Right Hands (5)

It was a day that folded into other days. Today nestled so comfortably between yesterday and tomorrow that it was easy to miss it. To forget it in the vast expanse of memories. Until she heard the car horn that signaled Faruk. His arrival transformed her nostalgia for all that passes, making time stretch into something with wings, something that ascends. He honked again, and the sound confirmed that today was to be cherished. Today was not just another day.

Khadijah did not want to keep him waiting, but she also did not want to run towards him. Her pace altered with each activity. She wore her blue-green atampa with the ruffled sleeves fast, but she tied her scarf slowly. She powdered her face in hurried dabbing motions, but she applied long, gentle sweeps of gloss on her lips. She wrapped her veil around her shoulder with a quick flourish, but she sat down comfortably to put on her silver sandals. By the time she was outside the gate and walking towards his car, her heart rate was slightly above normal, averaging out from the quick turnaround and attempts to appear nonchalant.

Seeing her walking towards him, he turned his headlights on. It was her stage. He was parked a bit discreetly away from the narrow lane that made the road into an alley, just behind the NEPA pole, but not so far that Khadijah had to tread through mud to reach him. She knew the neighbors were peeking out of their windows. She wondered if they saw her back straighten, her gait slightly adjust to the intentional walk of a woman, a grown woman. The audience was good for morale, but even better was the acknowledgment of her prospects. They, the amorphous blob that formed society, had to know that today, she was on the verge of being chosen.

In the car, the smell of suya wafted between them. It made their salutations move quicker, and silence settled as he spread the newspaper open and offered it to her. At 50 Naira a stick, this was some of the best suya in Kaduna, and giving it to her was equivalent to several bouquets of the best flowers from the highlands of Kilimanjaro.

“Thank you,” Khadijah said, and she meant it. She was pleased to see him again and pleased to sink her teeth into a soft, fatty piece of meat. 

“You are welcome,” Faruk said, and he also meant it. He was happy to please her, to have her see him again.

Between bites, the whole world became contained in the car. He had turned off the headlights and turned on the interior light. Khadijah knew that after their meal, the conversation would pick up where it had left off. He would ask her about her thoughts in the weeks since. She would need to express something sincere, something true, something that would lead to other things. She would have to decide the direction of her feelings. The upcoming conversation made her breathe deeply. He heard her sigh and sighed back. They kept chewing until all that was left in the newspaper were crumbs of groundnut marinade and some large, unwieldy onions. He crumpled it and put it in a piece of black nylon tucked between his legs.

“Turn off the light,” she said before he could clear his throat and speak.

He was surprised but did not hesitate. This was the first time Khadijah had ever requested to plunge them into the darkness. The street was poorly lit by lamps from living rooms, and the car’s light kept them distinct on the street while also ensuring they maintained their chastity, a third presence. As Faruk reached to turn off the switch, Khadijah turned to look in the rearview mirror. Objects are always closer than they appear. And there in the distance was the object of her mother. A woman who could never know happiness, even if she had wanted to. Onozare, by trying to make it known to Khadijah that she should beware of the people who stepped into her life, had created an abiding fear in the young girl. Her mother’s hurt was ancient, the sum of betrayals from wanting to belong and failing to belong. Perhaps it was a reasoned wellspring of fear. The kind of fear that blooms with age and makes a person distrust their feelings and reject the feelings of others. The fear that bubbled up as Khadijah looked at the profile of Faruk’s face and wondered what she would really tell him today. Perhaps she could admit that she did not know what the future held, and his request for more was misplaced, grand, and ambitious. Perhaps she would even dare to say no, that she would prefer a life without other wives, a family contained. Perhaps she might even surprise herself and tell him that she would consider it much farther down the line, after they had a kid or two. There were many things she could say, and she might indeed say, but what mattered was what instantaneously arose in her heart. The way vessels expanded as the car went quiet and dark. The dare she felt as she leaned away from the rearview mirror and toward Faruk. In another world, where she was not her mother’s daughter, her father’s offspring, Inna’s grandchild, and even Mama Aisha’s sister-neighbor, she would merely be a person looking for the widest degree of freedom. Something that felt good and gave her options. One could accept the trimming of their happiness if only it were comparatively better. It took only a fool to recognize that anything was better than life continuing as it was. She let him speak. She will answer.