Dear Fuad

Chapter One

The pigeons on Garimpa square looked like tiny ice-bergs, only it was a hot, humid day in Abuja – no ice berg would be found here. About a hundred feet away from where I sat in the car -sandwiched between two of my closest friends - they flocked in quiet circles laying claim to the deserted street as if it was their inheritance.

“How long more?” I asked, still staring out the windscreen at the white birds that were supposedly meant to soothe me. “We’ll be late.”

Fatima leaned forward to look across me, and even though she didn’t say a word, I knew she was silently communicating with Sarah; a feat we’d well mastered when we were younger – we could conduct an entire conversation by just lifting our brows and squeezing our facial muscles. It felt strange now, sitting between the two of them and not being included in their secret ‘discussion’, but even though it felt strange, I wasn’t actually interested. I kept looking through the windshield in front, my gaze locked on the pigeons and desperately trying to draw tranquil from their flapping and pecking routine.

“We wouldn’t.” Fatimah replied as she settled back, the seats rustling softly. “Two more minutes.” Then reached out and squeezed my hand, a brief and perfunctory gesture designed to calm me. “We just need every…thing to be settled before you get there. Okay?”

I didn’t reply; my answer wouldn’t have mattered, because even if I’d said ‘no, not okay’, Fatimah – or her partner, Sarah – would still have followed through with their plan of making me wait. If only they knew that being here, being away from everything was more daunting. I dragged in a shaky breath and prepared to wait.

It was a bright, early-february afternoon, a month of intense heat, rainless skies and scorching dust-laden winds. Bright yellow glow of the sun filtered through the clouds, flooding the street in rays of beautifully blended colors, amber and pink and peach. I had a strange feeling of de-javu… the weather, the serenity, sitting between Sarah and Fati... but I wasn’t exactly sure of what it was.

“Dauda,” Sarah’s voice rang out in the stillness of the car. “Muje.”

Finally. Lets go.

A feeling of foreboding gathered inside me as the car’s engine revved to life and Dauda, Fatimah’s driver slowly pulled into the road. I stared at my knees throughout the journey, which seemed to last for hours, and the next thing I remember was the car maneuvering through cars parked on either side of a narrow, neat road.

We had arrived.

People loitered, in groups and alone, and the cars were so many, I was certain there was going to be a severe traffic jam by the time the program was over. Who knew we’d had so many friends?

Our car, a sleek and shiny Toyota Camry turned slowly into the sun-baked brown, untarred parking lot and almost immediately, people bore down on the car like the flock of pigeons I’d spent the better part of the previous hour watching.

“Dauda,” Fatima called again. “Lock the doors! Quick!"

The man complied, and a resounding click reverberated within the interior of the car. My palms were sweaty, and my heart was racing but instead of focusing on my rapidly growing anxiety, I looked down and centered my gaze on the cars’ interior, its thick leather seats, gleaming dashboard and expensive smelling air-conditioned air. Less than five minutes into my cotton-wool reality, I was interrupted by a dull rap on the front passengers windshield. It was my mum. Her faced was pressed on the tinted glass, so that even though she couldn't really see us, we could see her clearly.

"It’s mummy." Fatimah said, carefully. And even though she didn’t say it, the question in her statement was heard. Do you want her in here? Fatimah and I had grown up two flats away from each other and had been best friends since when it seemed safer to be at Fatima’s place than my own. Fatimah, as well as Sarah – who had become a part of our trio in the university – knew the fragility of I and my mothers relationship.

I didn’t want her here with me now, I thought, I wanted to have time with my own emotions, but… she was my mother. People were outside, what would they think?

I nodded.

The door was opened. Mummy's eyes, looking so bewildered and beaten fastened against mine as she entered. Then she twisted her body after she’d settled and the door had closed so she could see me clearly. She'd never really liked Fuad and now, I wondered if she wanted to say, "But I told you this man was bad news."

To her great credit, she didn't say anything, she just made a low sound, turned back around and let her head fall on the headrest.

"Is he here yet?" I asked after another five minutes, my voice came out in an almost inaudible whisper. But the girls at my side heard, and promptly turned around, looking out the rolled-up window, through gaps between the people leaning against the car and ran a quick search.

"I don't think so," Sara said after a while.

"He's not here yet." Fatima affirmed, then squeezed my hand again.

I should have expected it, I thought blankly. If Fuad hadn’t arrived late, I’d have been disappointed. Wasn't that how we met?



*********



I arrived on time for my first morning at work at the State’s University. On time, excited and literarily bouncing on my soles. I wore a slim-fitting black skirt which came down to my ankles, a peach chiffon top and an academic looking shoe I’d borrowed from my sister. I'd just gotten a job as a laboratory technologist at the chemistry department, and knowing how lucky I was, I didn’t want to mess it up. Having just completed my HND and service year, I was more than anxious to dip my foot into the working pool, even though I knew the pay wouldn't be that good and the time would be daunting.

It was a dreary morning, the cloud an ominous metallic grey, and the sky just as dark. My mother, who was holidaying with me, and a staunch believer in signs had foretold an unpleasant situation. But I'd been too pumped to take to heart one of her unfortunate predictions. Impeccable and as official as I could look, I was standing in front of the locked laboratory at ten a.m., two hours and half past the resumption time and no one to let me in. As students passed by, sending curious glances my way I began to panic.

What if it was one if those fake, 419 interviews where you pay to go for an interview and eventually realize you’ve been scammed? What if I hadn't actually gotten a job?

But I quickly reined in my thoughts and reassured myself with two facts 1. I didn't pay money for the interview and 2. I'd met the head of the department who had introduced me to the other staffs. Meaning I was a staff too.

But still I fidgeted, checking my wrist watch countless times, praying it wasn’t a wicked joke being played on me. Just when I was about giving up, at exactly 11: 40a.m, I saw him scurry over. Tall, lean, dark-skinned, and the picture of an utter mess. He had broad shoulders and slim hips and long footballer’s legs. His brows were heavy and his eyes were dark with long, sweeping lashes. With rimless glasses perched atop his nose, a back pack slung over one shoulder, the straps of a laptop bag draped over the other, and shirt that could use some ironing, he clattered to the door. He had stubble all around his jaw and looked like he hadn’t been to bed in days.

He nodded a quick, impassive greeting at me as he dug clumsily into his side bag for what I could only hope were keys.

He found them, a big heavy looking bunch with about fifteen different keys, after unearthing various unlikely items; a screw driver, an old audio cassette player, an inhaler, and then spent another couple of minutes shoving keys into the lock struggling to find the right one.

"Can I help?" I didn't have any particular expertise in locating defiant keys but he looked as if he was going to fling the entire bunch into the bin and head back to where he was coming from. I didn’t want to return home and have to tell my mother I’d spent my first stay at work locked outside.

"I'm too busy to sign course forms now," he said, as he shoved another key into the lock. "You can come back in two hours’ time."

"Oh, but I'm not a student.”

"Okay?" He pronounced 'okay’ with an accent, (ooh-kai) like he'd lived in somewhere foreign and exotic.

"I'm... I'm the new assistant lab technologist."

He looked up at me again, squinted through his small, square shaped lens as if to be sure I wasn't lying. "That's nice,” he said “We’ve needed a replacement for months now. Mrs. Kehinde left us high and dry.” He tried another key, then muttered, "It's a real wonder how these people open the doors every day. Do you… do you want to try it?"

Definitely an accent. Somewhere in Europe, probably. I took the bunch from him, looked at the brand on the keyhole and searched for it among the keys. I found it within seconds, and not willing to believe it could be as easy as that hazarded a trial. The lock opened.

Both of us laughed, embarrassed.

“I’m not very used to those keys," he offered in explanation as he pushed the double wooden doors open and held them in place with big stones lying by the wall. "It's the porters that open and locks up daily. Come in please. I had some work to do here the weekend, so I had them give me the keys with the promise to lock up and then open up this morning. But then, I forgot it was with me and came in late. I have about 5 dozen missed calls from all of them.”

I didn’t know who ‘all of them were’ but I could guess they were people that ought to be in this room at the moment – working. I walked into a large room with about fifteen long tables, embedded with gas stands and sinks. A waist high cabinet bordered the entire length of the four walls, and on them were various bottles and jars and instruments.

“But wait, you’re to report to the HOD’s office first.”

“I have sir. He directed me to you.”

He blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. No. I mean, to the head of the laboratory.”

He looked confused for a minute, and then gave a clarified smile. “No, no. I’m not the… I’m an academic staff. I’m guessing Mr. Salawu - that’s the head of the lab - is somewhere, lurking around and making the porters promise they’ll never give me the keys again. He should be here in a minute.” He dropped his bags on a scarred table. “Oh, I’m Fuad. Dr. Fuad Salman.”

I looked at him, and despite the fact that he looked like something that had just tumbled out of a junk man's wheel-barrow, I liked the look of him. “Lara Ambali.”

****

From afar, I heard sirens and I found myself sitting straighter, stiffer than I’d been all the while. There was a communal intake of breath and I felt my fingers clasped in warm reassuring hands again. Within the confines of the car, muffled, solemn voices and a flurry of movement flitted in and just that point, the enormity of what we were about to do came crashing down on me like a wave. My throat burned and my stomach fluttered, and for a second I was afraid I was going to vomit.

My mother glanced back towards me, her normally aloof eyes tentative and searching and I could only shake my head.

I’m not ready, I silently cried. I’m not ready to bury my husband.

I pressed the heels of my trembling hands to my eyes, hoping to compose myself. I was motionless, heart thumping, breaths coming in shaky, shallow gasps. A minute went… two… ten minutes. I sat, eyes covered as if that would delay or maybe even stop the inevitable.          

"Lara..."

I dropped my hands to my mouth, covering them like one would do when facing a shocking revelation and turned to look at Sarah. The anxiety on her face almost mirrored what I was feeling in my stomach. Almost, but not quite.

"They're here," she whispered.

I nodded. Tears spilled out of my eyes.

“Are you sure you want to get down?”

Although I was gripped by a terrible fear that I wouldn’t be able to handle the entire burial rites, I nodded again. I had to see him. That was the only way I could say goodbye.

“Let me go and see what’s happening. You wait.” Fatimah said and then unlocked the door, "Dauda, please lock this door as soon as I get down. No one should come in.”

At Dauda’s curt nod, Fatima climbed out of the car and I watched her approach the ambulance vehicle parked right in front of the cemetery gates. All the while, I prayed and prayed and prayed. I prayed I was going to get there and – astagfurullah – find the face of another man. Not my husband. Then prayed even if he was the one, he’ll open his eyes, and smile one of those his confused smiles at me and say, What’s happening? Why are you crying? What am I doing here?

Fatima came back on time. She used her body to block the space between the door and the inside of the car and beckoned. "Lara,” her voice was devastatingly calm. The turbulence could only be seen swirling in her tiny cat-like eyes. “Oya."

I took a breath, and allowed them - my mum and Sarah -  help me out of the car and into the hot afternoon like an invalid. Despite the heat, the ground beneath the sole of my rubber flip-flops was wet and marshy, and I knew the edge of long caftan I wore was going to be soiled and muddy, but I couldn’t care less. We were hit by a swarm of faceless people immediately. Lots of people, a seemingly endless churn of concerned faces, all bearing the dazed look of devastation. Staring at me, touching me, wailing. I sucked in both my lips and did the brave nod as I ambled forward.

Then I saw Fuad’s relatives huddled around a blue jeep There were two of his four sisters, Aunty Bee and Aunty Salma along with their spouses; cousins of his that I’d met on a number of Sallah visits to his family house at Kano, some family friends and… Hajia Asma, his mother. Her face was buried into a hankie, her shoulders shaking. No one had told me she’d arrived from Kano, but then again, I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind this past fifteen hours. Even if they’d told me, I wouldn’t have heard.

Hajia was surrounded by her own horde of friends; women with veils draped over their head and around their body and I could see she was desperately trying to be brave. She’d only just buried her husband, Fuad’s father less than a year ago and now she was burying her only son. My husband. Someone must have alerted her to my presence, because she looked up suddenly and searched around until her red-rimmed eyes touched mine. Held it. And then crumpled.

She was normally a slight, well put-together, sophisticated woman, but now, in an un-matching Ankara blouse and wrapper, flip-flops and face swollen from crying, she looked even thinner and seemed to have aged by a decade. Like people sleep walking, we gravitated towards each other, the only people directly affected by Fuads death. I collapsed against her and even though I was a little taller than she was, she managed to envelope me in a sustained embrace, her sobs tearing out of her body in shudders.

At that moment, everything else faded to nothing – the curious gazes, the white and red ominous van, even my mother’s silent judgement – all of it paled as I clung to the woman who had been more of a mother to me than the one that had birthed me. I wanted to stay that way forever. I just wanted to cry and cry and cry. And whenever she released me I wanted to go home and just die.

“Ina lillahi…” she sobbed. “Lara, ina lillahi.” Her hands were soft, yet firm and comforting around my shoulders, her breath warm against my neck. Then she drew back, blinking repeatedly to keep the tears away, but they came all the same. They mingled with snot and ran down her lips and chin. “Be strong, Lara. He’d want us to be strong.”

I nodded repetitively, but her own tears had set me off and I found myself struggling to breathe. If I started now, I was sure I wouldn’t stop. I had to see Fuad before I gave in to the hysteria clawing, clawing at my throat.

Dr. Disu, a huge man, with a ‘minus sign’ tribal mark on each of his cheekbones walked over, and like a bouncer at a club party, pushed aside the people pressing in on us and cleared the way till we reached the back of the ambulance.

I watched, hands tucked between my chin and neck as five men, maybe more, struggled with a bundle wrapped in white fabric; hoisting and hefting and passing out directives as they backed out of the van. The men at the tail end – Fuad’s brothers-in-law staggered out first, their faces pinched with solemn concentration. They had their arms wrapped beneath what looked like... legs. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. I looked again. Yes, definitely the legs. Fuad’s legs. A sudden panicky pain stabbed at my chest, but I waited and stared and hoped.

The rest of the men gradually emerged from the van, and I easily made out parts that had to be the chest and arms, held together with ropes, and then his head. He was placed on a wooden stretcher a few feet from us, and that was when the grief washed over me like a wave. I was aware of other people crying, but vaguely. I was so immersed in my cloying grief that that the only thing I was truly aware of was… well, my grief.

How? How could it be Fuad bundled up like this? How was he supposed to breathe? How had they tied a cloth over his face when they’d known he hated having clothes draped over his face? He couldn’t even endure two minutes of covering his face with a duvet when it was cold, and yet, this people want to tie him up. Forever.

I didn’t have enough time to reel from the impact of ‘forever’ when I was gripped by another alarmed seizure; the men had lifted the stretcher and were carrying him away. Towards the rows of men that had assembled in front, ready for the Janaza prayer.

I turned frantically around. Looking for Fatimah, Sarah, Aunty Bee. Anybody. Hajia looked equally distressed, but she didn’t tear her gaze away from the retreating figure of her son, her hands folded atop her chest. What was happening? I saw Dr. Disu. “They are taking him away,” I croaked. “Shouldn’t his… shouldn’t we see him first?”

He nodded gravely and walked away.

I watched him converse with three other solemn faced men, gave a tiny brisk nod and marched back to me. He looked contrite, "Hajia. Lara, we don't think that's a good idea," he said. “Let's just look at him like this.”

Panic reared its head. "No, you don't understand," I quivered. "I...I need to see him. I have to –”

Mr. Disu looked uneasy, and I was sorry for taking it out on him. He couldn’t single-handedly control what was happening, and loosening the shroud was going to be tedious. But I had to see my husband. If indeed he was the one inside the cloth.

“It’s my right isn’t it?” I said in my most reasonable, though wavering, voice. I could already feel my calm composure slipping away. “It shouldn’t take long to… to… I’m his wife.” A film of tears glazed Dr Disu’s eyes, and that was when I knew I was fighting a lost cause. “Please," I whispered. I was already weeping – not the few leaky ones I’d allowed myself after that first paroxysmal, rolling-on-the-floor cry; I had altogether lost control. "Let me see him. I beg you!"

Someone grabbed my hand, another person wrapped an arm around my waist. I struggled, even before they started pulling me back. “I just want to look at him." I cried, hot, noisy and with abandon. I couldn’t breathe. I was choking, dying. I heard my voice, shrill and trembling and agitated. "Don't let them do this."

My shrieked rattled in my head as I was dragged back into the car. Torn by a maniacal grief, I vaulted out again only to be blocked by a group of women. I fought to get back into the middle of the field, but I wasn’t strong enough for the women. “Fuad. Fuad!” I screamed.

Then my mother leaned close. “Omolara, pull yourself together. I don’t think Fuad would be pleased with this.”

That brought me to my senses, but it didn’t stop the tears.

I cried all through the Janaza prayer and when we were through, I wanted to lunge at the men carrying his corpse away from the parking lot, through the open cemetery gate and to the grave, but my fierce guards had predicted this and fenced me.

I hunched into myself, sank my face in my hands and allowed the storm of tears overtake me. I convulsed with my frustration, my dismay, and my terrible, terrible devastation.