Sterile sky, p.8
Sterile Sky, page 8
‘What’s it, Murtala?’
‘Don’t order the fried rice.’
‘Why? I’ve already ordered it.’
‘The price is too high.’
Ola laughed quietly, patted my shoulder and walked me to my seat. I was ashamed. Most of the people who were eating turned to look at us.
When the food was brought, I stared at it. How could I eat a plate of food worth one hundred naira? The money Baba and I fed on for a week was not even that much. How did Ola get the money to pay for my plate and his?
‘Murtala, what are you thinking? Eat your food.’
‘I can’t eat.’
‘What do you mean? You said you’d eat fried rice.’
‘Yes, but…’ I could not speak further.
Embarrassed, Ola stared at me.
*
When I came home in the evening, I found Imatum. I could not believe my eyes. Her neck, arms and legs had grown longer and thinner. Her skin had grown darker, her face gravely pimpled. I stood staring at her, first from shock, then to tease her.
‘Why are you staring at me like that? Am I a ghost?’ She blinked rapidly and turned away, her lips pursed.
‘I think you’re a ghost of Imatum from the village. They said you were too sick and we thought you’d die,’ I said.
She turned her eyes back to me, widening them. ‘It’s you that will die!’
‘Who showed you here?’
‘Sergeant Abu brought me.’
I took a good look at her. ‘You’re not the Imatum I used to know.’
‘How can you still know me when you’re in the city enjoying life?’
‘Enjoying life? Didn’t Mama say life in the village was a lot better?’
‘Ha! Don’t mind Mama o! She is there with her wahala.’
‘How are they?’
‘They’re there. Why don’t you go to the village?’
I dropped my school bag, walked into the inner room and undressed. I came out of the room, eager to tease Imatum some more.
‘Thought you’d not return to Kano. You should have been married off to a farmer.’
‘God forbid! Me? I’ll marry a rich city man, not a poor man, like you and Baba.’
I had a good laugh. ‘I’m not going to be as poor as Baba. I’ll go to university and become a medical doctor.’
‘If you don’t behave like Baba and Mama.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Baba, always sleeping and doing nothing. Mama, always thinking of the village and poverty. Don’t you think something is wrong with them?’
I laughed heartily again. I moved towards the TV and switched it on. I sat down opposite her. She was sitting where Baba always sat.
Imatum drew down the corners of her lips, stood up and walked to the TV. She felt it with her right hand and hissed. ‘Better not to have a TV than to have this small black and white box. You should’ve told him.’
‘You’ll tell him yourself. You’re his friend.’
‘Haven’t you become his friend, after staying together for this long?’
‘I’m his good friend only when he’s talking about his suffering and SAP.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Structural Adjustment Programme. The government is adjusting our lives.’
‘Is that why he bought this kind of TV?’ Imatum hissed again, sat down and crossed her legs.
Our door, always ajar, opened wider as Baba stepped into the room. I greeted him, turned to Imatum and winked at her: Baba almost caught you talking unkindly about him.
Baba stood in surprise as Imatum bent her knees to greet him.
‘Where is your mother? Where are your siblings?’ He looked around expectantly.
‘They’re still in the village.’
‘Why?’ Baba’s hands were on his waist and the unique smell of his uniform spread through the room.
‘But Baba you should know why.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Imatum,’ Baba said, walking into the inner room.
I listened to him as he undressed, sat on the bed and unfolded his naira notes.
Imatum moved towards my bed. Her eyes focused intently on the picture of the malnourished child I had cut out of Triumph. She crossed her arms.
‘I pasted it,’ I said.
‘To bring you more nightmares?’
‘Isn’t the picture fascinating?’
‘It’s ugly. The boy is dying.’
‘Dying of hunger. Should remind you the world is a place of hunger for many,’ I said.
Imatum returned to her seat. ‘Why must you keep things that remind you of the ugliness of the world? What do you have to remind you of the beauty of the world? You see what I mean when I say…’
Baba interrupted her from the inner room. ‘Imatum!’
‘Yes, Baba.’
‘What beauty of the world did you see in the village?’
Imatum did not answer.
8
Imatum Tells Us Her Story
Baba and I sat in rapt attention as Imatum told ns her story:
‘Grandmama said she wept so much that, as our people say, she didn’t have any more tears. The village mourned with her. Uncle Audu laid out the real horror before her: “The whole city of Kano is aflame.” She had borrowed money and was about to leave for Kano when we got to the village.
‘“My daughter, the cowards in the village said, Ene you can’t go to Kano, you’ll be killed. I told them, I, daughter of the Wind, shall go look for my children and return unscathed. Watch and see.”
‘Audu would bring Grandmama to Kaduna and put her in a bus to Kano. “He said he wouldn’t go into Kano with me and I said, just put me in a vehicle that would take me to anywhere in Kano. The Wind would lead me to my children. They thought I was joking, but I showed them that a woman does not joke with the seeds of her womb. If you were still alive and I found you, I would bring you home. But if you were dead, I would follow you to the grave,” said Grandmama. So she was extremely happy when she saw us, but she wondered why Baba and Murtala and Ukpo hadn’t come. Mama told her that Baba would not come home. Grandmama said she was only worried about Ukpo her father and Murtala her husband. She knew she had lost her son, Baba, to the wider world the day he vanished from the village because he was forced to drop out of school. Veteran seers had confirmed this to her, but she had not worried about it. “He will come,” she told Mama. “One day, the gods will come in a whirl, lift him off the ground and fling him home.”
‘Mama told her that we had lost Ukpo. Grandmama and other people in the house did not know how Ukpo looked. They remembered seeing him when Mama breastfed him. But they all wept.’
I looked at Baba. His gaze was bland. His mien was cool.
‘The day we arrived in the village, we all, except Mama, sat in Grandbaba’s uponu. He stared at us in a mystical way, not removing his catlike eyes from us. He would occasionally shake his head slowly and sigh loudly. Oyigwu and Emayabo stole looks at Grandbaba with fear. When he wanted to touch them, they screamed and held me tight. At one point, he looked at me and said, “My daughter, I told your father to abandon his police work and come home, but he would not listen. If only he were as sensible as your mother.” I simply turned my face away. I wasn’t in a mood to talk with him. He ordered that a goat be slaughtered and pounded yam prepared for us. While we were still mystified by Grandbaba’s undivided attention to us, the pounded yam was brought. We did not eat much. I watched Oyigwu, Anyaosu and Emayabo fiddle with it. Yakubu ate well though. Grandmama asked Mama why we did not eat well. She told her that we were not used to pounded yam, because yam was too expensive in the city.
‘“Why do you keep my children in a land where yam is unaffordable? Don’t people farm there? Are you not a farmer?” Grandmama asked.
‘“Their land is not good for growing yam,” answered Mama.
‘“And that fool will not find his way home. O Wind, I invoke you to fling him home.”
‘We stared at her, confused. It was disconcerting to hear her insult Baba with such ease.
‘We moved into a room close to Enegaladi’s. There was only a slim metal bed with a tattered mattress on it. Everything looked strange. I asked Mama to show me the big houses she said Grandbaba had which would make life in the village better than in the city. She told me to stop asking stupid questions. I pressed her. “I want to be convinced.”
‘She shouted, “Why are you so senseless, Imatum the courageous one? Can’t you see the peace and the abundant food the village is blessed with? Did you eat pounded yam and goat meat in the city?”’
‘“We’re not moving to the village because of pounded yam and goat meat, are we?”
‘“That’s just one: good food. You would see other advantages if you used your head.”
“‘What I want to see is the big houses in your big stories about the village.”
‘Then she said there were free plots of land. With a small amount of money, Baba could build the house of his dream if he decided to return home. I finally told Mama that, for me, the village was a disappointment.’
Baba was nodding and smiling. He said, ‘I’ve always known you to be a wise and courageous daughter.’
‘But Mama thought I was foolish. She berated me when I asked questions.
‘Something however worried her. Her age-mates whom she thought would come to her help – and some of them were really doing well with their farms – disappointed her. One day, Mama and I went to see Ladi, one of her friends. Mama sought a favour from her: a loan to start a business.
‘“Ijaguwa, my friend,” Ladi said. “Have you hidden the money you brought from the city? Do you want to finish ours with us before you bring yours out? Or is your husband bringing the money later on?”
‘“Ladi, I don’t understand you,” Mama said, confused.
‘“It’s I, and other people in the village, who don’t understand you. For several years you’ve been in the city making money and now you return with your children, feigning wretchedness. Isn’t it for money and a better life that people leave the village for the city? We didn’t hear that your wealth was burnt in the crisis. The other time you visited home, you flaunted your riches before our eyes.”
‘Mama was shocked. Her expression became pained. “I’m sorry for coming to disturb you, my friend. I thought you would understand my case. The city has many faces and the face I’ve seen is what makes me what I am. I’ll try another person.”
‘As we were about to leave, Ladi said, “Nobody will give you what you’re asking for. People are expecting to see what you’ve brought from the city for them. I advise you to think of something else.”
‘Mama thought aloud on our way home. She didn’t understand why people reacted that way when they knew what had driven her from the city. “Imatum the courageous one, if your father had listened to me, if I had stayed in the village, none of these women could have competed with me. Before I got married, they used to borrow my clothes to wear. They used my make-up.”
‘Mama took the challenge to fend for herself. Since it was harvest time, she took us to the farms of rice farmers who needed farm hands. After we had worked for the day, they gave us a share of the harvested rice. My problem was that no matter how long we stayed on the farm – we always stayed from morning till evening – it was only one basin of rice we earned. And you know, they told us contemptuously that we were no-good-for-farm city children. A basin of rice was sold for five naira. All of us: Mama, Ajara, Yakubu, Anyaosu, Emayabo and Oyigwu went to the farm only to earn five naira.
‘One day I confronted her again. “Mama, I want you to explain the wisdom in this hard labour we do just to earn five naira.”
‘“It’s better than sitting at home, Imatum the courageous one.”
‘“How?”
‘“In any case, the five naira you see as a pittance is big money here.”
‘I didn’t understand her logic and had told her straight. “Mama, you’ve put us into slavery.”
‘Mama was enraged. She screamed about my inconsiderate attitude. She raged about my senselessness. She railed against the killings in the city. Then she burst into tears about the death of Ukpo. After that I stopped arguing with Mama. I noticed that during our arguments, my younger ones stared at us, confused and sad. She reported me to Grandbaba. He called me twice and urged me not to think like my father who was already lost to the misery of the city.’
I looked at Baba. He was very attentive.
‘I followed Mama sheepishly, doing whatever she wanted. I also hoped for freedom. I thanked God that I was a woman and would soon be away from her.
‘Then one day, while the sun was high, I think at midday when we were working on the farm, I suddenly caught a cold. I shivered. My temperature ran high. I told Mama that I had a fever. At first, she was sceptical but, on second thoughts, told me to go home. At home, I met Oyigwu struggling with Grandmama who was still in her farm cloth. Her veins swelled as she tried to drag Oyigwu into her room.
‘I intervened. “What’s happening, Ene?”
‘“Bless my ancestors that you are here. I returned from the farm and met this small husband of mine under the sun. I implored him to leave the sun, but he will not. He has a fever I am sure.”
‘I felt Oyigwu’s temperature by placing my palm on his forehead. It was high. Oyigwu and I entered our room. That was the beginning of our illness. Grandmama was never tired of bringing a new herb, even when we had not known the potency or otherwise of the previous one. I was always inhaling the steam from some herbal concoction, drinking it and bathing with it. At some point, my health would improve. But, continually, I would have the urge to go sit under the sun. Sporadic shivers would grip me. I would lose my appetite. I would hate the village and myself. Oyigwu’s health declined. He had convulsions that really terrified Mama. I advised her, “Mama, take Oyigwu to the village nurse instead of relying on these herbs.” For the first time she listened to me. She sold two basins of rice and took Oyigwu to the nurse and his health improved.
‘Then it was Ajara’s turn. Hers began with retching. Anything she ate she vomited. She grew weak. Again, Grandmama brought different herbs. When Yakubu started, it was coughing. In short, all of us fell ill within a few days. Even Grandbaba was upset. But people kept consoling us that it was the change of environment, that it was natural we should experience it. Mama sold all the basins of rice she earned. She couldn’t go to farm because she had to attend to us. Any day my health improved, I would look after the children while she went to the farm. She had to earn money by any means. Nobody gave us money, although our relations brought us food and fruits. Grandbaba made sure that we got an adequate share of the foodstuffs he gave out.
‘In the night at bedtime, we would all kneel down while Mama prayed, helplessly gasping: “God, are you there? Do you see what’s happening to my children? Do you want to disgrace me, God? Come to our aid, Almighty God, you who led the children of Israel through turbulent times, you who saved us from the killers in Kano. Come to my aid. If it is witches that are after us, let the fire from above consume them. If it is the spirit of sickness that is after my children, God prove that you exist for me as you do for others.”
‘After the prayer she would not sleep. Ajara, Anyaosu and I slept on the bed while Mama and the others slept on mats. Because I didn’t sleep either, I would hear Mama murmuring, “God Almighty, are you there? Ijenebu, my mother, Adanu, my father, are you there in the land of the dead? Did I do any wrong by bringing my children to our ancestral home? Are you watching what is happening to me? Why would you put me to shame, my God? My God and my ancestors, this is the time I need your help. Come to my aid. My children and I want to live. We must live.”
‘At a point Mama wanted to move to her father’s village, but was discouraged because she had no parents anymore.
‘The village Methodist church reverend, lanky and soft-spoken, added his generous prayers and charity. He frequently came and prayed for us in our room. He always advised Mama after praying: “Mama Imatum, take heart, God Almighty will see you through. You’re going through a temptation and you should be careful not to give up your faith to the calls of the pagan god. If your father- or mother-in-law asks you to offer sacrifices or do any unchristian thing because of your problems, don’t listen to them. Remember, the Lord will not forsake His own.’
‘I noticed that each time the reverend came to the house, Grandbaba would come out of his uponu and skulk around in the compound. One day, he called Mama and me to his uponu. Sitting up on his reclining chair with his eyes on the floor, his index finger drawing something on the ground, he said, “Wife-of-my-son, it is because I do not want to hurt you that I allow that scoundrel to enter my house.”
‘“Scoundrel? Who are you referring to, Ada?”
‘“Your ichochi leader, of course.”
‘“Oh the reverend. I’m sorry, Ada. I’ll tell him to stop coming. Why do you call him a scoundrel, Ada?”
‘“Tell him to stop coming to my house. We have heard stories about him sleeping with people’s wives. They sent him away from Ogwufa village because of that habit. And we will drive him out of here soon.”
‘“But he’s supposed to be working for God.”
‘Grandbaba raised his head and looked at us. “Can he not work for his god in his village? He is just a vagabond. That religion of yours turns people into vagabonds.”
‘Mama stopped the man from coming to our house.
‘I made a few friends among our relations who sympathised a lot with me. They were young girls like me, eager to come to the city. They wondered why I should leave the city, a place of pleasure, to live in the village. They said my mother was old-fashioned and it was unfair of her to deny us the pleasure of the city. “After all, we know the story of how your mother left the village when she was young. All her mates envied her,” Ajumi, my friend, told me. They said when Mama visited home, in those days, she was a delight to everyone and they composed songs with her name. My friends helped by contributing money for me to return to Kano. They told me to look for opportunities to help them come to the city.’
