HOPE HAS

A PLACE

HABEEB KOLADE

(a short story)

To the soldiers who continue to fight gallantly for the safety of the country and their wives who ensure they do not

lose the war at home.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic,

mechnical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission ofHabeeb Kolade.

© HABEEB KOLADE 2015

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I

“The world is noisy”.

This yard is silent except for the transistor radio that sat on the woven cane stool a few feet away from the cane chair Jamal slouched. His hand hangs over the chair and a lit cigarette hung between two of his fingers, the other arm is wrapped in plaster. Laila watches Jamal mutter those words. He spoke only a few times since he returned from the war. Before him is a verandah that stretched into the sands and spread into the distance. The cane chair is now his home.

She turns tea from the jug into a tea cup. She pauses, stirs the tea and then adds a little more. She stops and places the jug beside the cup. The air is cold and there is a thin haze that spreads before the cottage that imitates the state of her union with Jamal. “16 more people died today, isn't that what the newscaster said?”

“It is”, she wishes her indifference would end the discussion.

But it doesn't.

"Over 60 people died in Mubi. I counted them one after the other but they reported 30. The bodies were mangled and begged to be recognized".

"It is done to suppress public panic, Jamal”

"There are too many echoes, too many deaths, everyone knows. Here and there, people are dying; killed by their fellow men, home and abroad. They say it here, these journalists bring the news home, and makes sure it stings your ears. When they don't, people go to find news themselves. You can no longer look away".

Laila goes to the radio and turns it off. She waits for a few seconds and casts a few pensive glances at her husband. He did not turn to look at her.

1

A gentle wind sways the rings of smoke that rose from the cigarette. His head is cleanly shaven and a thin beard that sparkles with a few white hairs running along his chin. He wore a white thawb which stops at his ankle. He is sunk into the chair and stared into the space before him like something there had caught his attention.

“We were not fit to go to war. We would have raised our voices, but we would be killed too. Better to die a martyr than a mutineer.”

He continues.

"You needed to see us. We fell like a pack of woods. Those insurgents had better weapons. They sliced through us. Laila, I was afraid. I felt betrayed by my country. The country I had fought to protect. They killed us, not the insurgents".

"I'm sorry, Jamal. You need to stay calm. We're at the mercy of God"

"No! We're at the mercy of our fellow men' Jamal replies sharply.

He continues.

"Those little kids, they are under a spell. Children love to play with toys not bombs. Imagine our daughter Hauwa with a bomb strapped to her chest. Noone in her senses would walk in the middle of the market, and blow up. I told Hamza, shoot the girl! Shoot the girl! He said no! The girl was too innocent. Words escape me. Laila... you should have seen the look in her eyes. Daniel must have had the same look when the lions in the den refused to eat him. I shot the girl, Laila; right through her chest... She cannot be more than seven ... I pulled the trigger and I did not feel whole again". He sobs.

"You did what you had to do, more people would have died". She heaves a sigh and leans against the wall. She knows what it is to lose a child. She had lost her first child, Ayesha a few years ago. She was five when she died of pneumonia. She had watched the air around her daughter grow cold and saw her breathe her last. She hated that she was very helpless. It was the first time she had seen Jamal cry like a baby. There was an affection that existed between them, that she, her mother, had begun to envy. She battles the tear that tries to creep into her eyes. She must be strong.

2

There is a little wave of silence. Laila is used to that silence. It used to be longer, creepier, and more terrifying. The ants made more noise than Jamal did. Today, he is more vocal. It gives her hope. She used to worship his voice; a mellifluous sultry baritone. But now it is broken, contrite, and bland.

"I hear many things. Some say it's the Kanuri fighting the Hausa for power; that the whole thing is a power tussle; that big men sponsor them; men who do not want to leave the helms of power; men who are not men enough to accept defeat. Power is an enchanting evil thing. It invites your ship to sail and then drowns you. Only the mentally strong know when to anchor. The fight has now escalated. People say a lot of things. Karya fure take bata yaya, we will know the truth one day. You don't just walk into a market and blow it up and say you are fighting for a cause. It's a market; your people can be there. If for any reason, why involve those poor innocent children?”

He takes a swipe at the cigarette stick to break off some ash. Laila has been trying to make him smoke less and she is making some slow progress. She worries that his mental health would continue in a downward spiral. She tries to change the discussion. "Do you want more tea? Maybe I should take you out this evening. We can go to the stadium to see a game. Shooting Stars will play Kano Pillars. Your friends will be there too. We can..."

"My friend is dead". He retorted sharply. "Hamza is still here. I can feel him. It makes the loss of his physical presence harder to bear. I can hear him calling my name".

He continues.

"He shouldn't have died. Maybe if we had better weapons we would have won. But that's nothing. I should have saved him. Laila, I ran for my life. How unselfish of me! I forgot him, Laila! He was my best friend. He would have saved me! I'm the cause of everything. I should die".

3

‘"You should take it easy on yourself. People die. You're not the only one who regrets what they've done" Laila retorted.

"Don't tell me to take it easy...yes, people die. We kill them, more from our inactions than our actions. I shot people. I remember their faces; some of them see the bullet coming. They shout! They want to run, but they can't. The bullet is no respecter of wishes; it catches up with them before they finish that thought. I killed them and the splinter of hope left in them".

He stops, sobs and drowns in penitence.

“Laila, I have nightmares. There is a cloud of blackness that hangs over me. I feel paralysed, trapped and unable to escape. I hear their voices, I can hear children cry, women groaning at the sight of their dead husbands, I can see them pointing fingers at me. I can see blood in their eyes. I see them asking why... why I shot, why I did not wait to help them, why I am on the front killing their people, why they had to die in this war they did not start... Save me, Laila, taimake ni!"

"You're hallucinating".

There was a hollow look in his face. He is overcome by tumolose snivels. Hajia Jumai said his mind is dead. The doctor said he was diagnosed of schizophrenia.

But she thought otherwise, Jamal's mind took great importance of every little thing. It was too sensitive, too alive. Jamal was brought back in the back of a pickup van. He had nearly lost his arm. She went to see him at the Military Hospital. When he was discharged, he was no longer deemed fit to fight. It was said that his mind was too weak; that he asked too many questions.

He was silent throughout their journey home. To help him heal, he was taken to the village where all he would hear are the bustles of leaves and the salient songs of returning winds. Today, he was beginning to pour out everything he held when he remained silent after he was first brought home.

4

On his face were scars made by shrapnels that grazed his skin. She feared that a few pieces may have found their way into his head and tampered with his brain. Or it was just the pain of betrayal or remorse that gradually reduced him to nothingness and made him gradually lose his mind.

Laila feels her heart break. She wants to run home to her father. Her strength was crumbling under the pressure. Why can't he be like her father? Baba Danladi was strong in the face of pain. He doesn't weep. When bad things happen, he would sit under the dogonyaro tree, chew some tobacco and stay silent till the night calls. The next morning, he would be back up, sauntering around and laughing hard like nothing happened.

Her mind weakens every moment, and she does not know how long, before she collapses. She fears that day she would no longer be able to hold, and run away, very far, out of her mind and every other thing that clouds her happiness. She fears that Jamal's depression would soon catch up with her too, and consume her the way it did to him. Jamal crumbled from the war and took refuge at home, where would she run when her war is in her home?

"Do you still find time to smile ...or think of beautiful petals? Do you still think of me? I miss you, Jamal. Hauwa has not seen you for months. I cannot bring her to you. She'd ask too many questions. She'd be broken if she sees you like this. You have to return to your senses. I'm losing you, Allah ya kawo sauki!”

The man she married had changed. There is no bravery in his eyes anymore, only sadness. He rode his past like a horse, and every detail of its forlorn yesterdays blew across his face, and he could feel intricately the sting of its anguish. Each evening, she sees him snap at the cane chair. He sees his life flashing back, leaving him as nothing more than a teary-eyed onlooker. Jamal's gentle smiles endeared him to her, but that smile is gone now. It is her duty to bring it back. It is a tacit oath she took for their love. However, she is beginning to give up on that possibility.

5

“You smell great, Laila. Your fragrance still tickles me. Please don't leave me. I am not sure if I would be fine if you stay, but I'm sure I won't, if you go. You're that thing- I am privileged to have- that I can't live without. Ina madaicin ki"

She lowers her gaze, timid but still angry. A drop of tear runs down her face.

II

Laila places the basket of cloths at the feet of the bed. She begins to sort out the clothes to be ironed and those she only needed to fold. A stipel pendant necklace hangs down her neck and her scarf drops over an embellished black abaya. The room is largely lit. There is a large bed at the centre of this room. Hajia Jumai sat at the edge of the bed applying kohl on her eyelids. Her gaze is fixed on the mirror.

“More people are dying, Hajia” Laila could feel a tear in her eye.

"It is sad, isn't it? I wish we could do something", said Hajia Jumai. She only pauses to reply. She is back tendering to her eyelids.

"If only something had been done when all these started; but we were silent until what raged in our backyard enter our rooms. Hajia, that silence is what is hurting us. Hakin daka raina shi kan tsole maka ido. What we ignored yesterday is hurting our future. People were saying awusubillai when we told them that the forest fire, when left with nothing to eat would visit our homes".

"Those who had no idea why the war started are suffering for it. You know Danladi, poor little boy; young, docile. He sat there on a wall in a world of his own when a bullet came to knock him off the wall. He had a bright future. Such an untimely death" Hajia mentioned.

She shakes her head in pity and then resumes batting her eyelid.

6

"How do you know it is untimely? Do you know when he should have died", Laila replied.

"It doesn't matter. Death at a ripe old age, on a bed with the last wishes singing in your mouth is the only timely death”.

"No, I don't think so. Hamza said once when we went to the stadium; that a man's life is unlike a football game. Most matches don't end at 90 minutes. He thinks it's more like boxing or tennis. Some finish in quick time, others take an hour or more. Everyone's game is different.”

"It is no reason why people should be shot or blown into pieces. God hates people who kill other people. They are doomed for eternal damnation, ba su gani ba?”

A wave of silence sweeps into the room until Hajia Jumai breaks it.

"Do you miss Jamal taking you to the games at Sani Abacha Stadium?"

"I miss everything. I don't know if he still thinks of me. His mind seems to drift away very quickly. Hajia, I'm crumbling inside. How I miss the comfort of this house".

"I think about Rekia, Hamza's wife. I was with her when they brought the news; that her husband had been killed in the war; that his mangled body will be buried and she could choose to come. I saw her drop to the floor. I saw her drown in her own tears. Even when we know our husbands go out to face death every day in those uniforms, their deaths still come as a shocking reality. Isn't that a paradox? There's still a part of us, hoping that it is not true. That our men would walk through the door, with outstretched arms and a storied past..."

“You are a strong woman, Laila. Allah hakuri”

"I don't want to be strong, I want to be tender. I want to feel the strength of my man around me, every time. I want to throw pillows and chortle at his jokes. I want to cry and have him kiss my tears away. I want to be a girl, a fair young silly subtle girl".

7

She weeps silently.

“Here's Jamal, half the man he was when he left. Sometimes, he even forgets my name”. She sinks into the floor, supporting her weight with her palms on the ground, whimpering.

Hajia Jumai walks over to her. She wraps her arms around her,

"Ruwa ba ta tsami banza; when we hit the lowest grounds, there is only a way up. Jamal is home now... Hope has a place".

Habeeb Kolade Writer, Entrepreneur, Engineer#EveryoneHasAStoryToTell

Twitter: @Habeeb_XFacebook: Habeeb Professorr X KoladeInstagram: @habeebkoladeLinkedIn: Habeeb Kolade

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