JIHAD

SECOND | HENS WITH AIDS

The clitter and clatter of dishes downstairs make their way into my room. Into my head. Fuel the merciless throbs in my forehead. The groan that comes out of my mouth is weak, painful. A dry, cracked throat produced it, after all.

I drag myself up and off the praying mat, sway, grasp the window bars for balance. There are pins and needles in my feet. My buttocks is numb. I refuse to give in to the urge to open my eyes. Behind their lids, stands a fiery orange wall, so I know the sun is up and hot, and I refuse to subject my aching eyes to its harsh glares.

It's a typical weekday morning, following a typical everyday evening of watching porn till my eyes bleed. Sexting till my fingers bend. Staying up till the grey light of dawn peeps in through the cracks in my bathroom window. This Tuesday morning, I don't need the beep beep of my alarm to tell me I'm late. I know. I was late yesterday. Late last Friday. Late every day of last week. And the week before. And the weeks before the week before.

Late for Fajr, the dawn prayer. Late for school.

It's only a matter of time before I get into trouble with Allah, my lecturers, and Ummi.

Ummi. I wonder if we'll address my recent tardiness in the therapy session. After all, one of the questions I glimpsed when I flipped through the questionnaire was: How often does watching porn affect your daily activities? Sometimes? Often? Always? Never?

It's never.

My videos have nothing to do with my lateness. And headaches. And gritty eyes. Yes, maybe they keep me up at night. But that's because I choose to let them keep me up. There's a wealth of difference between choosing to act a certain way, and being unable to act except in that certain way. If I choose to wake up in time for Fajr tomorrow, and not have to lumber through the dawn prayer, fantasising about naked people, long after the sun has risen, I will.

If I choose to...

A knock on the door makes my thoughts scram. My eyes fly open, get spiked by brutal rays of sunshine, squeeze shut. "Who is it?" My voice is a croak. It barely carries over the bed, much less across the room and through the door.

The knock comes again. Harder, more urgent. Accompanied by, "Jihad! Jihad!" Aina's frantic calls knifes through my muddled brain.

I press two fingers to my throbbing temple, play with the idea of ignoring her and toddling to the shower instead. But I'll answer her. Aina won't stop until I do. And the thought of having my head and body pelted with a million shower drops fills me with more foreboding than pleasure, anyway. Head in hands, feet laden with exhaustion, and temporarily blind, I bump my toe against the bed, my knee against the vanity stool, my hip against the door jamb, and open the door. "What?"

"It's 8 O'clock. Ade has been waiting for you since morning. And I was going to tell him to leave thinking you went with your mom. I just decided to check first," Aina rants, her words tumbling over each other. She speaks as though she has hot yam in her mouth; one she can't quite chew, can't quite swallow, and because she's greedy, won't spit out. It's like music to my ears. When she's frustrated like she is now, it takes considerable skill, and a great deal of superhuman patience, to pick through her words. It's not a problem to me. I may not like her, but I like how she talks.

"Should I tell Ade you're ready?"

I open my eyes then, allow them amble over her pudgy lips, pudgier chest, and the even pudgier bump in her stomach. "I'm coming."

Her face lights up. "Okay. I made Jollof rice.  Should I pack some for you?"

My nose never smells a thing in the morning until the mention of food. Now, it picks up the scent of herbs and spices Aina always seems to be perfumed with. "No. I don't want your Jollof rice." My stomach grumbles in protest.