Haze by Mercy Ojonoka Musa (Wordsmith)

That night was not like every other night. It was cold, windy and awfully dark. Mama did not say a word all day. She sat in her warm hut sulking. News had reached us that evening, that the neighbouring village; where my elder sister, Amina, lived, had been raided the previous night by bandits. They burned down huts, slaughtered their cows and men and took women and children away.

 What baffled me was that Baba wasn't disturbed at all. He went around in his normal routine--leading the cattle into the barn and giving them hay for dinner, with his radio pressed against his ear. He joined me on a raffia mat under the mango tree, to have fura da nono (fresh cow milk) since mama was too traumatized to make dinner.

Our village was scaringly quiet. Even the cows were silent. One could only hear the zuuu sound of the wind backed up by the sound of Baba's radio.

Usually, at this time, I would be at our neighbor's chatting and singing with the girls till midnight. Listening to them talk about their prospective husbands and laugh at me who wasn't ready for marriage. I was grateful that Baba was nothing like their domineering fathers, who were bent on marrying them off; like they were liabilities.

Mama was too ashamed to talk to Baba about Amina because he was never in support of her leaving in the first place. I was too shy to console her; because I felt I was too young to talk about it. All I could do was conceal my anxiety with a feigned smile like Baba and drink fura.

I gulped the warm milk. It left a sour taste and burned my chapped lips; but not as much as my heart burned, longing to see Amina, who was more of a stranger to me now. I threw glances at the entrance of the compound wishing she would barge in just the way she left, that fateful day.

Baba drank his slowly-- like every sip was gold--while he told me his plans for me. I had just completed my Certificate exams at our local secondary school and was ready to leave for town to continue my education at the state university where I had gained admission. He told me he would sell one of his cows, to pay my tuition fees. I listened enthusiastically, still staring unconsciously at the raffia mat which served as the door at the entrance, the wind slapping it mercilessly back and forth.

'You will become a nurse and buy me a bicycle', he muttered.

'Ah Baba!' I giggled running my henna-stained fingers through my black long braids.

I envisioned him riding a bicycle round the village proudly, telling passersby of how his Binta became a nurse; the first their village would ever produce. It was rare in this part of the world, because girls my age were married off early.

I was so immersed in my fantasy that I didn't notice Amina stride in. Her pretty dark face wet with tears and patches of dried blood all over her body. A baby was strapped behind her.

'Mama! ' she screamed weakly .

Mama rushed out and embraced her and handed me the cold-as-ice baby.

'my Amina', she sobbed, 'me ne?'

'Binta, take the baby inside', Baba said to me.

I laid in my hut; which used to be mine and Amina's before she eloped with a village rascal, Ibrahima, to start a family. I pat the sleeping baby and at the same time, eavesdropped on the ongoing conversation outside. Our neighbors had gathered. Amina narrated between sobs, how the bandits had killed her husband and how she narrowly escaped.

'waiyo!' Mama screamed throwing her hands in the air.

I could vividly remember Amina's last visit two years ago. She had exchanged words with Baba and he forbade her from stepping foot in his compound again else he will hit her hard with his gora. I knew he did not mean a word of what he said. He only said it in a fit of rage. Mama secretly gave her a sack of rice and yams that night and sent her off in tears. She had also visited Amina many times, without Baba's knowledge, bearing gifts.

'Get some sleep', Baba said and went into his hut. The crowd began to murmur, confused.

'Mai gida', Mama called out to him following close behind, shocked at his reaction.

The crowd dispersed in troops whispering to one another. Amina came into the hut quietly and sat up beside me. Mama and Baba were having an argument, although their voices were lowered, we could hear them clearly.

'Baba is sending me to town in three days', I thought myself heartless and insensitive to have started a conversation with a grieving woman in such a manner. But it was better than saying nothing, I resolved.

She mumbled, 'good...how old are you now? ', and cuddled her baby.

'seventeen'.

'You've always been the smart one, that is why baba loves you so much and he is trying hard to protect you from becoming like me. I was such a fool', tears rolled down her face.

I suddenly felt the urge to embrace her and tell her how much I missed dancing dan maliyo with her in the sun and selling fura da nono in the market for Mama.

'My baby is dead!'.

I cupped my hand round my mouth in shock. She rubbed the baby's face against hers.

'He just suddenly stopped breathing on our way here', she sniffed...smiled.

I noticed one of her front tooth was chipped. Could it be that Ibrahima had been hitting her?

I said, 'sorry' in my mind, too shocked to speak or move. I cried for a while then slept  off.

I had barely fallen asleep when I heard my mother scream for help... cows mooing...rushing feet...children crying then... gunshots! I jumped up.

'they are here... bandits!' Amina was shaking like a leaf.

The whole village was red with fire. With the speed of lightning, we were dragged out to behold our parents lying lifeless. Amina screamed and tried to escape their grip. I saw the face of one of them; it was white because of the haze, like he had applied white talcum powder. His black lips had a deep red cut.

They perched us on a lorry, with cows and other women and girls. My bloodshot eyes met Nana's, my rival. To think I had bragged about going to town, to her that morning at the well. I looked away quickly and wished I were the baby in Amina's arms. My heart almost stopped.

The weather helped the fire spread faster, dried my tears faster and even my dreams.

Maybe if it were rainy season, they wouldn't have come.

Now I was very certain about my future; they will either sell me and marry me off or use me as slave.

I didn't think of Baba's plans... our cows, all dead... Baba's dream bicycle. I could only think of the weather and blame it all on it. The rickety lorry jerked to life!

 

About the Author

Haze by Mercy Ojonoka Musa also known by her pen name, "Wordsmith", is a 300L student of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. She is blessed with an outstanding creative writing prowess. She is a fiction writer, article writer and a voracious reader. She also loves to decorate, cook and do research for fun.