Zeena and Ibrahim
Zeena lived in the eastern half of a four by seven meter squat mudbrick house with her teenaged mother Aichatou, her baby brother, her grandmother Rabi, her two elementary-school-aged aunts, and her uncle Ibrahim. Zeena's grandfather, Ibrahim's father, was a grouchy leather-skinned
white-haired man who leaned heavily on his staff whenever he emerged
from his lop-sided hut on the other side of the family's compound.
Unlike most men his age, he had only one wife. Rabi's perpetual,
simmering scowl was inadequate warning of her vicious temper. She drove off every other woman her husband brought home in their
twenty years of marriage, and the two wives to whom he first brought her home as
well. Rabi's husband laid low, except on rare occasions when he and his
wife fought loudly across their neighborhood. No one understood how
their children came to be, especially Ibrahim, who was not even a thought on the famous day when Rabi threw the embers from the tea brazier on her husband's roof and it caught on fire and her husband took his cane to her and declared loudly that she was divorced. Rabi refused to move out of her house, and her husband patched up his roof, and to the shock of the village, eventually Ibrahim happened.
Zeena didn't know who her father was. Zeena never thought about it. Everyone else in town had, but until this year Zeena was too young to understand their insults. Aichatou never mentioned it, which was no surprise because she rarely talked to the children even on the days when she was not gone, or shut up in the eastern half of the house with another man Zeena didn't recognize. Zeena didn't know why her mother still lived at home with her parents, or where the money came from when there was food and new clothing. She only knew her own age because Ibrahim knew that he was six years old.
Ibrahim was only one month older than Zeena, and he was more like a sibling than an uncle. Neither could remember a time when they had not slept on the same mat, eaten from the same bowl, fought over the same sticks and broken pottery, and run raggamuffin wild and naked together around their neighborhood. The year Ibrahim started attending Jardin D'Enfants was a hard year for both children. Their separation anxiety was compounded by Ibrahim's fear of his Mushe, who hit the children with a donkey whip when they couldn't recite their French lessons, and by Zeena's new work at home. Ibrahim came home from school with a welt on his back, crying that he did not want to go back, and Rabi sucked her teeth at him and said what use did their family have for another uneducated son? No, he would go to school and he would become an educated man and feed her in her old age. And Ibrahim went to school and recited lessons in French and came home with welts on his back, and the old man broke his ominous silence and said, "finally, the son has usefulness."
The year that Ibrahim went to school, Zeena didn't know what to do with herself. She played in the sand of the dried-up goulbi, and she chased grasshoppers from one acacia bush to another with Ibrahim's favorite stick. She ran wild through the neighborhood, but the other children first ignored her and then shouted insults about her mother. Finally she went home and sat miserably on the fraying straw mat outside their house, because none of the games she liked to play were fun without Ibrahim. She moped around the family compound, tossing pebbles over the crumbling wall, for the better part of two days. She moped around the family compound long enough that her mother's visitors noticed her, long enough that there were brief interchanges between Aichatou and some of the visitors. And then Aichatou told Zeena that she had no usefulness to the family acting like the idiot child of beggars running around the neighborhood and playing in the dry goulbi. And Zeena's grandmother and mother made her useful for all the strange visitors.
Even the word "evil" is a liar. It sounds so imposing, like a towering dark presence banging on the door. It sounds dreadful, like the inexplainable shadow lurking on the wall. But it doesn't announce itself. Most of the time, it is just there one day when you turn around, and you wonder why the hairs on your neck didn't stand up sooner, and sometimes you're not even sure you know its name. Zeena didn't. Who would have told her? Ibrahim knew something was different, but he was gone much of the time, and he was too afraid of his violent mother to ask question or hang around the house. Perhaps he could sense that being a little boy instead of a little girl didn't make home any safer.
The rains came late that year, vehement from their weeks of waiting. Their vanguard dust-storm ripped branches off the gnarled apple-ring trees and threw one down like a bridge across the trench in the goulbi that the brick-makers had hollowed out that cold season. Then the rainstorm flooded the swamp in the center of town. It overflowed in all directions, lapping half a meter high through the marketplace, drowning Ali Usmane Ahmadu's coveted Nigerian chickens, collapsing huts and killing people and goats, encircling the post office like a moat. It rushed like a miniature Plateau State rapids through the goulbi, and it softened the crusted fields and then it went away south. Before dawn all the men in town went out to plant the millet, and most of the women went too. Rabi got up before dawn and screamed at Aichatou and shrieked curses in the doorway of the old man's hut until he came hobbling out shrieking insults back. Ibrahim and Zeena lay curled up and still under an old zuni until Rabi kicked them. "Don Allah get up, we're going to the field!" Ibrahim let out a howl, got up, and ran away out the door, and Zeena ran after him across the neighborhood. Rabi sent Aichatou after them, but Aichatou was plump and out of shape. Rabi cursed them both and then she and Aichatou and the old man and the two elementary-school-aged aunts locked the door of the hut, took the farming implements and went away to the farm.
For that day, Ibrahim and Zeena were children. They went to the swamp and played on its bank until a neighbor shouted a warning at them. The neighbor said, "Watch out for the brick trenches, you will drown!" But Ibrahim and Zeena were used to insults, and so they did not listen. They ran away down the goulbi, splashing hip-deep in the muddy brown water and skimming little islands of foam off it. At noon they went home and found the pot of last night's leftover tuwo and ate it. It was starting to go bad, and had a rancid taste, but they ate their fill and were happy and probably would have napped in the shade for the rest of the afternoon. But then one of Aichatou's men came wandering along, and Zeena saw him coming. She caught Ibrahim by the hand and they ran around the back of the house and climbed out over the compound wall. They escaped through the neighborhood to the goulbi, and they played on the bank of the goulbi near their house until the neighborhood children came and shouted insults at them. Ibrahim and Zeena ran away down the bank of the goulbi until they came to the place where the branch had fallen. On the near bank they found clay, left over by the brick makers. They made little people, little camels and cows, and a little mud house. When they tired they left their creations drying in the hot sun, and Ibrahim ran back and forth across the fallen branch that rolled and shook beneath his dirty bare feet. Zeena stood at the side, nervously watching.
"Come on, Zeena," Ibrahim urged, but she shook her head.
"Come on, mana," he insisted, and then, "you stay, then, but me, I go away to the acacias to catch grasshoppers." And he turned and scampered back across the branch.
"Ah-ah, Ibrahim," Zeena called after him. "Don't leave me."
"Then come," he said.
"Wallahi, I'm afraid," said Zeena, biting her lip.
"I'll help you." Ibrahim came trotting back and offered her his hand. Zeena quavered and with her free hand she caught hold of every twig on the branch, feeling her way with her feet and whining in terror. They were nearly across the bridge when she slipped off, pulling Ibrahim with her into the water of the goulbi. The water swallowed them with a light-hearted gulp and a couple ripples that fanned out and away down the current.
If the neighborhood children had been friendly, Zeena and Ibrahim would have played near them and the children would have called one of their mothers or grandmothers when they saw them fall. If the brickmakers had not hollowed out a trench, this part of the goulbi would have been as shallow as the other parts. If the frayed mat in front of Rabi's house had been safe, they might have spent the afternoon napping on it. But the "ifs" that don't happen are what make room for the evils that do.
Aichatou found the little dried clay figures on the bank of the goulbi that evening. She looked at them vaguely for a while, remembering when she used to make clay people on the bank of the goulbi, and then she cried. She cried harder about the clay figures than she did when the man who owned the field nearby found Zeena and Ibrahim washed up among the acacia bushes. The neighbors came tentatively to the ramshackle compound to offer their muted condolences: "God give you patience." The aunts wailed and Rabi screamed and pulled her hair and said that Allah had seen fit to make them more poor, and to take away their security in old age. The old man tapped his cane and said that this was the work of God, that the children must have sinned and merited divine punishment. But Aichatou remembered the clay figures she used to make and the ones abandoned on the bank of the goulbi, and she cried for more than lost usefulness.
Zeena didn't know who her father was. Zeena never thought about it. Everyone else in town had, but until this year Zeena was too young to understand their insults. Aichatou never mentioned it, which was no surprise because she rarely talked to the children even on the days when she was not gone, or shut up in the eastern half of the house with another man Zeena didn't recognize. Zeena didn't know why her mother still lived at home with her parents, or where the money came from when there was food and new clothing. She only knew her own age because Ibrahim knew that he was six years old.
Ibrahim was only one month older than Zeena, and he was more like a sibling than an uncle. Neither could remember a time when they had not slept on the same mat, eaten from the same bowl, fought over the same sticks and broken pottery, and run raggamuffin wild and naked together around their neighborhood. The year Ibrahim started attending Jardin D'Enfants was a hard year for both children. Their separation anxiety was compounded by Ibrahim's fear of his Mushe, who hit the children with a donkey whip when they couldn't recite their French lessons, and by Zeena's new work at home. Ibrahim came home from school with a welt on his back, crying that he did not want to go back, and Rabi sucked her teeth at him and said what use did their family have for another uneducated son? No, he would go to school and he would become an educated man and feed her in her old age. And Ibrahim went to school and recited lessons in French and came home with welts on his back, and the old man broke his ominous silence and said, "finally, the son has usefulness."
The year that Ibrahim went to school, Zeena didn't know what to do with herself. She played in the sand of the dried-up goulbi, and she chased grasshoppers from one acacia bush to another with Ibrahim's favorite stick. She ran wild through the neighborhood, but the other children first ignored her and then shouted insults about her mother. Finally she went home and sat miserably on the fraying straw mat outside their house, because none of the games she liked to play were fun without Ibrahim. She moped around the family compound, tossing pebbles over the crumbling wall, for the better part of two days. She moped around the family compound long enough that her mother's visitors noticed her, long enough that there were brief interchanges between Aichatou and some of the visitors. And then Aichatou told Zeena that she had no usefulness to the family acting like the idiot child of beggars running around the neighborhood and playing in the dry goulbi. And Zeena's grandmother and mother made her useful for all the strange visitors.
Even the word "evil" is a liar. It sounds so imposing, like a towering dark presence banging on the door. It sounds dreadful, like the inexplainable shadow lurking on the wall. But it doesn't announce itself. Most of the time, it is just there one day when you turn around, and you wonder why the hairs on your neck didn't stand up sooner, and sometimes you're not even sure you know its name. Zeena didn't. Who would have told her? Ibrahim knew something was different, but he was gone much of the time, and he was too afraid of his violent mother to ask question or hang around the house. Perhaps he could sense that being a little boy instead of a little girl didn't make home any safer.
The rains came late that year, vehement from their weeks of waiting. Their vanguard dust-storm ripped branches off the gnarled apple-ring trees and threw one down like a bridge across the trench in the goulbi that the brick-makers had hollowed out that cold season. Then the rainstorm flooded the swamp in the center of town. It overflowed in all directions, lapping half a meter high through the marketplace, drowning Ali Usmane Ahmadu's coveted Nigerian chickens, collapsing huts and killing people and goats, encircling the post office like a moat. It rushed like a miniature Plateau State rapids through the goulbi, and it softened the crusted fields and then it went away south. Before dawn all the men in town went out to plant the millet, and most of the women went too. Rabi got up before dawn and screamed at Aichatou and shrieked curses in the doorway of the old man's hut until he came hobbling out shrieking insults back. Ibrahim and Zeena lay curled up and still under an old zuni until Rabi kicked them. "Don Allah get up, we're going to the field!" Ibrahim let out a howl, got up, and ran away out the door, and Zeena ran after him across the neighborhood. Rabi sent Aichatou after them, but Aichatou was plump and out of shape. Rabi cursed them both and then she and Aichatou and the old man and the two elementary-school-aged aunts locked the door of the hut, took the farming implements and went away to the farm.
For that day, Ibrahim and Zeena were children. They went to the swamp and played on its bank until a neighbor shouted a warning at them. The neighbor said, "Watch out for the brick trenches, you will drown!" But Ibrahim and Zeena were used to insults, and so they did not listen. They ran away down the goulbi, splashing hip-deep in the muddy brown water and skimming little islands of foam off it. At noon they went home and found the pot of last night's leftover tuwo and ate it. It was starting to go bad, and had a rancid taste, but they ate their fill and were happy and probably would have napped in the shade for the rest of the afternoon. But then one of Aichatou's men came wandering along, and Zeena saw him coming. She caught Ibrahim by the hand and they ran around the back of the house and climbed out over the compound wall. They escaped through the neighborhood to the goulbi, and they played on the bank of the goulbi near their house until the neighborhood children came and shouted insults at them. Ibrahim and Zeena ran away down the bank of the goulbi until they came to the place where the branch had fallen. On the near bank they found clay, left over by the brick makers. They made little people, little camels and cows, and a little mud house. When they tired they left their creations drying in the hot sun, and Ibrahim ran back and forth across the fallen branch that rolled and shook beneath his dirty bare feet. Zeena stood at the side, nervously watching.
"Come on, Zeena," Ibrahim urged, but she shook her head.
"Come on, mana," he insisted, and then, "you stay, then, but me, I go away to the acacias to catch grasshoppers." And he turned and scampered back across the branch.
"Ah-ah, Ibrahim," Zeena called after him. "Don't leave me."
"Then come," he said.
"Wallahi, I'm afraid," said Zeena, biting her lip.
"I'll help you." Ibrahim came trotting back and offered her his hand. Zeena quavered and with her free hand she caught hold of every twig on the branch, feeling her way with her feet and whining in terror. They were nearly across the bridge when she slipped off, pulling Ibrahim with her into the water of the goulbi. The water swallowed them with a light-hearted gulp and a couple ripples that fanned out and away down the current.
If the neighborhood children had been friendly, Zeena and Ibrahim would have played near them and the children would have called one of their mothers or grandmothers when they saw them fall. If the brickmakers had not hollowed out a trench, this part of the goulbi would have been as shallow as the other parts. If the frayed mat in front of Rabi's house had been safe, they might have spent the afternoon napping on it. But the "ifs" that don't happen are what make room for the evils that do.
Aichatou found the little dried clay figures on the bank of the goulbi that evening. She looked at them vaguely for a while, remembering when she used to make clay people on the bank of the goulbi, and then she cried. She cried harder about the clay figures than she did when the man who owned the field nearby found Zeena and Ibrahim washed up among the acacia bushes. The neighbors came tentatively to the ramshackle compound to offer their muted condolences: "God give you patience." The aunts wailed and Rabi screamed and pulled her hair and said that Allah had seen fit to make them more poor, and to take away their security in old age. The old man tapped his cane and said that this was the work of God, that the children must have sinned and merited divine punishment. But Aichatou remembered the clay figures she used to make and the ones abandoned on the bank of the goulbi, and she cried for more than lost usefulness.
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