Let there be peace in Hindustani....

The night before thanksgiving

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The winds are brutal and unrelenting. They whip at my body with malicious glee, reminding me that I have to go through this gruelling journey everyday, twice a day. And at this time, everyday as I await the bus to take me home, I go through all the things that I find unsatisfactory with my life. I list all the things that I wish would end and all the things I would do, if given the chance. I look for all the things that aren't there and tell myself, "any day now, God please, any day now"

Then by happenstance, someone will come to stand by me. By the looks of them, he or she is also waiting. But not for the same thing. They are waiting for me and all others to leave. We are in their way. We are in the place where they call home. This uninsulated shed with a broken bench, pooly lit and inusfficiently sheltered. We are in the place where tonight, and most likely every other night, they will call bed.

We don't meet each other's eyes. I am a bit ashamed of my ingratitude but unrelenting in my ambitions. I can do better than I am now and I want the chance to do so. Yet, I know in that moment that I could be in so much more worse a situation.

It's okay though. For now, the wait ends and I continue on my way. I am paying my dues so that what comes next is much more appreciated and every action from now on must be done to ensure that it does not bring to another, difficulty and unneccessary strife.

For the ride home, I try to remember: Cat, dear, be grateful.

XYLOPHONE IN G MINOR

Hair

No hair

Laugh

no laugh

cry

no cry

smile

no smile

slim

not slim

fat

not fat

dance

can't dance

me,

myselves

and I

Used

not used

tired

not tired

hungry

not hungry

dreamer

can't dream

sing

don't sing

please don't sing

me,

myselves

and I

sex

no sex

want

can't want

not wanted

won't want

move

no move

stop

don't stop

beg

don't beg

fear

oh dear

me,

myselves

and I

sounds

no sounds

music

no frowns

keys

beat

love

laughter

heat

me,

myselves

and I

who?

not who

what

yes, what

know

don't know

shake

shake

shake

me,

myselves

and I

It's me...
It's me....
It's me...
It's me, myselves and I....

Hold my hand

I'm tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand

I'm tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand,

Master

I am tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand

oh oh

I am tired

And I'm falling

Please hold my hand.

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.

Liquid symphony

The rains have come and with it, a liquid symphony. Water waltzes down from the skies and then breaks into a fox trot on the metal roofing sheets that cover the decaying urban sprawl that is Ajegunle. Where it can, this water finds its way to the ground and roughly drags the earth down the hill in an electric slide. This is the best part: watching refuse, sand and discarded bits make valiant attempts to resist the pull of their watery master; pretending like they either do not hear its music or that they do not wish to dance. In the end, water wins and they all dance along to its tune. When it is all over, all has been washed clean or at least moved from one place to another. We forget that the stench of rot remains and that the ground is now a vomit of mud. No, we say to each other: the rains have cleansed the land.

Why then do they not cleanse me? I, who sit here patiently waiting for this symphony. My ticket has been purchased through my homelessness and I have front row seats to the magnificence of the rain's dance. No, it will not cleanse me. It's not meant to. I am to sit here, chilled, hungry and alone. All of my eight years, this is all I have ever known. Still I wait to be cleansed, ignoring the sores on my spindly legs; hunger having long receded and its definition forgotten as there has been no otherwise.

One day however, the rain brought something else. A hand. It reached through the crack in the wall I had made for myself from old doors and forgotten panels from the market place. It dragged my screaming form out and enveloped me in an embrace so tight that I was certain to squeeze the air out of my being. I fought and railed at the hand, cursing the rain because it had deserted me. The rain laughed and continued on its own way.

The rains have returned and with it, liquid majesty. It has never been so beautiful. I watch it from my new seat on the window. The window that is by my little bed. My bed in this huge house where the hand has brought me. Here, no one worries that I don't speak. Here there is no cold. The hand has changed many times. Now it belongs to an old man who smells like baby powder. I now smell like baby powder too. Some other hands gave us alot of it and I have my very own bottle of blue. It is a nice place, this house. He is a nice man too. There are nice children here. And here, the rain is nicer.

The rain sings and with it, liquid orchestra.