TRIALS (Completed)

Twenty-seven

The last time Walida visited her husband’s new shop, they had just opened it for renovation. So it was just a four-walled empty space, littered with white planks for the shelves and smelling of saw dust. But today, she stood by the entrance, open-mouthed at how the shop had changed.

From the dice patterned tiles to the fluorescent lights lining the ceilings, emitting a cool glow on the various types of wrappers, laces, and materials lining the ceiling to floor shelves. A soft Hausa music played from the corner of the shop, two ceiling fans rolled at top speed, almost drowning the chatters between two ladies at the glass counter and Qasim at the other side.

Even Qasim looked different: gone was the scrawny and docile Maiduguri lad who only dressed in simple kaftans and cap covering his black rowdy curls. Here was a straight backed, fleshy and lively man in a shiny grey kaftan. 

Walida stood by his left, out of his range of sight, even though he wouldn’t recognize her under the niqab over her face and shades covering her eyes. But she was worried about her voice though, that was why she decided to stay as far away from him as possible, for as long as she could. 

While he went back and forth with the ladies on the price of the fabrics they purchased, Walida strolled to the other end and busied herself with the fabric samples in the show glass before her. Ikon Allah. God had really blessed her husband within a short period of time.

But then she recalled. It was through Grace. That husband snatcher. She shut her eyes and breathed slowly. She had no proof yet. 

But once she found one, what would she do? She shook her head, not ready to tackle the question. If Shamsu really lied about last night, that the scent coming off him wasn’t through a hug. She didn’t know what she would do. She wasn’t even sure how long she would stay in the shop, till Shamsu arrived perhaps. But who she really wanted to see was Grace, to get a glimpse of her at least, so she could put her anger on a familiar face.

“Hajiya, lafiya?” Her head sprang up and she pivoted towards the voice. Qasim, eyes on her, smiling. The shop was empty, she didn’t realize. 

She smiled, remembering that he couldn’t see her. “Yauwa.”

“Do you need anything?’ He asked in Hausa.

She looked around. “Not really.”

Qasim frowned, “We have the latest fabrics in the market fa. You can check.” He pointed towards a rail of coloured laces above them. 

Aisha would have liked them. “No, the one I’m looking for is not here.”

Qasim tapped his chin, “Okay, describe the one you want.” He moved to his spot behind the counter. 

Walida thought of ways to ask of Shamsu without sounding weird. “No need, only your Oga knows the type I want.”

He stood straight, short brows crinkled, “When was that?”

“Em, ya dan dade–it's been a while. Maybe I’ll just wait for him.”

Qasim scoffed, “No need, he’s not coming back anytime soon.”

She cleared her throat to hide her surprise. “Did he go far?” 

He leafed through the notebook in front of him. “I don’t know. Its better you just choose another thing. I can help you look.” he smiled widely. “I’m in charge here.” 

Walida shook here head, “No need, I’ll wait small. I need the cloth for my friend’s wedding anko. 

His eyes lit up, “That’s my specialty. Zo kigani.” He walked to the end of the counter, then lifted the flap. “Come.” He beckoned with his hand. 

“To where?”

“Our shop, it’s not far.” 

She frowned. “Which shop again? Is this not the only one you have?”

Qasim laughed and shook her head. “This is our small shop. We have a big one at IBB road, beside AMM supermarket. 

Walida’s eyes widened. Shamsu never mentioned it. She cleared her throat again, “No need, I’ll just go and come back.”

Qasim frowned, “Why, do you think I don't know good cloth?” he folded his arms as horizontal lines appeared on his forehead. 

Walida shook her head, not ready to listen to him again. She turned towards the glass door. “Sai anjima–goodbye.”

Outside, she headed for the main road which was tight with slow moving cars, rickshaws and buses. The sun was scorching, so she quickly took off the shades and the niqab. Then she thought better about it. What if someone recognized her? She retied the niqab and waited for a rickshaw. 

Once they arrived at AMM supermarket. Walida got down, paid the driver and hurried towards the umbrella setup beside the supermarket. She stood under it, not sure whether to go inside. Indeed, it was huge, a two story-building, with the white plaque reading SNH Enterprises.

Only God knew what was inside. She thought as she walked towards it, slowly, almost expecting Shamsu to step out.

That was when a car engine started behind her. She turned and saw the car, the same on Shamsu brought home. She quickly turned around and went back under the shade. She bent her head and rummaged through her bag. 

She heard the car doors open, then female laughter. “Shamsu you’re not funny.” A tweet-like voice said. Walida raised her head. Grace: petite, pawpaw skin glimmering under the son, in a pink sleeveless shirt, hair covered by a face cap. 

Walida watched as Shamsu moved to the boot, with Grace in tow. They emerged holding two bulgy red bags each, walking side-by-side. Shamsu’s eyes were on Grace as he talked, smiling.

Walida watched them, enamored. Suddenly Grace lifted her hand and slapped his back. He didn’t recoil or change face, In fact, it only made him laugh louder. 

Walida’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t breath until they disappeared through the glass sliding doors. 

Oh God. she cried, covering her mouth. Was that her husband? Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she was just imagining things? But she knew she wasn’t. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the sun, avoiding the car. 

Then she heard Shamsu say, “I’m coming please.” Over her shoulder, she watched as he opened the passenger seat and brought out a small blue bag with the Shahzad Store logo. Her mouth opened. Shahzad was a jewelry store, one of Aisha’s favorite places. What was he doing with the bag? Was it for Grace? Did he buy it for his madam? It had to be. She resumed her walk, took another rickshaw and headed home. 

...
Waaaaaoooow...

Hmmm...

Any advice for Walida?

Drop it in the comments section.

And don't forget to vote and tell ya people about this story.❤

See you next week, in sha Allah.

❤❤❤

F. I Uthman (Zah Storyteller HQ).