, you should be good.”

“You mean in my inner religious place?” She asked, eyes bright eyes mischief.

“Show off!” That was all he said before he bent his head to kiss hers, before they spent another cold night relearning things about each other’s body.

Amma drew herself back, realizing that her last sujud was spent thinking about him, she didn’t want to think about him, and as she raised her head, fat twin tears rolled down her cheeks and she furiously wiped them away.

 My Lord, lay not a burden on me greater than my soul can bear.

It occurred to her that it was medicine after death, her Lord had already given her a burden she could not bear. Those vague months ago when she had received the call from her office, her Lord had dealt her heavy blows, and for life, she would always dwindle in that tiny place between goodbyes and walking shadows.

A memory:

Do you know how many times I ate in your hall’s cafeteria just to catch a glimpse of you?”

“No, how many times?”

I lost count. So many times, I told myself it was perverse, and unethical but somehow as I was thinking the thoughts, my body would have lost the battle. I would have walked right past the road to Idia from Social Sceinces, past the rowdy boys playing football on the field, past the internet cafes, and straight into Tedder cafeteria. Sometimes, I didn’t buy food, just a drink to nurse while I waited for a glimpse of you. I had tell myself, just one more hour, just one more hour and before I knew it, my roommate would be calling.

On some days, I was rewarded. You would walk straight in from the corridor adjoining the cafeteria to the hall, you would walk in and I would smile, then remember to become interested in my phone. You never did see me, you never really saw anything without intentionality. It was always you on a t-shirt and plaid trousers, sometimes it was a short, and sometimes I didn’t notice your clothing at all. Only your face, drawn into some lazy thoughts that you didn’t even realize you were having, you would order food and sit alone at a table. But the solitary style you had chosen was always interrupted by a well-meaning person, always, I had read the brief irritation in your eyes. Not many people could read it, because your smile was always ready and your hands firm for a shake. Sometimes, they took a seat and rambled on for five to ten minutes.

I never really heard, but it was easy to imagine.

How far na, you don do Prof work?

I don do am o

Boss, na you now

Or

You don apply for that RSC scholar thing?

Yes o, I gats print the form for black market sef.

Bosssssss! You just dey make moves

Oga mi, shey you dey whine me ni?

And they would leave, and as soon as they had stepped out of your sight, you would forget them. I never tire of watching you, and perhaps, because watching you was such a complete, continuous affair, it never occurred to me that I should talk to you.

Hey, you take SOC 456, right?

Aren’t you Bilal in psychology?

I could have, if my desire for you had been a selfish thing. But it wasn’t, it was a love that was content to watch, content to stay in the background, and that was where it did, before that faithful month of strike when you miraculously noticed me…

“A few times, maybe three.” She said, planting a kiss on his forehead.

***

When Amma looked back now, she wondered what she had been afraid of that day. He was her husband, he loved her and her bad habits never put him off. Why had she, to whom he had confessed the darkest deeds of his love for her, been unable to strip herself bare to him, for him? It could have been because she had been unable to reconcile with the part of her that felt that in the real sense of things, what she had done was stalking. Or it could have been that she wanted to keep the memory of that quiet but fierce yearning to herself. But a big part of it was this; she had always believed that in love, there was always a weaker party, and if she had told him of those days of sitting in a corner at Tedder cafeteria, shielded only by her hijab, the screen of her phone and his absent mindedness, she would have become the weaker party. Mama had always said that it was bad enough for a woman to build her marriage on love, it was worse if she let it show.

She opened the wardrobe and was assailed by memory. Her fingers trailed a blue shirt “Amma, please iron my shirt. I forgot to do it last night.”

She touched a green one, fingers searching for the chip. She found it.

A memory:

That bloody bastard wanted to hit me, he wanted to hit me! I wish he had tried it, I would have given him the beating of his life. If not for the bus conductor, you would have come to bail me from the station.

Amma was amused. “You can take the boy out of Ajegunle, but you can’t take the Ajegunle out of the boy.” He did not smile, she hadn’t expected him to. Whenever Bilal worked himself into a temper like this, it took him good food and sleep to restore his natural calm.

“That bastard grabbed my shirt and pulled, and he didn’t apologize, obviously because it’s Lagos and that’s the rule of the hustle into a BRT. Is it my first time entering a BRT, and when is the damn government going to do something about the sardine tins hoarding infested rats they refer to as vehicles?”

“I told you not to buy that shirt anyway, it’s ugly as sin and not worth one sixth of the fifteen thousand you splurged on it.”

He had given her a disgusted stare, declared self-importantly that he wasn’t eating dinner and sulked around the house like a betrayed ghost for two days.

***

She hadn’t wanted a baby, not ever, but it wasn’t something she had ever said to anyone. Not to her mother who kept asking “when will you give me a grandchild?” Not to Bilal’s mother who wanted to know if “there’s a problem with any of the instruments.” Not to Bilal, whose lovemaking had as time went by, taken a turn for the desperate, as if there was something of himself he wanted to hammer into her, as if by beating into her with such ferocity, something would announce itself. Nothing announced itself.

If she had told anyone, they would have asked her why and she wouldn’t have had any definite answer. Maybe it was the misery of the country, the hopelessness she had lived with, the grimness of a perfunctory reality that was not changing, that was not willing to change. For as long as she could remember, the only thing her country men had lived with was hope and even that, a mere survival promise, had become expensive over time. It lingered, because everyone still had a taste of it shoved into their mouths, but no one wanted to buy it. Hope was expensive and Nigerians would rather spend what they had purchasing a visa. She had never wanted to bring a child into a world where nothing at all was given, where everything was a fight. She had never wanted to cheat a vulnerable being into a country of loss, tribalism and constant betrayal.

That in itself had been a constant battle with her religious beliefs. Spread my congregation on the surface of the earth, Allah had said. Increase my family, the prophet had said. Marry and procreate, the scholars would say. But she had always felt, that at the root of every religious command, is the aim to preserve humanity and the world did not have that humanity to preserve anymore.

She never told Bilal because he never would have understood. And underneath all the love he had for her, he was an African man and African men did not believe in their manhood until they saw it physically manifest in a bundle of joy from the womb of their wives.

When Bilal started to avoid family affairs, she knew why. He was ashamed, embarrassed by the probing eyes and the constantly leading questions, by statements designed to point them in the right direction.

Do you remember Tola? Tola, Iya Popo’s daughter in law’s cousin. Yes, that one. She got married last year and she is having her baby. Imagine that!

Ammatu, you are looking very radiant o. Is it what I am thinking?

So a year and half ago, she took out the IVU, just as secretly as she had taken it in.  She did not do it because her convictions or her principles had changed, she only did it because it was the one thing she could give Bilal which he would never know of. It was that day that she realized she had been wrong, whether she showed it or not, she was the weaker party.

***

Seven months later, the baby did not come. She did series of tests, there are so many tests a woman can do on her body. She bore it all alone, cold angry and afraid that God was punishing her. Why Bilal never suggested tests, she wouldn’t know but she was very grateful for it. Her IVU history would have been discovered and her marriage would have shattered, like a mug tipped off the shelf unexpectedly by a strong wind. So she bore it and became constantly tired, continuously in pain and immensely frustrated.

She discovered she was exactly the kind of person who wanted something the more they were told they couldn’t have it. Her own baby, from her own womb. How hard could that be? She took pills, in a separate room. She cried, in a separate room. She broke down, always by herself.

At work, she was slacking. She always had to take a break, and she was distracted. But she was such an asset that she got away with most of it. At home, she was snapping. Bilal became a battered target, his presence irritated her, actions that used to be funny always seemed just a bit frustrating. It took her a while to notice he had started coming home a little later than usual.

It did not occur to her once that she could have broken down in Bilal’s arms, that it was only natural that she should have done it a long time ago. To her, her struggle and everything related to it had become a secret she had to protect. All that she knew was that she knew Bilal, and for all the loving sweet man he was, he would never forgive being played like a fool.

 

^^^^^^^^^

That week, that week before the phone rang, she had known. She could not tell what it was but she had known that something had been decided, that she was losing something and there was very little she could do. But her melancholy at that point had reached a point of depression, and it could only go lower.

Bilal kept coming home later, he was no longer engaging her when she attacked him, he just went into the room and slept. The consciousness of losing him because she was trying to give him his greatest wish gnawed at her. She was losing him and there was nothing she could do except hope a baby showed up. If a voice had told her that the sense of loss she was feeling meant something more, that the constant waking up from sleep with tears in her eyes and no recollection of what she had battled was something more, she hadn’t listened. Because to her, losing Bilal was the worst that could happen to her. And she was right, she just hadn’t known the finality of her loss to come.

It was just a call, just one and life as she knew it quit on her. Later, a later that seemed like eternity after, the words would come back to her. He fought inside the BRT bus with one man. They seem to have had a previous encounter. Things got physical. The bus swerved dangerously, Bilal hit his head. The general hospital was full because of a 30 students casualty road accident. Bilal could not receive care on time because his case was overlooked. Bilal died.

Somehow, the most baffling thing to her was that Bilal had spent all those hours by himself, no one had thought to identify him on time. She had typed away at her desk while an intrinsic part of her wilted away, cold and alone. That morning, she had been too weak to make breakfast and she had snapped at him, he had sulked to work. Bilal had gone hungry, cold and alone. The general hospital had called her to receive the frame that had held the soul she had loved with all her being,

Incredibly, she did not cry. Not because she did not want to, but they wouldn’t come out and she had not thought that she should. Tears seemed like something one did when a relative died, or when one failed a promotion exam or when one got a divorce. But you do not lose yourself and cry, you lose yourself and you become empty.

She did not know just how many faces she saw in the weeks that followed, she did not hear the sympathy and the pity, and she did not hear the words of encouragement. But somehow, she stood and became a model widow, observing her forty days waiting period. And one day, blackness enveloped her. At first, she thought she had died, but when she opened her eyes, her mother and her mother in law’s faces hovered above her. One woman, conscious that her child would never be whole again, the other having nothing at all to hold on to, but holding on anyway, because she had people who shared her grief.

That day, she learned that she was pregnant. The two mothers cried, but when their tears left their eyes, there was a lightness in them. They would have something. For her mother, her daughter would have something she wanted to fight for, for Bilal’s mother, she would have a piece of her son now. For Amma, it only seemed like God was done with her.

***

It was a battle after her waiting period. “I will move in with you.”

“No, you can’t stay in this house alone. Come with me to Ibadan”.

“I will never allow it. What kind of mother do you think I am, to leave you pregnant and alone?”

But Amma was Amma and what Amma wanted, Amma would at the end of the day, get. So Amma got to stay alone in the house she had shared with Bilal for years, Amma got to be trailed by shadows and haunted in her sleep. Amma got to stare at mugs that had graced Bilal’s lips, she got to sleep in his shirt, she got to be swallowed by the dominant house and the ghost of a man that lingered in it. For how could she ever accept, that the man who had been larger than life, whom she had fallen in love by quietly watching for two years in the university, who had turned her against her convictions, whom she had loved as much as Umar had loved the prophet, was gone. She did not have a sword to brandish, but she had the house as her fort, against intrusive realities that sought to shove Bilal’s absence down her throat. In the house, for four months, he became a living dead. Until yesterday, the first time her baby kicked.

***

It was the first time it occurred to her, really occurred to her, that she would be having a child. Bilal’s child, and most of all, her child. Perhaps, that was why it was the first time it occurred to her that God considered his congregation increasing a good thing. All the while, she had thought of the child as God’s punishment, a way of reminding her that He would not be crossed, and that she had been too arrogant in willfully antagonizing Him and hiding things from Bilal. But yesterday, it occurred to her that her child would be a piece of the man she had loved, that a good angel could visit Bilal in his grave, to let him know that his manhood had manifested into a child.

Yesterday, it crossed her mind that she should return to Ibadan, the city of the youth of their love, the city that was not tainted by her deceit and the darker days. She wanted to raise her child, and buy him all the hope she could afford, she wanted him to love his father, not grow up threatened by his looming shadows.

One by one, she packed him in a box. One by one.

Waliyah Oladipo is a Law student in her final year. Her stories are published in The Ethics Magazine, The Naked Convos, Unbound magazine, The Kalahari Review and others. She writes from a little room somewhere in Nigeria.