Assalamu alaikum.
Our story continues. Love story gone sour? Or what do you think?
Whatever it is, there is definitely trouble in Paradise.
The news of the marriage spread like wild fire throughout Gaji and even its neighbouring villages. By mid-morning, it made headlines and it became official, that Zainab and Ali became the couple of the moment, celebrity style.
The bold ones went to see for themselves. They went to congratulate Khadija and Malam over their daughter’s wedding shamelessly.
Malam made himself less available, so his wife dealt with the situation.
Aunty Maijiddah was so furious with her brother that it was a surprise she didn’t catch on fire by herself.
“What do you mean Malam? That if Dabbo were alive, you would have just married your daughter off without informing her?”
Malam kept his head concentrated on the harvest from his farm, as he tied bundles of sorghum from last year, to enable him enough space to keep the millet and groundnut in his granary.
He had already separated the grains to be given out as alms or zakat and kept aside.
Although he wasn’t a large-scale farmer, the little he produced was more than enough to take him almost the year round.
“Probably.” He asserted and looked from where he squatted at her briefly, “But you are not Dabbo, so stop trying to claim rights that aren’t yours.”
“You see, you see? Your wife has beguiled you to the extent that you don’t see anyone but her. You no longer respect our late mother. By Allah, I think your daughters’ waywardness is a clear testimony of your failure as a father.”
Malam closed his eyes briefly as he registered her words. He then looked at her narrowly, “Yes, I agree. But instead of focusing on my wayward daughters, you should focus on your good sons and let me be.”
It wasn’t a secret to everyone that Imran had been recently branded as the crops thief of the village.
He was trudged half naked and made to dance the tabakaka, a shameful dance that thieves like him were subjected to, with the stolen item placed on their heads through every lane of the entire village. On top of that, he was flogged twenty of the horse whip.
Maijidda had shamelessly defended her son and claimed that he was being framed.
She had even threatened brimstones and wild fire if the defamers of her son’s name weren’t brought to justice. She even vowed to burn their fields until Yaya Ibrahim intervened and resolved the issue once and for all.
Hopefully, it remained so. With Maijidda, one wasn’t sure. And she always had the nerve to talk ill of his daughters.
“You think I am interested in poking my nose in to your business? But for the sake of Dabbo, I would not have spared you more than just a glance!”
He gave her a constructed smile, “Will you stop mentioning her name like she was my creator? Please, she gave birth to me. As what goes for you, it is time you relieved yourself of all your poke nosing businesses. You should pack and leave my house.”
She was dumbfounded for a split second, and then retorted, “Why should I leave my mother’s memories behind? You are heartless!”
He folded his arms round his chest in a stubborn gesture few people know him for, “Yes, I don’t have a heart. You went to Bauchi, brought Alhaji Tanimu and sold off Dabbo’s two rooms and the courtyard. I built the rooms by myself, without anyone’s help.”
“I had to! It was part of my inheritance in case you missed that. Since she owned the rooms, it was fair that I get a share of them after her demise too, you know. And thank Allah I made that decision, because Alhaji had given me the part to live in with my family. There’s no reliance on you since you have been bewitched by your useless wife.”
Malam shook his head and gave a sigh, “Alright. Since you’re staying on part of another man’s property, then you have given me a way out.”
“What do you mean?” She shot daggers at him, daring him.
He gave a secretive but determined smile and left without saying a word. It hurt him that his sister was only concerned with her pride and not his pains.
She behaved as if he’d planned to give his daughter away by midnight yesterday.
He’s had enough.
That day, he called Barau, the mason and showed him where he wanted him to erect a very tall wall, between his house and that of Maijidda’s.
Since the granary and kitchen were by Dabbo’s, he used his room as a temporary store and his wife cooked by his door.
* *
Aliyu Hamza was the second son of a very strict father. The location and economy of Gaji village was a boom for farming business, including dry season farming.
Malam Hamza was a seasoned farmer just like his brothers and their children.
The produce was kept after being harvested in the common silos and granaries built within the walls of their compounds.
The women in the house took turns to cook the massive meals of the whole family. Only Malam Hamza and his brothers had direct access to the grains.
At a given time when Aliyu was younger, his father had been introduced to the plant that was revolutionary and was guaranteed to double the amount of money he got from the sales of some of the crops they produced – the Marijuana.
Malam Hamza had cultivated and sold the Weed and made lots of money. At first, the people of the village knew little about its detriments to the body health.
When they got to know and objected, Malam Hamza had become a force to reckon with. The Police couldn’t do anything to him. He bribed his way around.
There were times when he had real connections in town and had used his clout severally and flaunted his ill-gotten wealth to silence his protesters.
One day, the whole village had gathered and burnt his Weed farm and had moved to burn his house also, but for the timely intervention of the local Police Authority.
The trade and money were too good to give up, hence from that day onwards, although he had stopped cultivating Marijuana, he’d become a supplier to major buyers.
He also sold in smaller doses to the youth at home. It was generally preferred by them so as to aid them in massive farm cultivation and ultimately, lots of profit.
Aliyu was a lazy young man who always fell short when it came to pleasing his father. And what pleased Malam Hamza most was money, lots of it.
His father’s sons cultivated more yields than him which placed Aliyu on the bottom low of his father’s good books. It was like being condemned to hell.
That had forced Aliyu to resort to using Weed so as to be able to yield more than what his brothers got.
He took it in moderation though, behind his father’s back. Malam Hamza particularly frowned upon any family member that smoked the blasted thing.
His occupation was strictly to sell. Consumption was intolerable.
By the time Malam Hamza had discovered what Aliyu had been up to, he was a bit too late. He had become so addicted that taking it was in proportion to taking his three-square meals daily.
There was no question of control, though several measures were attempted towards that.
The villagers had derided him, some even laughed behind his back for his karma. It was justice being served to him in his own coin.
At least he’d gotten to know the pains and ordeals of parents of those he had destroyed through his illegal trade.
With Aliyu’s mother, it was a different story altogether. She’d constantly believed that Aliyu’s plight was deliberately imparted on him by black magic.
She’d spent considerable amount of money to thwart their enemies of progress. No one dared to say otherwise within the family even after he had one day given her a good beating while inebriated. Mostly, people pitied her.
It was then that Malam Hamza had banished Aliyu from his house, had clearly abandoned the sale of the toxic plant and tried to move on.
But Aliyu still came to juggle him once in a while. And when he’d heard of his affair with the Imam’s daughter, he’d warned him to desist.
He had specifically stated that he wouldn’t be a part of anything that would lead to any girl’s destruction.
Iyami had begged to differ.
She was hopeful that if encouraged, Zainab might be able to help her son reform. In fact, she’d betted her life on it and begged her husband to support that cause.
But Malam Hamza was adamant. He had strictly forbidden anyone within his family to pursue such foolish crusade.
But no one had counted on the girl to be stubborn, unbending to the point of stupor, neither had her father’s folly.
He surely knew better than giving his daughter’s hand in marriage to someone like Ali. It was certainly a proscription, an absolute disdain.
* * * * *
Asma’u and Hauwa were the only ones that visited Zainab at her new home. They were moved by her new room.
“Ali had been banned from the house previously by his father. His room…” She paused to show where they were with theatrical ambiance. “This room was given to his brothers until yesterday.”
“You call this a room?”
Asma’u asked sardonically.
“Well, it is all I have got.”
Zainab said resignedly, with a dignified smile. “….and the love of my life, my Ali. What could be better?”
“Do you seriously need an answer, or was it a rhetorical question?” Asma’u mocked.
“You know you deserve better than this.”
Asma’u rolled her eyes as she gave Zainab’s room a once- sweep- over look again.
She’d warned Zainab of making the wrong choice and she still stood by her words. She couldn’t, for the life of her, comprehend why Zainab was all set to live with that looser, a good for nothing lout.
But she had stuck with her insane choice and now she got what she wanted.
“Are you happy, Zee?” Hauwa had asked her, concern filled her eyes.
“Of course. I am ecstatic.” Both sisters knew she’d lied through her teeth, but they probed no further.
They didn’t have the time to, because then, the little girl that brought breakfast that morning almost walked in with the salam.
Zainab smiled, “Well, at least we get to have lunch together, like we used to.”
Lunch was a few boiled sweet potatoes and a cup of water. They looked like a bowl full of grenades that were about to explode and blow them to tiny shards.
They were informed by their very own news channel, little Amira, that the lunch was prepared specially for the new bride.
It was tradition that lunch wasn’t prepared in the house for everyone. Only the little ones get to eat while the grown-ups fend for themselves until dinner, which was always tuwon dawa and kuka soup.
Kuka soup was made out of the dried powdered kuka leaves and a prominent soup in almost all the household within and beyond the village. The kuka or Adonsonia tree practically grew in their backyard. Folks believed it had medicinal benefits.
“Hey, it wasn’t that long ago since we last ate together. Besides, you know sweet potatoes don’t agree with my stomach.” Asma’u pouted.
She was careful not to say anything, lest she’d be quoted by the little girl when she left. She didn’t want to add to her sisters’ numerous headaches.
“You need new curtains.”
Asma’u declared much later, when she took a tuber of the sweet lunch and took a bite. She wasn’t a fan of sweet potatoes, but she took it for her sister’s sake.
“And a new dish.” She concluded as she eyed the almost battered bowl. It looked like an ancient artifact that was dug up by reckless children.
“Yes, you are right. I will give you some money to get me some few essentials.”
She brought out the wad of cash given to her the previous night by her father.
“Where did you get such an amount, Zee?” Asma’u asked, wide-eyed.
Zainab didn’t look at her, she just answered nonchalantly, “They’re mine.”
But because they kept looking at her like she just sprouted horns, she expatiated, “Our dear father, Malam Tijjani, gave it to me. As my dowry paid in full by his friend Malam Shehu.”
They fell silent. It was almost like one could hear the sound if a pin dropped on the ground.
Zainab smiled boldly, “What? There’s nothing to be serious about. Really, I have my money to do as I please.”
Usually, bride prices or sadaki was paid to one’s father or his chosen relative, whom in turn used it as he’d seen fit.
He could use it to buy furniture for her or invest it by buying an animal in her name.
But it was different with Zainab, because it was unheard of to give the bride herself.
Even Asma’u’s was given to their mother, who had used it to buy bags full of rice, sorghum and maize to store.
It was later discovered that Dabbo wasn’t happy because she wanted the money to be spent, so her son wouldn’t spend much on the lavish wedding he had planned to give his daughter.
But Malam had refused to use the dowry for anything. Being an Imam, he knew only the bride had sole rights to her dowry and so he gave her mother so they could decide on what to do with it.
One evening, a mysterious fire engulfed the room where the grains were kept. No one knew the source of the fire, no one investigated.
They left for the market after lunch and brought back some essentials. Few cooking utensils, rubber carpet, curtains, bed spreads and two pillows.
Later, some women brought some furniture and other essentials sent to Zainab from Khadija. Zainab had started to refuse them, but the sisters advised her against it.
“But really, I don’t know where everything will fit in.” Asma’u had mentioned as they were decorating the room. “This room is the size of a chicken pen.”
She had been complaining incessantly for the last thirty minutes.
That was when Zainab decided she’d had it.
She eyed her sister, and blurted, “At least I have a room, even if it was an animal sty!”
Asmau’u looked at Zee in shock as her words registered. “What did you just say?”
“Do you really need my reply?” Zainab retorted.
It was clear that Asma’u was flabbergasted, and Hauwa was left to look at both sisters with trepidation, helplessly.
Tears welled up Asma’u’s eyes. She was still taken aback completely by Zee. “So, it has come to this? You didn’t need to throw it to my face, you know.”
“Haba Zee.” Hauwa had started to say in her bid to start reconciliation between the two sisters.
“No Hauwa!” Zainab raised her hand, her tone harsher.
“I am tired of hearing Ali is the wrong guy for me, I made the worst mistake of my life by choosing the wrong man….and I have never questioned her choice, never criticized Murtala even once. Oh, wait, that was because he did a very good job at that himself!”
Asma’u rose, her expression pained, “I have never said Murtala was a saint. I just didn’t want you to commit the same mistake that I did.” She tried to beg for reason.
“And since when have you become my mother?” Zainab scowled.
“Stop it, stop it right now!” Hauwa emphasized with a shaky voice.
It went uncomfortably quiet for a moment, lest they called unwanted attention to themselves.
Hauwa continued, “We are sisters for Allah’s sake. Since when have we started throwing daggers at each other? I have always looked up to you for guidance and support. Now you are at war with each other?”
“I don’t care Hauwa. Better tell her not to ever disrespect my home or my husband ever again.” Zainab warned grimly.
“Oh, don’t worry. There wouldn’t be a second time Zee, because I will be leaving you to your newly found joy and wish you all the happiness to last you a life time.” Her voice sounded dejected.
“Haba Ma’u, it has not extended to that.” Hauwa begged.
But before she ended, Asma’u had quietly left the room, without as much as a backward glance.
Hauwa looked at Zainab, “That wasn’t so nice, you know.”
Zainab didn’t spare her even a look, “Well you know your way out when you’re done.”
Hauwa was more horrified than shocked. But she managed to leave in silence as well.
She did look back once at Zainab. Her body language expressed she didn’t care at all.