Aisha Kabiru

“Haba Indo,” Mama says, standing outside my room. I ignore her and continue rubbing  powder on my face. Why is she overreacting? It’s just an ordinary naming ceremony. I hiss.

I pick my hand mirror from the bed and turn my face from side to side to make sure my head wrap is set.

“Indo!” Mama bellows, her hijab clad head peeking into my room.

I turn to her, “Ina zuwa mana.” I say, hissing again.

“You know they’ll expect us to come on time since we live close.” She says.

I roll my eyes, “So that we’ll work for them, ko?”

She shakes her head. “If there’s work to do,” she shrugs.

Chab, God forbid. I look down at my baby blue abaya, streaked with small crystals. It’s heavy but so worth it. Anna Sabuwa will go blind today.

Unfortunately, Alhaji’s driver isn’t coming today. He had to take the car to the mechanic, and we couldn’t wait. Nevertheless, I’ll still give them something to look at.

We arrive at Anna Sabuwa’s house, with its ugly cracked wall and roof sheet door that’s ripped in half. I hold my breath as we enter the narrow hallway stinking of smoke. I take out a soft hanky from my fur bag and cover my nose.

We enter the large compound, which I’ve always admired because of the many trees creating a shade from the hallway to the main house. But now they’ve been cut down, making space for the some women seated on mats, two plucking vegetables, three sorting through two large trays of rice, and others just gisting and clapping and laughing. The small kitchen at the far corner is empty, as three large aluminum pots are set outside on blazing woods.

I smile. I’ve missed events like these. Soon, we join some women on the mats close to the front door. I lift my abaya and bend down to greet them, from aunties to cousins to relatives that know me by name but I only know them by face. Still, I smile my way into the living room where more women are seated with two rolling a mountain of chin-chin dough.

“Aisha, ke ce wannan? Is that you?” Some ask.

“Kin yi kyau fa, sekace ba bazawara ba! You look good, as if you’re not a divorcee!” Some praise.

“Ko kin samu wani mijinne? Have you gotten another husband?” Some poke.

In the bedroom, Adda Rabi’s elder sister, my only friend in their family, Juwairiyyah (Adda Riri), is seated on the bed, looking glittery in a green lace that looks too big with her painted like a clown.

Is it by force?

 Beside her is an empty baby mattress, and of course, there’re other ladies, also well-dressed around her. A Hausa song plays from somewhere on the large wardrobe across from the bed.

I move closer, smiling, “Adda Riri!” I shout.

“A’i duniya!” She replies, throwing her hands in the air. “Toh, kowa ya fita. Adda babba ta zo. Everyone should leave. The big aunty has arrived.” Soon, I’m on the bed, holding her beautiful hennaed hands and catching up on everything I’ve missed. Even though she’s older than me, Adda Riri (Nana) never treated me like a small girl. She’s nice, way smarter than she seems, and funny. Unfortunately, she only finished secondary school before going into handmade bedsheet and soap business, which is still flourishing.

“Kai!” I shout. Adda Riri pinches me to keep quiet. I close my mouth but my eyes remain wide in disbelief. “Kice Allah.” I say.

Adda Riri smiles sadly and shakes her head. “Wallahi.”

I sigh. “Men, such pathetic creatures, wallahi. Does your mother know?”

She looks down and folds her lips. From there, I got my answer. Of course Anna Sabuwa would rather her daughter remain with a consistently cheating husband than be free.

“A’i,” She says, looking around before whispering, “I’m not happy, wallahi. I haven’t had peace since I got pregnant. In fact,” she swallows, “I almost prayed to lose the baby.”

“Nana,” I call, grabbing her hands. I want to help her. I want to take away her pain.

“Shahid refused to grant me a divorce. He begged me. He promised to change. But it’s been seven years, A’I, and he has three bastard children, with my five, making eight. Someone that doesn’t have a stable job. Even this ceremony is all from my pocket. He didn’t contribute anything!” She says loudly.

I lower my head in her lap, hatred coursing through me toward all the men in my life, especially Baba, the first man to betray me, betray mama. But just like Adda Riri, she’s stuck.

“Sallama fa.” A female voice greets. Adda Rabi stands over us, blowing bubble gum.

Adda Nana glares at her, “Menene?”

“Yaya Shahid said I should collect one thousand naira.”

She glances at me as if to say ‘you see?’ then grabs a purse beside her. “Wait, I’m coming, let me use the toilet.”

Once she leaves, Adda Rabi smiles widely at me, her teeth as white as her lace. Thankfully, she didn’t do any makeup. “Su Indo kenan.” She pops her gum, eyes going up and down.

“Sannu.” I reply, glaring at her. “What does he want to do with the money?”

Adda Rabi shrugs, “I think he wants to buy sugar cane.”

“Sugar me?” I ask. Is he serious? What nonsense.

Adda Rabi shrugs again, then her eyes widen and she sits beside me. “Thank God you’re here.” She touches my shoulder.

I try not to flinch. “I’m not giving you anything.” I hiss.

She eyes me, “Even though I have very juicy information for you about Alhai mai Sujjada?”

My ears perk up at that. Based on our daily calls, I know he’s in Sweden, and based on my snooping of his wife, Maijiddah’s Instagram, I know she went with him, which is a good thing. It shows that I will definitely travel with him if I want. Still, no information is useless, especially if it’s new.

“Which information? On who?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. I don’t need to show interest. I know how she can get.

She stretches out her hand, “Give me 2k and I’ll tell you.”

I hiss. “You’re not serious.”

She gapes at me. “Okay, 1k.”

I hiss again. Whatever she has, I’m sure I can find it on Insta.

“500.” She offers.

I have to laugh. Is she this desperate? I move to the headboard and grab a pillow to rest on.

She hisses, “Keep your money.”

“Which money?” Adda Riri asks, carrying her beautiful baby Rayyan.”

“Kawo shi nan. Bring him here.” I collect the sleeping baby and smile down at his cute light blue attire and matching fur blanket.

“Nothing.” Adda Rabi says, standing. She collects the money and leaves, but not before throwing another glare at me. She reminds me of Lubaba. I laugh again.

“Hope she wasn’t begging you for money.” She asks.

“She was, but as payment for information.”

“What information?”

I sit up. “Do you know Alhaji Mustapha mai Sujjada?”

“Ohh,” she wiggles her brows, “ I heard the gist.”

I hiss and smile. “Do you also know his wives?”

She frowns and shakes her head. “Oh wait,” she laughs. “I think I know the gist she wanted to give you.”

“Really? Menene?”

She eyes me, “how much will you pay?”

“Any amount.” I  say.

She laughs again, and I wish she would be like this all the time. “Toh, one of his ex-wives recently opened a restaurant at Tiamiyu Kawu junction.”

Oh. I nod. Interesting.

“The launch is this weekend. So you will pay me by buying me food.” She says.

“No problem. We’ll even go together.”

“Kai, it’s by invitation fa.”

“Ah ah, are we too small to be her customers?”

She shrugs, “That’s what I heard.”

I hiss. That won’t stop me at all. I’m going whether she likes it or not. “Wait, what’s her name ma?”

“Hussaina Abba.”

I nod, picking my phone to look for her on Instagram. Her name is not even unique or sophisticated. Nevertheless, I look forward to meeting her.