Haneed Was A Psycho

CHAPTER 12

Around 11 am after breakfast, we left my family's house and returned home. I had to embark on a thorough cleaning spree due to the dust that had infiltrated our sitting room through the windows.

Conversely, Haneed headed straight to his workplace after dropping me off. However, less than an hour after he left, I received a call from Aminu Kano Teaching Hospital, informing me that my husband had been admitted to the Intensive Care Unit.

Words cannot express the extent of my panic. In my rush, I hopped into a tricycle (keke napep) with only one slipper and a hair tie, and without my hijab.

The stares I received upon my arrival at the hospital alerted me to my disheveled state. Thanks to the kind Nurse Ruqayya, who lent me her large veil and slippers, I managed to regain a semblance of composure.

Waiting patiently for nine long hours, I endured the packed atmosphere in the hospital as both our families and some of Haneed's coworkers gathered. It was revealed that he had been involved in an accident near Obasanjo Flyover.

The doctors diagnosed him with internal head bleeding, which had induced a coma.

Our only interaction was through the glass door; I could only observe him from a distance. For two days, I slept at the hospital.

On the third day, Haneed finally showed signs of life, but he suffered from severe retrograde amnesia—a form of memory loss. While he recognized his father and Hajia, he was unable to identify me, my family, and some of his coworkers. It was as though he had lost an entire year of his life. The doctors assured us that he would gradually regain some of these memories over time.

The accident ushered in a new phase of psychological and emotional turmoil in my life. My efforts to improve Haneed's well-being, along with my hopes for a better future, seemed to unravel in an instant.

Not only did he fail to recognize me, but he also rejected the fact that I was his wife, despite his parents' efforts to convince him otherwise.

Returning home after spending five days at the hospital, Haneed struggled to recognize even his own house, let alone the majority of his belongings. He requested that his parents remove me from the house, expressing a desire to live alone.

Despite their attempts to change his mind, he informed them of his decision to divorce me.

Alhaji implored my family to be patient, explaining that Haneed's actions were a result of his condition. He stressed that until Haneed regained his memory, any decision about divorce remained void.

My father, however, decided to take me back to our family house temporarily, pending Haneed's recovery. Furthermore, my father indicated that if Haneed's condition didn't improve within three months, he would personally dissolve our marriage, fearing for my happiness.

Thus, life's circumstances separated me from my husband for an extended period. While I felt lonely in Haneed's house, my loneliness was amplified in his absence.

Waheed, who used to bring life to the house, became distant due to changing dynamics. He had transformed into another person with an antisocial personality, rarely engaging with people as he once did.

Taking my father's advice, I began preparing for the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB) exams, slated for less than seven months away. My father hoped I would join the university in the next academic session.

Feeling utterly fatigued with life, I decided to make an early morning escape, setting off to see Haneed around 7 am.

I unlocked the door with my keys, only to be met with the disarray that had consumed our home. Dust and darkness pervaded the environment, creating an untidy scene. Haneed hadn't replenished the electricity meter, leaving the house devoid of power.

Despite my trepidation, I mustered the courage to venture toward my husband's room. What I encountered shattered my heart—Haneed lay sleeping on the floor, appearing disheveled and unkept, akin to a complete stranger.

Calling his name and nudging his arm, I roused him from his slumber. His abrupt awakening was met with a gaze that bore into me, almost as if he had seen a ghost. His hair looked like that of someone who had been electrified, while his lips were cracked and discolored, resembling those of a parched prisoner. It was a heartbreaking scene, one that reduced me to tears at the sight of how my Haneed had deteriorated into someone unrecognizable.

For more than 30 minutes, I cried in his room, but he remained motionless, merely observing me.

Determined to gauge his recognition, I questioned whether he knew my name. His involuntary, repeated lip-twitching made me suspect that his psychosis had intensified, reaching a level previously unseen. Thoughts raced through my mind—what if he strangled me again?

Suddenly, he uttered my name, "Rafiahtu," as though he had regained his memory.

A glimmer of hope surged within me as I responded eagerly, "Yes?"

Unfortunately, his subsequent response was a letdown. He stated, "You are called Rafiahtu, but you are not yet married."

My smile faded rapidly, leaving me uncertain how to respond.

Thinking quickly, I ventured, "Can you hire me as your in-house cook, and I'll make you delicious sandwiches?"

His face brightened at the mention of "sandwich," as I knew it was a favorite of his.

He inquired whether I could truly create tasty sandwiches, to which I affirmed. He proposed to pay me 20,000 naira each month for the service, all in jest.

Thus, my status transitioned from wife to housemaid. However, I found solace in the prospect of being near him and tending to his needs.

Around 10 am, as I was wrapping up my cleaning efforts, my mother called, questioning my whereabouts. I revealed the truth and implored her to speak to my father on my behalf, conveying my desire to remain with my husband. She agreed to send over my belongings and to have a conversation with my father.

Later that day, I recharged the electricity meter and prepared a special Jollof rice for Haneed.

Carrying it to his room, I found him seated on his bed, his gaze fixed on the wall clock, seemingly lost in thought.

Standing at the door, I greeted him with "salam" twice before he turned to acknowledge me.

As I placed his food tray down, I inquired if he had taken his risperidone medication, only to be met with a perplexed expression. He questioned, "Did you know that I was taking risperidone?"

I pretended as if I didn't hear him and hastily left his room.

Later on, I retrieved his favorite scent from a drawer, where I had kept it long ago. Upon my return, he had already begun eating, so I proceeded to switch on his air conditioner and released the fragrance into his room.

Haneed took a moment to sniff the air, then remarked, "That's mine... You're freaking me out, you know. Everything about you feels familiar. Even this Jollof rice, it's as if it's trying to trigger a deeper memory. Honestly, your presence and the aroma—it's like they're trying to remind me of something more. Maybe it's true, maybe we really were in love, but my memory is failing me."

Smiling, I responded, "The accident caused temporary memory loss, Haneed, but I believe that someday you'll recover those lost memories."

His lips twitched repeatedly, a sign of his inner turmoil. He reached into his drawer and retrieved his medications, including the risperidone.

Without a proper reply, he requested that I return to my room as he was experiencing a headache.

Returning to my own room, I held onto hope and offered prayers that Haneed would regain his memory before my father contemplated separating us once again.