Season of Crimson Blossoms (16 page)

There was something appealing about the bunch of strawberries topping the fruit bowl; something about the shape and the redness and the yellow speckles on the skin. Reza wondered what they would taste like, these exotic fruits, arranged exquisitely, the green tufts facing the ceiling. He watched as Senator Buba Maikudi's hand hovered over the bowl and settled on one. He watched him chew, observed the expression on his face and wondered what sensations his taste buds must be experiencing.

‘You didn't bring me a birthday present, Reza.' The senator took another bite. ‘I just turned seventy, you know.'

He was reclining on the plush rug, supporting his elbow with an ornate leather cushion, an impressive ensemble of snacks and the fruit bowl arranged before him. Beside the strawberries, there were apples, apricots, avocados and grapes. On a side plate, there was steamed groundnut.

Reza swallowed. ‘Senator, I didn't know.'

‘See all the cards I have recieved,' the senator gestured expansively at the array of assorted cards. Some were small and dainty. One was as big as a small child.

Reza nodded in admiration.

The senator sat up and reached for one. He picked up his thin-framed glasses on the rug beside him and put them on. ‘
Your life has been a blessing
,' he read in English and paused to clear his throat, ‘
and that is why I pray God multiply your years. Happy birthday, Grandpa.
'

Not knowing what to say, Reza nodded again.

‘That was from my granddaughter,' the senator's voice resonated with pride. ‘She's just five you know, very smart girl.'

‘Yes, she seems smart.'

The senator scanned the display before him with obvious satisfaction and chose an apple. He reclined again, the fruit hovering before his face. ‘You know, it is because of these small ones, eh, these little children, that we work so hard to make sure their future is not mortgaged by incompetent idiots who want to rule this country by whatever means.' The crunch came and a huge chunk of the apple disappeared.

‘Exactly, sir.'

The senator gestured at the fruit and nodded to Reza to make his choice. He pushed the bowl towards the young man and nodded again, watching as Reza eyed the strawberries.

‘You know, you people are just killing yourselves with all these useless chemicals you consume.' The senator waved the apple before his face. ‘Our fathers lived on fruit and see how long they lived. My father, may Allah rest his soul, as far back as 1937, used to walk from Azare to Kano carrying all these goods on his head. He was a big trader, you know. He bought the best zanna caps from Maiduguri and sold them in Kano, travelled to Zaria and bought the best embroideries and sold them in Kano and Maiduguri. It made him pretty rich,
wallahi
.'

‘He trekked from Azare to Kano?' Reza marvelled.

‘Oh, yes, he did. And he lived well into a ripe old age, my father. You know, he ran into some bandits once. He was walking with heaps of money tied around his waist when he noticed someone trailing him. He pretended he had stepped on a thorn and managed to get a good look at the bandits, how they were positioning behind him—'

Musa the tea man came in with an exotic tea set. Reza admired the dainty porcelain cup with intricate powder-blue floral designs;
and the teapot in the centre, which was giving off a steady stream of steam through the spout. Musa placed the tray on the rug before the senator.

‘
Sannu, Musa. Nagode ko
,' the senator greeted.

Musa nodded shyly. As he stood up to leave, the senator's son came in. He was young – younger than Reza, and slimmer too. He sat on the rug next to his father and it was easy for Reza to see how much they looked alike. He didn't even acknowledge Reza, so the outsider sat quietly, pretending not to be listening, wondering how the senator's father had fared against the bandits back in '37.

‘Dad, about the trip?'

‘Ah, Hamza, this trip again?'

‘But, Dad, we've talked about this.'

‘Hamza, this trip is not important now, is it?'

‘I am going with my friends. Dad, please.'

‘Well, I am not paying for it.'

‘Oh, Dad, come on. Do you want me to be stranded?'

‘I thought you were going back to school next month, so why must you start globetrotting like that?'

‘
Haba
! Dad, I'm so bored and besides, I've never been to Madrid before. I want to learn Spanish.'

‘I thought the trip would last a week.'

‘Yes.'

‘And how are you going to learn Spanish in a week?'

‘At least I will pick up the interest and see places and you know—'

‘Oh, all right, all right. You can go.'

‘Thanks, Dad. But I will need some pocket money.'

‘Hamza, see all this your pestering—'

‘And I will need you to help talk to your people about the visa.'

The senator put a grape in his mouth and gestured uncertainly. ‘Later, Hamza, you can see I have a guest.'

The young man looked at Reza and nodded vaguely, abandoning the gesture halfway through. He started tapping the buttons of his Blackberry. Reza looked at Hamza's delicate fingers, and couldn't imagine them ever curling around a hoe, even to clear the backyard garden.

Still tapping his phone, Hamza huddled closer to his father and
spoke in low tones. Reza could still overhear them. And when he picked an apple and bit into it, it made such a crunch that father and son looked up at him.

As Reza watched the senator pour tea for himself, sipping and smiling as he listened to his son whisper, he couldn't help thinking of his own father languishing on the narrow hospital bed, one on which someone else had probably recently died. And as Hamza was leaving, Reza saw the little smile that lingered on the senator's lips and the gleam of pride in his eyes.

‘Hamza
kenan
,' the senator laughed. When the boy closed the door behind him, the old man turned to Reza and motioned for him to have tea.

With a ‘thank you', Reza declined. He still could not get his head round the idea of having tea for the fun of it – tea without bread! ‘Is he studying, your son?'

‘Yes. He just finished his first degree. I want him to go for his master's immediately. He wants to go to Madrid, to learn Spanish, in one week, can you imagine that?' The senator shook his head. ‘He is just like my father, Hamza, always wanting to see new places.'

‘He's schooling in Madrid?'

‘Oh, no. He did his degree in London. Do you know Madrid, Reza?'

‘Oh, I just know Real Madrid.'

‘Yes, the football team, right?'

‘Yes.'

The senator sipped tea. Reza ate more of the apple. But he had heard them mentioning UCLA. He didn't want to ask what that was.

‘UCLA.' He nodded in admiration.

‘Yes, for his master's.'

‘Is that in London?'

The senator laughed. ‘The US, Reza, UCLA is in America.'

Reza smiled. ‘I am thinking of going back to school myself.'

The senator nodded and raised his teacup to Reza. He seemed in a hurry to say something, but because his mouth was full, he took his time. Then he sipped more tea. ‘Very, good, Reza, very good.' He set the cup gently on the saucer and reclined again, his eyes shifting from side to side.

‘I just thought I should re-write my GCE and see how it goes, you understand.'

The senator nodded. ‘Good idea. So, you were in school before?'

Reza chuckled. ‘I was.'

‘You see, Reza, that is what we are fighting for. Imagine someone as intelligent as you; you can't go to school because of one thing or the other, mhm? This is the injustice we are fighting. That is why I am still struggling at my age so that people like you can have a brighter future.'

‘Exactly, sir.'

‘How is your business doing?'

‘We thank God.'

‘And the policeman? He is not troubling you anymore, is he?'

‘No, sir.'

The senator cleared his throat and sat up. He sipped his tea and seemed surprised there wasn't much of it left in the little cup. He put the cup down on the saucer and poured more from the teapot. ‘You see, my cousin Bello, he spent seven years in the university because of all these useless strikes and now three years since he graduated, he still hasn't found a job.'

Reza's eyes broadened a fraction.

‘And this man came here the other day, he said his younger brother has been looking for a job for five years and still hasn't found one. Five years, in this country!'

‘My brother too,' Reza began, wondering why he was talking about Bulama, his useless half-brother. ‘He has a diploma now. He couldn't find a job either.'

‘You see!' The senator poured milk into the cup and watched the spiralling white storm imploding from below, bleaching the tea, subtly dominating it. ‘Too many people these days going to all sorts of schools and there are no jobs for them to do. When they are frustrated, they take guns and rob somebody.'

Reza looked at the fruit bowl, at the apple green and the red of the strawberries and their yellow speckles, at the night shades of the grapes and the mellow yellow of the cashew.

‘So your brother went to school?'

Reza nodded.

‘And you and him, who is better off now?'

Reza thought of his father in the hospital and how powerless his brother had been even to buy the needed drugs. He didn't want to say that Bulama had married and that, on his meagre teacher's salary, they barely managed through to the end of the month, from what he had heard. He didn't want to say how pleased he was that he seemed to be faring better than his father's son.

‘You see!' There was a note of triumph in the senator's voice. ‘You are doing better than he who spent all those years in school, all that money gone, all that time wasted, for what? That is why I think young people like you who are entrepreneurs, who have business acumen, should not waste your lives chasing illusions. That was why when I heard that policeman was messing with your business, I had to intervene. You've heard of Bill Gates, haven't you?'

Reza nodded.

‘See, he is one of the richest men in the world and did he not drop out of school? The problem with us is that everything becomes a fad. Because Mr A goes to school, everyone else wants to go to school, so we lose the farmers, lose the businessmen, lose all sorts of people who will all rush to school and when they come out, there is nothing for them to do.'

Reza contemplated the fruit once more.

‘See this boy Hamza, do you think if he had any business sense like you I would be wasting my money sending him to school? I would rather give him capital to start a business.'

The senator stirred the tea and took a sip, then he reclined on the ornate cushion and picked up the card his granddaughter had sent him. He read it again and smiled, as if at a private joke.  

Hamza opened the door to announce that some ‘honourables' had been waiting for the senator. The old man said he would see them when he was done with his guest. Reza now wondered why the senator had summoned him, why he had been talking to him about everything apart from what he had called him for.

‘Reza, you said your old man was ill. How is he now?'

‘
Alhamdulillah,
he is better.'

‘Has he been discharged?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Take care of your old man, Reza, pray that you part in peace. That is very important.'

Reza nodded.

‘You know, your
aljannah
is under your parents' feet. If they are not happy with you, they stomp on it, if they are, they raise their feet for you to gain access to paradise. Take good care of your old man,
ka ji ko
?'

The senator reached for his bag and fetched some money. He handed the notes to Reza and urged him once more to take care of his father. Reza thanked him and made to leave.

‘Reza,
zauna mana.
' The senator motioned for him to take his seat once more. ‘Do you know why I called you?'

‘No, Senator.'

‘You see, when you are doing something important, you need strong men around you,
ko ba haka ba
?'

Reza agreed.

‘Reza, you are a strong man. I am going to ask you to do something, something very serious, very important.'

‘Anything, Senator.'

‘
Yauwa
! That is why I like you. You don't waste time when it is expedient to act. You don't waste time asking questions. I want you to—' he leaned forward and seemed to have frozen, his index finger held up before his face, ‘I want you to be ready. I will ask Moses, you know Moses, my PA? He will contact you and brief you on what to do. Whatever he tells you, just do it,
ka ji ko?
'

Reza nodded again.

‘It is a very sensitive matter and I want you to handle it with care.'

‘No problem, Senator.'

‘All right, you may go now so I can see the honourables. Just be ready, ok?'

Reza thanked him and shoved the money into his pocket. On his way out, he saw the ‘honourables' waiting in the anteroom. The three men looked important and smelt of expensive cologne. One of them had a face that was always on TV. He was probably a minister or something of the sort but Reza, not one to waste time watching the news, couldn't really be sure.

Mallam Haruna sat surrounded by a battalion of zanna caps fitted on wooden
kwari
, the special handmade dummies he used to give the caps their size and shape. The caps, washed and set out to dry, and turned inside out so only their blue interior showed, occupied all of the shop, save a small path leading out to the narrow side street, traversed by traders and customers heading home from the market.

Up on the shelves, populated by rows of colourful caps stacked atop each other, glistening in transparent waterproof wraps, was Mallam Haruna's trusted radio, from which the afternoon news blared. But the man himself was focused on the piles of caps beside him, picking them one after the other and fitting them on the dummies. There was a secret to his success as a cap washerman – the skill of
wankin glass,
of making caps gleam as if they were bottles in the sun. It was in the myrrh and its application; in smoothly beating it into the threads. In the careful application of a weighted, hot charcoal iron. He learnt the technique from a friend who had learnt the secret in the desert fringes of Maiduguri.

People from the capital trooped to Mallam Haruna's shop, tucked away in the corner of the Mararaba market, keen to have
him make their caps emit the aura of prosperity. And with the referral from a member of the House of Representatives, word spread to the red and green chambers of Mallam Haruna, the man who made caps glimmer.

While his three apprentices did the actual washing and, under the master's supervision, applied myrrh, Mallam Haruna was left with the task of fitting the caps into the right
kwari
for a perfect fit. It was a gift, being able to look at someone's head, even from a distance, and tell exactly which
kwari
would fit his cap. At night, if he did not carry his radio and go in pursuit of other things, he would lock himself in the shop and apply the finishing touches. By morning, the boys would come and find rows of gleaming caps neatly stacked on the shelves.

In the afternoons, usually after Zuhr prayers when the boys were doing the grunt work, Mallam Haruna would carry his radio and head out of the market to see his friend, Mallam Balarabe, who sold earrings, necklaces, wristwatches and other such trinkets beside La Crème.

Mallam Balarabe had a good spot, right on the kerb of the fast food joint where men trying to impress their dates were easily cajoled into buying ornaments for twice the normal price. Sometimes, guests at Shagali Hotel across the street also came to look at Mallam Balarabe's merchandise.

That afternoon, Mallam Haruna turned the corner and saw Balarabe sitting under his sun-beaten parasol, no longer the eye-catching red it used to be. With his radio pressed to his ear, he walked up to his friend and salaamed.

‘Mallam Haruna,
barka da zuwa
,' Balarabe greeted, making space for Haruna on the bench.

Haruna contemplated the parasol and sat down. ‘Your parasol is dead. Get another one.'

Balarabe was already listening to the Deutsche Welle Hausa service on the portable radio beside his wares, but because Mallam Haruna's was clearer, Balarabe switched off his own set. ‘I will,
insha Allah
.'

‘Nothing much on the radio today.'

‘Not much, mostly a repeat of the morning broadcast.'

‘Yes.'

‘You see how these politicians are messing up.' Balarabe caressed his greying beard. He removed his cap and placed it on the bench.

They had first met in Mallam Haruna's shop three years before when Balarabe had had his cap shrunken by another
maiwanki
and was referred to Mallam Haruna. Mallam Haruna took on the cap, only because of a certain reverence he felt for Balarabe. He had the luxury of choosing whose cap he serviced and especially resented cleaning up other people's mess. When he was done, Mallam Balarabe had been impressed by the finished work, by the way the colourful threads had brightened and how the cap had been perfectly shaped to fit his head. Balarabe had told Mallam Haruna that he had had plans to buy a new cap for his third wedding a couple of weeks away, but would instead reserve that one for the occasion.

Mallam Haruna had been awed. ‘Third wife!
Masha Allah
!'

And that had marked the beginning of their friendship, forged on the plurality of wives.

Now, Mallam Haruna grunted. ‘This idea of using corps members to conduct elections, I'm not so sure about it.'

‘
Atoh
!' Balarabe exclaimed. ‘This man, Jega, we thought he was coming in to do something reasonable. See how they are mismanaging the voter registration already.'

‘Power! Power! Power is a treacherous thing, I tell you. Once you join these men in their affairs, no matter how pious you are, they will find a way to corrupt you. That is why I say Buhari should just let them carry on with their politics and save himself the trouble.'

‘And if everyone stays away, who do you think will come and fix the system?'

‘Only God will rescue us from these greedy people,
wallahi
.'

‘God! And why should God come to rescue us when we are not willing to raise a finger to help ourselves?' Mallam Balarabe posed expectantly; as if ready with another salvo should Mallam Haruna say the wrong thing.

But Mallam Haruna wasn't listening. His eyes were trained on the entrance of Shagali Hotel, where a motorcycle taxi had just set down a woman. Even though she wasn't wearing a hijab, as he had grown accustomed to seeing her, he could tell who she was
from afar. He could imagine the smell of lavender wafting from her as she fished in her purse and handed the okada man his fare.

‘
Subhanallahi
!' Mallam Haruna exclaimed as Binta adjusted the veil over her shoulder and hurried into the hotel.

‘What?' Balarabe looked from his friend's face to the hotel entrance where Binta had already walked out of view.

‘Oh, nothing. Nothing.' Mallam Haruna clutched his beard and shook his head. ‘
Lallai kam
!'

Reza opened the door and watched Binta walk straight past him to the bed. When she took off her veil and dumped it beside her, his smile froze.

‘Are you all right, Hajiya?'

Her eyes flitted over him and she looked away. ‘I'm fine.'

He locked the door and walked to her. He sat down beside her and tentatively put an arm around her shoulders.

‘I brought the money.' She reached into her bag, fetched some notes and handed them over to him. ‘You see why I keep asking you to open an account? You could have gone to an ATM and withdrawn money without me even knowing.'

‘No problem, I trust you.' He received the money and put it away.

‘How is your father now?'

‘He is getting better, they say. I need to go back and see. They said I need to get some money for further tests, you understand.' Then he added a ‘
Thank you
,' in English.

She thumped him on the chest lightly. ‘No need to thank me, it's your money, isn't it?'

‘Thank you for keeping it and bringing it when I need it.' He brushed his lips to her ear. ‘Thank you for being my bank, where I deposit my money, and other things.'

She looked at the mischievous light in his eyes and smiled. She shoved him away and he fell on his back on the bed and laughed up to the ceiling.

She, too, laughed. ‘God, what have I done? I have corrupted this small boy.'

‘I wonder who is corrupting who?' He pulled her down beside
him. They lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling fan turning, slicing the air like an indolent scythe. He would never understand the sexual attraction he felt for her. Sometimes his intimacy with Binta bothered him, not least because occasionally he ended up thinking about his mother when he thought of Binta, or the other way round. It made him uncomfortable at times. It was making him uncomfortable now until Binta sighed. He raised himself on his elbow to look at her.

‘What is wrong with you today? You seem distant.'

She sat up on the bed and he, too, sat up.

‘I have been thinking, you know, about my late husband.'

‘Oh, I see.'

‘I just woke up this morning and thoughts of him kept looping in my mind.'

‘What have you been thinking about him?'

She shook her head and chuckled sadly. ‘You know, I have spent more of my life with him than with anyone else. I was sixteen or seventeen when I married him.'

‘Were you in love?'

‘Love?' Again she found herself reflecting on the word and what it meant, and found herself wandering in nothingness. ‘Oh, no. I hardly even knew him before our wedding. He used to work at the railway back in Jos then. He would come to Kibiya once in a while and we always said that Mallam Dauda's son, who worked at the railway, is back. I never thought I would end up spending most of my life with him.' She wiped a tear from her eye and held her face in her hand.

Reza rose and walked to the window. He pulled apart the curtains and unimpressed by the view, drew them back together. He turned and regarded her. Then he moved the chair from across the room and sat facing her. ‘May Allah have mercy on his soul.'

Binta looked up at him and smiled. ‘Ameen. Thank you.'

‘When did he die? I mean you never told me anything about him.'

She sighed. ‘He died in 2001. September 7
^th
, 2001. You know, that morning, I woke up to the smell of roaches and I knew something was not right. I always awake to the smell of roaches when something major is going to happen.' Binta paused and drew her legs closer to her body. ‘But you know, he was in a good mood
that morning. He had his bath and came to the room. He made a joke about how enormous my panties had become.' She chuckled again. Then she reached up and wiped the tears in her eyes.

‘You don't have to talk about it, you understand—'

‘It's ok. I haven't talked about it since it happened, you know.' She sniffled. ‘So, he came in and made jokes about the size of my butt and other things, you know. And then he sat down and listened to the radio. He talked about things he normally didn't talk about, made small jokes and things. Then he went out to his suya spot.

‘Later in the day, they said oh, they've started fighting in town, Muslims and Christians. And I was like, oh
maganan banza
! Such a thing had never happened in Jos, how can people start fighting just like that? But then it was true, it was the first of many riots. They found his corpse two days later at the Central Mosque among hundreds of others. You know, they collected all the corpses and took them there. He was butchered and his corpse was … torched.'

Reza put his hands to his face.

‘They said the boys who did it, they knew him. They bought suya from him every night; they called him by his name, as he called them by theirs. And they chopped up his corpse, there on the street, and pissed on it before they torched it.'

When she broke down and wept, Reza crossed over and put his arm around her. He sighed again. ‘May Allah rest his soul.'

‘The last thing I said to him that day when he was going out was, don't come back with that grilled meat smell on you.'

Reza had never had a woman weep in his arms. He had no idea what was expected of him so he just held her and allowed her cry.

When Binta had finished crying, she went to the bathroom and washed her face. She returned and tried to smile.

He knew he was supposed to say something comforting, but he could not find the right words. So he said what came to his mind. ‘You want to watch some TV?'

She smiled again, sat down next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I am so sorry.'

They watched a Nollywood movie they couldn't make head or tail of. When she got tired, she adjusted her scarf. ‘I suppose
I should go home now. Sorry, I have ruined the day with all this talking.'

‘Don't go, please.' He held her arms. ‘When is your daughter leaving?'

‘I really have no idea.'

‘Shouldn't you send her away, back to her husband?'

She sighed. ‘I have no idea what to do with Hureira.'

‘This hotel business is expensive, you understand. I can't see you every day, anytime I like.'

‘I know, Hassan. I will figure something out, I promise.' She smiled up at him. ‘So, have you decided on going back to school?'

He cleared his throat and moved away from her. ‘Not yet. There are things, you understand, things.'

‘What things?'

‘You know, things. Just things that need taking care of.'

She sighed and looked down at her hands now tucked between her thighs. He looked at her and stood up. He walked to the window, parted the curtains and looked out at the lawn where a sprinkler was turning around and raining down on the lush grass.

‘I thought this was important. That was why I had you registered.'