Naked

Mustapha Enesi, Nigeria

The dreaded sun of the dry season in Sabon Layi bakes her red soil. I am standing behind Baba’s hut, trying to empty water from the red bowl that Hafsa had soaked guinea corn in to make Kunu Zaki. I can hear the bleating of Mama’s pregnant goat and the morning crow of our neighbor’s rooster, and I am adjusting my hijab, this way and that around my face. Water flows away from the bowl, splashing against the floor. I watch the red soil swallow it up, and I hear voices sifting through the tiny holes of Baba’s hut. Hafsa’s voice is first; it is shrill, and cold, and angry. 

“Haba! Baba Amina, it is about time.”

I wonder what she is asking for. I know how she can be whenever she needs things. You see, she just asks and whatever she wants to be done is done. She is not like Mama, who, without dissenting, nods a yes to everything Baba says. Baba never argues with Hafsa. It is like his mouth is filled with hot yams. When he opens it, it isn’t to scold her, but instead to cool it with a passing wind. I tell Mama that Baba is getting old, not because I see strands of grey hair on his head every time he removes his turban and wipes water over it before praying, but because he is not as strict as he used to be.   

“New wives always get what they want,” Mama says. That Hafsa’s reign will only last until the next Amaryah is brought, but I doubt if that will ever happen. Well, if you know my Baba at all, you will know that he is never going to marry another wife.  I also know that ever since Hafsa pushed Salmah out of her loins, Baba’s love for Hafsa faded from the place it used to be. It used to be in his eyes, the way he looked at her, like nomads gazing at bright stars on dark lonely nights. That love would have remained had Salmah been a boy.

So, I wonder what Hafsa is asking for. What was it time for? A new hut or that Baba should register Salmah for school now that she had just turned eleven? Hafsa would be crazy to want any of these because I could barely count to ten in English and Mama had never raised an eyebrow to Baba without punishing herself by painfully plucking strands of hair from her eyelashes. Never.  Hafsa, of all people, should know that school is not for us women; we move from our mothers’ wombs to the early hands of our hijabs hovering around us, swaying, as we rewarmed and shared the cold, leftover food the boys–if we had any boys–would bring from the main town; from bins and sidewalks and the little crumbs of snacks left in black and yellow nylons tossed to the side of the road by big Alhajis and their kids. And as we swept the compound and washed the dirty plates, our hijabs danced along. They always did. We do these and more until we either get married or till Mallam Umar comes for us. But, I want to drop the bowl of guinea corn and go tell Mama that if anyone is going to be registered for school, it will be me. That now will be the time for her to leave her bed and fight. That I am ready to hurl insults at Hafsa and hit her in the vulnerable places that will hurt and make her squirm and scream and make her make those funny faces that mad women make when they snarl at people. Baba’s voice comes. It is patient. It is warm. It is raspy. So I stand as still as a Kuka tree that is surviving a storm. 

“Amina is just fourteen, I can’t do it.” 

What can he not do? I cannot strain my ears more than I am already doing, and I cannot bear Mama’s annoying goat, bleating away. I gently place the bowl on the floor, and while I move closer to the hut, silently placing my feet one after the other until my head is one hair’s breadth away from the strands of fronds spiraling out of Baba’s hut, my hijab dances along.  

“How old was I when you married me? Amina has pointy breasts now and Mallam Umar pays well. Baba Amina,” Hafsa says.  

You see, Mallam Umar is a tall man who has a heavy diagonal scar marring his left cheek. Twice every year he goes round Katsina to search for girls. His business is easy. He gathers as many young and vibrant girls as he can and finds new homes for them in the big cities. In return, their families receive a monthly token from him—until they die or until he brings news about them running away.  

As I tiptoe back to the red bowl, I step on a twig, and a loud noise echoes in my head. My heart sinks into my stomach as I run to Mama’s hut as fast as I can. Inside, I meet her half-lifeless body resting on the mat; one side of her face is slanted. Her speech used to slur, but now she cannot even say my name. I feel sadness shrouding my skin like clouds darkening skies during rainy seasons. I kneel beside her and reach for the wooden box of Maganin Shafawa that is by her bedside. It smells of dried lemon leaves. I push my right index finger into the jelly-like substance and slather it over my palms. And while I massage her dying body, I think about a lot of things that I want to tell her. That we are making  Kunu Zaki. She would have smiled and said Sannu. I want to tell her that it is not my fault that my breasts are pointy, that Hafsa thinks Baba should give me away. I want to tell her that, it also isn’t my fault that I screamed when I walked in on Hafsa and her lover shoveling their tongues into each other’s throats on Baba’s bed. But all that comes out of my mouth in a long and sad sigh.

* * *

The cool evening breeze of the dry season caresses my face. I am sitting outside Mama’s hut and trying not to cry. I fold the ends of my hijab and tuck them between my stretched-out legs, which breathe every time the cool breeze blows. The sun is trying to set when I see the three girls who live in the next compound sashay past me in their hijabs. As they walk, shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, one would think that they are walking triangles with varying heights because of the way their hijabs frame their bodies. I see disappointment settling at the base of their eyes. They aim accusing glances at me and I know why. It is because girls in Sabon Layi never expose any parts of their skins outside their mother’s huts, especially when the sun is setting. Sunset, as beautiful as it is, comes with djins lurking behind the orange rays cascading from it and into the sky. But I am too tired to care. Too tired to bat an eyelid back at them. Too tired of everything and everyone. 

“I hear Amina will be leaving us soon,” one of the girls says, giggling. 

Another one cuts in, quickly. “She can hear you.”  

Then silence settles over the girls and me for about a minute or so before the girls traipse away, slippers slapping softly; their voices fading; their figures disappearing into the falling darkness of the night. 

Now, it never ceases to amaze me how news flies around here in Sabon Layi. Like that time Baban Lubabah secretly married off thirteen-year-old Lubabah because the bride price was big enough to take care of his needs. Or the time Mallam Umar returned Zubeidah to Sabon Layi and told her family that she was “no good.” And when Zubeidah died twenty-four hours later, word had spread, like flies invading the buttocks of a man passing feces in a lonely bush, that Zubeidah became a prostitute and had been infected. I wonder if news about Hafsa and her secret lover has spread, or if I am the only one who knows. I wonder if that is why she wanted Baba to send me away, afraid that I would tell everyone about her. I wonder what the girls think about my dying mother. Do they talk about us in their mothers’ huts?  But I do not think about the possibility that I could end up like Zubeidah or like Lubabah. Allah kiyaye, God forbid. 

I just wish for everything to become a dream; walking in on Hafsa and her lover. The coming of Mallam Umar. My mother’s sickness, and the tears welling in my eyes. I want to see the whole of Sabon Layi speak to me. To hear it assure me, saying everything will be fine. But all I see are beams of flickering lights emanating from the distant houses. From the kerosene lamps the people of Sabon Layi must keep lit to ward djinns away. And all I think about is the kind of family Mallam Umar will send me to. Will they be nice, or will they be wicked? Will they have big houses and electric bulbs that dangle? Will they treat me as one of theirs or as a slave, or turn me into a prostitute and make me return like Zubeidah to die in disgrace? Will I be brave like the girls that ran away and run away myself? 

* * *

Morning comes with much brightness. Morning is jaunty. Morning is kind. Morning is smiling at the rising sun as it falls on your skin. Morning dances away the sadness that settled on your shoulders the night before.

This morning. I am standing in the middle of the compound, staring at the broom that is resting by the side of our charcoal stove. It stares back. There are dry leaves from theKuka tree that stands in the middle of the next compound—the leaves flutter around the edges of the broom. I can swear that I can see its edges transforming into a toothless mouth and shouting, Sweep! at me. I want to move my feet, but I can’t. This morning is nothing like the mornings I am familiar with. 

It is Salmah’s turn to cook and mine to sweep the compound. But the mere thought of Mallam Umar’s impending arrival is heavier than twenty gallons of Kunu Zaki. You see, there are many other thoughts in my mind. I think about freedom. And I want it. I want to know what it feels like to give my hair to the breeze and let it swing as freely as it wants. To let it embrace the hidden pleasures of the outside world. To let it hang, like morning brightness. For a minute or more—I do not remember the length of time I spend staring at the broom—I just know that it is a very long time. All that is in my head; all I want to do at that moment is to lose this confining clothing encasing my body, this hijab.

I hesitate. 

Almost immediately, I see Hafsa. She walks out of Baba’s hut, her lips are dry and her eyes are sunken. I feel rage. Something churns inside my stomach, like a boiling pot of yam porridge. I want to run up to her and seize her skinny body with my slender fingers; scratch her forehead and bite into her ample caramel skin; twirl her blue hijab around her neck until she coughs out blood. Instead, I open my mouth and let words fly. 

“Mayya! Witch!” I blurt. I wish Mama were here, to see the way Hafsa staggers and hits her hand on her chest to ask if she is the Mayya.

“Shegiya! You useless girl!” Hafsa’s shrill voice replies.    

I make sure my voice is loud. Loud enough to wake the neighbors and Salmah and Baba. I wanted what I was about to say to resound throughout the village. I wanted Sabon Layi to re-echo it into the ears of everyone.  

“Yar madigo!” I scream. That she is a disgusting wife. What you may later learn to be another name for “Lesbian” if you ask around. This makes her run towards me, to place her hands over my mouth. I push her away and smile as she bruises her hands against the charcoal stove. 

I am breathing heavily. My eyes are fluttering, entranced by the disintegrating walls of the mud houses in our compound and that of our neighbors and the sky. You see, Sabon Layi makes one think the village is a very large compound owned by one person because of the way the houses are built close to one another, but amidst the cluster of spaces, each family has its own compound. 

Hafsa is writhing in pain beside the charcoal stove in front of Baba’s hut. And my hands are starting to move, now beyond my control.  My hands, bearing my slender fingers, reach for my head, and remove my hijab. My feet begin to move, and in a split second, I find myself in front of Baba, inside his room; with the pictures of sheikhs plastered on all sides of the walls; with protective talismans at one corner; with Baba’s bare chest staring at me beside a piece of clothing that looks like Hafsa’s underwear. It is as if I wanted him to see me naked. The nakedness of a fourteen year-old Sabon Layi girl showing her hair to a man. Even her own father. A girl without a head cover is as taboo as a girl without clothes. And I wanted Baba to see me without my cover. 

When I get to his room, he stares at me, then yells, “Kina hauka? Are you mad?”

* * *

I am kneeling beneath the shade of Mallam Abubakar’s Islamiyah. The floor pinches the folds of skin covering my knees, and I press the pain between my clenched fists. My hijab lies lifeless in front of me, and my hair is enjoying every second of its independence. Sweat blotches my dress and accentuates my breasts, a vivid line separates one from the other; I know this because I keep catching Mallam Abubakar’s eyes as they keep falling on me. 

Hafsa had told Baba that I was possessed. That I’d awakened this morning and charged at her. If Baba was not going to give me to Mallam Umar before, what happened this morning changes his mind. So he brought me to Mallam Abubakar’s shade to exorcise me. To cleanse my soul before he gives me away. I dread kneeling in front of Mallam Abubakar. I dread what would happen if his blala ever embraces my skin. There have been stories of him touching little girls behind his house. You see, his voice is infused with so much innocence that one would never think of him as sinister.  

I am still kneeling when he stands up from his bench and struts towards me. It is just the two of us here. Three, if we count Allah. Five, if we count the two angels guarding me, left and right. Six, if we add the devil that follows Mallam Abubakar. He moves closer and closer to where I am kneeling. I am looking at him straight in his eyes. Void of shame, atypical of a Sabon Layi girl. His fingers slowly run through my hair and his tongue wets his lips. He withdraws his entire body almost immediately: his back facing me, his maroon caftan, billowing. And I tell myself, fada din ba yau ba, that the fight is not today. I will not tell you that I release my clenched fist, grabbed his penis and twisted it. I will not tell you that tears welled up in his eyes. I will not tell you that I saw him cry.  

* * *

I find my way back to the house. Back in Mama’s hut. Staggering and whimpering and shaking. I feel pain, and my hijab drags along. It stirs dust. My hair is still hanging freely from my head. I look at the box of Maganin Shafawa and leave it where it sits. There is no point rubbing scented lemon leaves on Mama’s body. It does not work. 

For the first time in a long while I speak to her, even though I know she cannot reply. I know she can hear and this is enough. I told her that I freed my hair, and did not cry when Mallam Abubakar’s blala pelted my skin. I unfold my dress and show her my bruise marks. Her face shudders. I can swear that she is trying to smile and cry at the same time, so I smile at this discovery and say to her, “I am fine Mama, ba matsala.”  

Mama’s goat is bleating again. I can hear several footsteps dragging sand with Sabon Layi’s red earth just outside Mama’s hut. I hear voices, the voices of the three girls who live in the next compound. 

“Amina has been possessed, I heard she bit off Mallam Abu’s wee-wee,” one of them says, giggling. I ignore them and focus on Mama. Mama remains still, staring into nothing. I grab her body and shake it vigorously.  

“Mama!” I scream. I see her fingers twitching. I lay her down and start packing; her wrappers, my wrappers, her scarfs, my scarfs, her many other things, and my many other things. Powder. Yaji spice. A mascara pen I rummaged from a garbage bag outside Sabon Layi. I fold everything into a big hijab and tie its ends. I run outside and drag Mama’s goat from the compound. It stops bleating when it sees Mama, and I am happy for the silence. I run outside again and the sun is burnng. It is scorching my eyes and wilting my hair. I run back inside. I see Mama’s still body. Her silent goat. The hijab, full of our things. The empty hut.

And I ask myself: how do I begin to run with all of these little things?

Mustapha Enesi is Ebira. He writes short stories and pieces of flash fiction. His works have appeared in The Kalahari Review, Eboquills, The Story Tree Challenge Maiden Anthology, and elsewhere. He has been shortlisted for the 2021 Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria.