RAINA KAMA Complete Document Written By Billyn Abdul
Description
*Cigar gripped between my fingers*, I was drawn to the commotion emanating from the house. Filled with sorrow, I stirred from my slumber in the early morning, only to be drawn back in. Our household stood apart from others; the stories of my son Sani had spread throughout my life. Ours was like a community market, where women, girls, and children seemed to see through one another’s thoughts, vowing we would emerge united.
Safara’u’s mother’s cries pierced the air, followed by the sound of Haleema’s voice. There was no doubt that Sadeequ’s children were embroiled in some dispute, with their conflicts spilling into our midst.
Facing me, eyes wide open, I asked, “Is it true that our trials are upon us today?” Struggling to rise from bed, Munubiya was up and tending to her chores, occasionally glancing at me. She then collapsed onto the bed, her body wracked with pitiful sobs. This confirmed that we were under siege for an extended period. Frustration surging within me, I forced myself off the bed towards the exit door, harboring no regrets for confronting our mother or for my repeated visits amidst such circumstances. After just two steps, I was seized. It was clear trouble awaited me, and I knew it was Munubiya.
“Why don’t you let go before I unleash my anger upon you all? Today, I’m determined to turn every girl in this house into a disgraceful spectacle…”
Before I could finish, Munubiya swiftly covered my mouth with her hand.
The kitchen was empty, the pale little boy long gone. Shameful words Safara’u had hurled at our mother in the courtyard hung heavy in my heart. Unbeknownst to me, Munubiya had been observing me, and I hadn’t managed to escape her gaze.
My departure went unnoticed, except for the sound of Safara’u’s shrieks directed at her fair face.
Afterward, silence enveloped the house briefly, only to be shattered by cacophonous arguments.
The little father’s shout halted everyone, drawing a temporary halt between me and them. The women of the house begrudgingly retreated from the scene upon his reprimand, “Don’t approach that area!”
The house fell quiet, yet it buzzed with an undercurrent of noise, akin to a festivity or celebration.
Abu’s wife wasn’t a stranger in our neighborhood; her son was around our age. In this house, there was rarely a moment for conversation, but now silence reigned. Soon enough, disputes, especially among the children, would arise. Despite the women’s best efforts to prevent such tensions, they’d become as frequent as drinking water in our household.
The little father began speaking, sounding as if he was about to request a loan. Moving in and out, everyone remained hushed, lending an ear. He reached a breaking point, turned, and walked out, instructing, “Fetch Safara’u for me.”
In the kitchen, Aunt had brought everything to prepare breakfast. She remained silent throughout their conversation.
From Baba Jafaru’s living room, I discerned the source of the argument—a heated exchange between Safara’u’s mother and Alhaji. “Alhaji, why do you meddle between me and the other two women in this house? If I approach any woman I want in this house, they leave her alone. Is Sadeequ’s son the only option for marriage? I wonder who my father is, and…”
Hanu swiftly raised his hand to silence her, saying, “Calm down, Suwaiba Nifa. That wasn’t the sound I heard. I want to know who caused the commotion.”
Her fury checked, she paused and then responded indignantly, “It’s Alhaji, about the Sadeequ children. Everyone knows that Safara’u is courting the neighborhood. Yet yesterday evening, he sent for Munaya. May God reveal their secrets, because apart from Aiken’s son, no one ever visited him. They talked and laughed in the courtyard, but no one said a word. Our son isn’t Sadeeq d’in Safara’u. In the early evening, Safara’u returned in tears. I questioned her, and she admitted to seeing Sadeeq in Malam Halilu’s living room, chatting and laughing. She was profoundly affected. I believed her words and sent Rahma’s gaze to verify. Rahma overheard Sadeeq saying he won’t marry Safara’u. These words have haunted me since. Alhaji could hardly sleep with Safara’u yesterday.”
“Hmm,” I murmured, shaking my head, suspecting the words had been distorted.
Babak’arami gazed at me and asked, “Was it Munubiya or Munaya?” (They often confused our names due to their similar sound.)
Filled with sorrow, I replied, “It was Baba, Munaya.”
“Mrs. Munaya, where is your sister?”
“She’s pregnant, Dad.”
And thus, the story continued.
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