Hijab....

The stones fell like rain. The connected with cloth, the skin, then bone and finally, with nothingness. They fell with speed, each one a missile of hate, frustration and misplaced fear. They fell accompanied by screams, shouts, cries,laughter, pleas and tears. They fell and they fell and they fell. And even when there was no more reason for them to, the stones found some other reason to fall. At the end of that Friday afternoon, fifteen women had been stoned to death in the aftermath of Laraba, the girl with the purple hijab.

Laraba was sixteen, a bright and gay little pleasant thing. She went to school in the big city in the west and so was always full of the scandalous and scintillating tales of life in the land of the infidels. Still, she was of good upbringing, her father having hammered the tenets of Islam and our Holy Prophet Mohammed in her, her eight sisters and her four mothers. She was to graduate school and marry Idris, the son of Tukur. It had been arranged a long time ago, before she was born. Things were as they had always been. And as they appeared they would be forever. This was why it was such a devastating shock when Laraba was accused of fornication.

You see, one day, Laraba fainted on her way to Arabic school. Alhaji Dongo called in the best doctors who gave the best diagnosis. Laraba was pregnant. Laraba and her pretty, purple hijab was pregnant. But by whom? She would not say. No one would say. Perhaps because no one knew but Laraba herself. Dongo's fury could be heard as a far away as Sokoto. And so could her mother's pleas.

Before she could be taken out of the city and away to Lagos, the Sharia police came. They arrived on a hot afternoon, in a station wagon and dragged the screaming girl away. Judgement was just as sudden but not unexpected was the verdict. Nothing could be done. Nothing could save her. Dongo could not go to the governor. He had opposed him in the previous elections and shown solidarity to Musa Alaila, the candidate who had promised to end the Sharia rule. Dongo had no one to turn to. His political ambitions alienated him from the ruling administration.

He sought help outside of the state. To no avail. In desperation, he turned to the Christian NGOs in the hopes that they would bring down their wrath of righteousness in fight against human rights abuse. The television stations descended on the small town. They were beaten up by youth paid by the Sharia clerics. They fled and the entire nation turned their attention to fight for Little Laraba, the girl with the purple hijab.

Without warning, she was dragged out into the market place. The hadith was read. A F'athia was said. The first stone was cast and then the rain began. I watched from my vantage point on the fourth floor of my father's house as the town's peoples faces changed from human to guttural animal. I watched as they stoned our Laraba to death. Beside me, my mothers's screams degenerated into sickening and pained groan. At the end, on the ground, all that lay was a purple clad pulp.

Silence descended on our house like the dust blanket of the harmattan. My father would not speak. My mother would not eat. My brothers dissappeared one by one, out of the town of their birth and from their neighbourhood where they had no more standing. My sister's and I became recluses. I was alone. My daily companion was gone. Laraba was gone.

One day, we packed our things and moved to Jos. It was calmer there, cooler too.

"Laraba!" my father's voice screamed in the darkness. He jerked my hand away from his warm member. "What are you doing here?!"

I pulled his hands towards my left breast, "Babu, is this not what you want?"

He pushed me to the floor.

"Get away from me!"

Somehow, I had expected it. I knew that it did not matter, no matter what I did, the day he went to her bed, I was no more his little pet.

The knife went in very easily.

My mother's hand tried to take the blade from me. "You have done the right thing, Laraba"

I yanked my hand away. She would not be my confidante now. She who did not stop him on any of the nights when he sought my bed. From the time I was twelve up until now. I could deny him nothing. I loved him so much. He was the great Dongo. I was Laraba, his little jewel. That was why my hijab was of a colour so bright and pretty.

Yet he still cast me aside for that little filthy village girl, Souman. That rag who crossed into our home from her impoverished village in Niger to a world of servitude in my quarters. I was the one who presented her to my father, presented her to him as my new errand girl. Yes she was tall for a girl of eleven but she was just a dirty servant girl.

He took her for himself. Ignored me and our baby.

It was easy to faint. Easy. Easy. Easy.

Now it is easier to walk away.