For the Wages of Love is Grief

Recall everything before the shrill intrusion of your mother’s phone. 

Recall the story your mother told you, the same one she has told a hundred times before. Recall how she told it—standing up, a smile growing on her face as the story neared its familiar end, her hands reaching backwards into memory, her voice inflected to hold your attention the way the scalp is oiled to hold its braid. Recall your laughter. Recall your mother’s laughter as she called you beautiful. Recall your laughter as she called herself beautiful too. 

Recall everything after your mother pressed her phone to her ear. 

Recall your mother’s sharp breath, how it filled her with a silence the weight of worlds. Recall her eyes growing vacant, like a candle extinguished by an errant wind. Recall how abruptly your laughter ended, how it echoed in the distance of lost moments.

—

At the airport, you become your mother’s mouth when her nods and gestures are not enough. 

Before your flight takes off, you speak in whispers to the man closest to the clouds to kindly give up his seat after your mother points through the window, at a piece of the sky, and stares. You watch her muted gratitude—hands pressed together with head bowed. After she seats, she tucks herself into the warmth of a blanket, and her hand remains on the window, a jewelled ring-finger reaching for clouds until the plane lands.

In Abuja, a red car is waiting for you, and your mother walks past it with eyes closed. You speak to the driver, translating your mother and making soft apologies. You leave the driver to catch up with her outside the airport. Outside, you see her figure at a distance, her head wrapped in a black scarf turns slowly from side to side as she watches several cars drive in and out of the parking lot. When you reach her, she searches your eyes for something you cannot tell. When she looks away from you and reaches for your hand, you feel her bloodless shiver run through your fingers as you lead her to a bench where you wait in the warm air. You feel her hand tighten around yours when a woman waiting outside meets another—who hugs her for what seems like forever, and they leave each other to hold hands only when laughter comes between them.

When he returns, the car is milk-white and gleaming. You place the little luggage you both have in the back seat and watch the black leather seat dimple at the edges of its weight. Away from the car, the driver is attempting to speak with your mother and finds himself running against a wall. She leaves her hand outstretched, till he yields the key to her palm. When she walks away from him, you slip him thousand naira notes for his trouble, a trip back home, and wave him goodbye. You offer to drive when she starts the car. She refuses. When the door clicks shut, the engine’s murmur fills the silence between you as she races towards your father.

In the silence, you begin to listen for your father’s voice. 

You hear a story he used to tell you when you were younger. He begins by running his thumb behind your ear, calling you na kyakkyawaa, “my beautiful one, let me tell you a story”. The story goes: a man from far away, fell into the arms of a woman, south of everything he knew and lost his way back. They called the fall sorcery. Called this tenderness the craft of witches. Called this longing for a woman whose children will have mouthfuls of a wrong language—madness. Called their love by all the names we give to dreams that continue with our eyes wide open. And when he stretched his hand to them, asking for their blessings, they forbade him and spat curses instead. The story goes: he remains in her arms today, their lips soaked in a forbidden joy. Their hands in the soil, planting a new garden to replace all the blooms that had disowned him. And they did not live happily ever after. Because for them, happiness didn’t ever wait until after, but was in every waking moment; and love endured into the night of their lives.

You hear him pronounce the final words as tears trail your face and sleep finds you; won si ba ra won kale. Won si ba ra won kale. You hear now, how this story was about your mother.

You are holding on to your father’s voice under the haze of sleep when noises from a car behind you storm the silence. The car hoots and hoots, but your mother remains unmoved. When the noise ends, you are relieved, then shocked, when he drives by you in a cracking flash. By the time he has overtaken you, your mother’s side mirror dangles against the body of the car like a broken neck. The car jolts forward in pursuit and your seatbelt tightens to hold you in place. You look beside you, through the woman driving in hot pursuit, in search of your mother. When you call her name, you imagine she grows even quieter. 

The black SUV ahead of you struggles to maintain its lead as she quickly catches up. When she catches up to him seconds later, she winds down the glass beside you and stares him dead in the eye. He returns her stare, briefly, only to drive even faster like a culprit fleeing consequence. You want to plead with her. You want to say enough, and hope that she hears you. You open your mouth to soothe her, but you have sped past all the words. 

Her left-hand holds the steering in place as her right-hand shifts the gear from D to 2, and you feel beneath you, the car roaring into agreement. Her right-hand returns to the steering and covers the one red-handed clocks rising across the dashboard like a warning. When she catches up to him a second time, your windows do not come down. She leans into him and pulls away when he leans back until she forces him into a pothole, breaking his pace. Before he recovers, she dashes ahead of him and breaks the car to a sudden halt. She makes the car into a roadblock, parking it perpendicularly and leaving the heaving engine running. 

You watch her open the boot and bury her head in search of something. When she slams the boot shut, you watch in the rear-view mirror, the man pressing his hands together in prayer, then raising them to his head when she balances a wheel spanner on her shoulder. You imagine the man is shouting, then pleading, when she splinters his windshield into rain. You watch his hands fall from his head to cover his mouth. You watch the afternoon glint off the silver of the wheel spanner as it rises and falls. You watch the sunshine in the many shards in his car. You watch his face drown, as she walks back to the car, in a flood of horror and light. You watch the rain fall below his eyes, and you cannot tell if it is remorse or fear or shame that raises his hand to wipe away each drizzle. 

You feel the wheel spanner thud in the boot before she opens the door and the afternoon warms its way briefly, into the car’s air conditioning. When she settles into the driver’s seat, the car shares your anxiety and dings until she fastens her seatbelt—sliding the metal tongue in place like an iron pacifier into a plastic crying mouth. The silence returns and fills all its former corners as she resumes driving towards your father.

—

In your father’s family home, you are greeted by a crowd you do not know.

You walk past the cars that cram the compound and find the door to the house wide open—people pouring in and out of its mouth quietly. You feel your mother let go of your hand and you turn to see behind you, a piece of the earth dug out, the size of a body, the depth of hunger. You reach for her hand again and lead her inside. 

Inside, you are greeted by a crowd you do not know. You find a circle of clerics chanting in Arabic at the pace of music. You watch prayer beads flow from their hands in repeated motions, as if fetching for forgiveness, or an answer, from a bottomless well. When you walk past the clerics, into the part of the living room where family members and friends are clustered in different groups, you feel the room stiffen at the sight of your mother. Only the women engulfed in clothes the colour of night, calling your father’s name in-between tears, do not pause to glare at your mother. You follow your mother’s eyes, to an end of the room, beyond the towering turbans of men with dark beards, and you see a man wrapped in quiet white, lying on an embroidered mat. 

You let go of your mother and watch her trudge towards your father.

When women you imagine to be your cousins walk up to you, with eyes gleaming through purdahs and faces cupped by hijabs, you reply their names with yours knowing you will forget them as soon as they turned away from you. When a man dressed in a blue caftan approaches you, they mutter their quick goodbyes and turn away. 

When he tells you he is sorry for your loss, you do not judge him for the emptiness of his condolences. You nod, returning his politeness. When he tells you he knows how you must feel, your astonishment chameleons into laughter. You look over his shoulder, at his parents, his siblings, untouched by loss, unmarked by the weight of feeding a body to the earth; and you walk away from him.

You catch a reflection of yourself in a small mosque-shaped mirror and you walk backwards to observe the image that returns your looks. You watch the droop in her shoulders, the small vein that pulses with ache on her forehead, the dryness of her mouth, the crack on her lip, the dim of her skin. She raises her arms slowly, until she is the anchor of her father’s memory, until the curtains behind her are parted and the afternoon pours in, rinsing a trinity of shadows out of her. In the shadows, you watch her mother, herself, and her father, begin and end. 

Behind her, your favourite cousin whispers a soft hey Azeezat. You watch her turn away from you to face him. You feel a smile grow on your face at the sight of him. 

“I am very happy to see you too,” he says. 

And you ask, “who said I am happy to see this one?” 

“Come here” he laughs, opening his arms. When he holds you, he whispers pele in your ear and you thank him.

You listen to him when he tells you how he watched you and your mother walk into the room. How he had spoken to your father about an hour before the call, listening to the many birthday presents he had coming from him. How he was there when a strange voice called his father from the scene of the accident. How his father had cursed and slammed his fist against a wall. How your father did not make it to them. How his father had dialled your mother and they both listened to the silence echo over the call. 

You laugh when he asks you if being born again means you get another birthday.

“How would I know?”

“I know right?”

“Ali. I know there is a reason all this happens so quickly, but why? Why must it all happen so quickly.” You ask.

“It won’t satisfy you, Azeezat, even if I tell you now.”

“What if I mistake this all for a nightmare.”

“Too much has happened in your absence. But I was there. And believe me, he was beautiful still. When they got him here, his wounds were still fresh, like a fruit bruised against asphalt. I watched them lay him on a mat as the men my father had called arrived. I thought of you when they began digging, and praying on his behalf for forgiveness, and boiling water to erase the marks blood had left on him. I thought of you when it got too much.”

“Please, go on” you choke back sobs “this is all I have left of him.” 

“No, it is not. You were spared by chance, accept the mercy.”

“Spared? Mercy?” You ask, as your eyes fall on your father’s body. Through the spotless sheets, you see his hands placed on his chest as if in eternal prayer. 

“Forgive my words.” He says, holding your hand. “It was too much.”

When a tear softens his face, you raise your hand to wipe it away, only to find his hand resting on your face, doing the same. 

In the distance, your mother is being addressed in whispers. The whispers break into hushed shouts when she refuses the hijab handed to her. You hear the words shouted at her. You hear them say men like your father do not die but are killed by women like your mother. Women whose mouths would not voice praises to any God. Women who were not made from the same earth as your father. Women whose language should not fit on your father’s tongue. Women whose knees never touched the earth under the weight of a prayer. Women who stole men away from everything they had known, only to return a body when they were done. 

When your mother kneels in silence before your father’s body, your aunts’ faces frown in disgust and they walk away from her. 

When you kneel next to your mother, Ali stands behind you. You lace her fingers with yours and watch sorrowed gratitude stream down her face. Minutes later, she unties her fingers and runs her hands along the length of his body, fingering the white cloth, hoping that the fabric would unfurl like a dream and this lie would end. 

—

The following afternoon, you are sharing memories with your cousin when he looks at his wristwatch. He sighs, then makes his way to the bathroom. He says Mosque when you ask where he is headed. He promises he will be back soon and you say you will go with him. He laughs at you and continues dressing up. 

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not.”

“Ehnehn. Why?”

“You’ve never been there. And even if you would come, you cannot follow me.” 

“Why?”

“You can’t pray next to me.”

“I can’t pray next to you?” you ask.

“You can’t.”

“Why?”

“It is considered immodest.”

“Immodest for who?” You laugh, raising an eyebrow.

“For you… I think. It is said to be distracting.”

“You are facing Mecca, and cannot keep your eyes on Allah.”

“…and it certainly does not help if you’re directly in front of us, with all that bending and prostrating. Your praying behind us is supposed to be practical.” He snickers as he draws air quotes.

“I don’t understand.”

“Honestly. Neither do I.”

“I will pray next to you.”

“You can’t.”

“I know what I must be.”

“Muslim?”

“A man.”

“What does that even mean? Do you even know how to pray? Or what a prayer is?” he asks with a voice quavering into disbelief. 

“I’ll watch.”

He is silent when he hands you his clipper and your hair falls in slow fountains of coconut-oiled tufts, the halo of your hair dimming into a smaller afro. He lays out a black jalabiya and pants for you, next to a tee-shirt you will later run a scissors through. When you unhook your bra behind you and take it off from under your blouse, his eyes follow this magic trick your fingers let go of. When his eyes return to you, you tell him now would be a good time for that modesty he spoke of, and he turns away from you laughing, with his hands covering his eyes as he begins to count mockingly. 

When he is on 152, you are done with your shower. You find him lying on the bed with eyes closed, and you smile as you run scissors through the tee-shirt and wrap its length around your breasts several times. When you are done and flat-chested, you wear the jalabiya and pants and tell him to open his eyes. He opens his eyes and pretends to look for you. You laugh. He gets up from the bed and stretches his hand to shake yours. 

“Pleasure to meet you Azeez.”

“Likewise.” 

—

At the end of a silent week, you prepare to return home. 

Ali drives you and your mother to a supermarket before you leave for your flight. During the drive, a flute solo plays and fills the car with wind. You feel your mother’s hand in your hair and her eyes rest on you the way they did on your father. You meet her eyes and you remember how she held you when you returned from the mosque. How in her warm silence, you were sure she knew how you had mirrored Ali. How you had performed your ablution slowly, cautious that the slenderness of your arms would betray you. How when you rose and fell next to Ali, you prayed for her silence to end.

At the supermarket, your mother walks slowly by the aisles, staring at each commodity as if listening to their pitch to be bought. Before she decides, she cradles the jar or wrapping or cellophane and runs her finger over the word new, like a wish. Her cart is nowhere near being full. In the silence, you can hear your mother’s want; her mental ticking through her shopping list, and you know she will want fruits next. You walk over to the fruit aisle and run your hands over the biggest watermelon. You lift it and feel its weight heave over your stomach. You turn around and do not find your mother. You peek at the next aisle and see her picking and listening to items. You slide into the aisle to surprise your mother. To let her know you can still hear her through all the words she has lost. 

When you open your eyes, you see a warning—bright as an afterthought—telling you the floors are wet. 

You struggle to your feet as you feel pain burn through your elbow and sides. As you stand to your hurting feet, you hear your mother scream. Her voice is hoarse from disuse, like a child crying for the first time, reminding the quiet of the room receiving her: I am alive, I am alive. She kneels next to the broken fruit and her hands tremble as she pieces its skin together. Her hands are soaked in the fruit’s blood and the dark seeds cling to her dress like pieces of asphalt. When you try to help her up, she shrugs you off, begging you to help her help your father.  

“Zeezee. He is bleeding. Please. Help me. He is bleeding. Call Ali to call the hospital. Please.” 

You reach for her, saying she needs to calm down. When she rises to her feet, she is heaving with rage. 

“My heart is bleeding and you are asking me to calm down. Why would you do this to your father?”

You respond that he is not your father and she strikes your face, breaking your sentence in your mouth. The supermarket falls quiet. Many pretend to be looking for something, with their hands wandering on the aisles, while their eyes roam between you, your mother, your glowing face and the blood around you. When your mother shouts I said call someone, my heart is bleeding; your hand strikes her face into stillness. You watch her clutch her face in disbelief. You watch the drool of open mouths. You hear the whispers of what the world has become. You feel the security men who had been standing-by earlier, hold you. 

You look your mother in the eye and soothe her, “he is gone Maami. He is gone.” 

You watch your words land on her softly, and she returns into her body. Her breath slows as she kneels and you watch her tears fall, cleansing the blood on her hands one drop at a time. You shrug the men off and kneel next to her. 

“Look at us. I’m so sorry. Look at us.” She mutters and dissolves into your shoulder. 

You remain knelt under the weight of her undoing and bear her grief, bear the wages of love, in full. Between you, the carcass of a bled watermelon lies and your hands run over it in caresses, with mouths professing love and longing in your father’s voice.