Chapter Twelve

            Before Going Back Home That day, Fatiha made sure her mother had already gone to bed. After her conversation with her auntie all she'd wanted to do as soon as she got home was lie in bed and sleep forever. But she couldn't. She was cornered by her youngest sister the instant she said her salaams and stepped her feet inside the parlor. Maybe it was the prospect of her finally getting married, but Nafeesah had pulled her into the room she shared with Zarah before she'd bombarded her with queries upon queries.

"So, did you like him? Did he like you? Are we going to be singing your wedding song soon? Oh, I can't wait!" Nafeesah had chirped and Zarah who had been applying henna on her fingernails looked around like she'd missed out on something important.

Madinah who had only followed the entourage had stayed by the door, her arms crossed and her expression phlegmatic. The impassive mask she'd wore only fell when Fatiha announced to the girls that her wedding song was still a long time coming. Madinah's hands had faltered a bit and her mouth had opened slightly with disbelief.

Nafeesah and Zarah had exchanged looks in tandem as Madinah strutted out of the room.

"Mommy won't like that answer," Nafeesah had muttered, her earlier effervescence vanishing like smoke. Zarah on the other hand had said nothing, but there has been a worried look on her face.

Fatiha hadn't responded to either of her sisters concerns, instead she had dragged her fatigued self down to her room and then to the enjoined bathroom where she had taken her bath. When she came back out, flushed from scrubbing and renewed with vigor, she knew Madinah had been in her room.

Hesitantly, she walked over to her dresser and sat down. The tips of her braided hair dropping water on her bare shoulders and neck. On top the secondhand wooden dresser was the set of lipsticks she'd given to Madinah as a bribe for going out with her that day.

Fatiha fingered the cover of one of the silver cased tint in the small lilac pouch they sat in, all five pieces intact. She had bought the set a few months ago because she'd loved their colours and figured it'd look aesthetically pretty with her products when she took snapshots of them for her business page. She hadn't used it ever since and figured Madinah would make much better use of them.

Taking to her feet, she tossed the face towel in her hand on her bed, grabbed the pouch and left for her sister's room. The light spilling out from her open doorway was the only source of illumination granted to her as she marched with determination down the darkened hallway and up to her sister's room.

Fatiha knocked once when she got to Madinah's door, and then stepped in without waiting for permission.

Donned in her favorite boy shorts and a tank top, a startled Madinah sprang up in her bed in alarm before she eyed the intruder. Her dark skin glowed under the streak of moonlight flittering into her room through the open window. The black and silver curtains which had been pushed to either sides of the large windows, fluttered side to side from the breeze the standing fan in the room circulated.

Madinah's face which was devoid of make up shone even in the dimness of her room thanks to the effort she put into her skincare routine. Crease lines appeared between her brows as she scowled at her sister. "I never said you could come in." She hissed.

Without saying a word, Fatiha trudged barefooted to the antique table situated by the window in the room, her maxi sleeping gown billowing under the volume of the fan rotating behind her. She dropped the pouch on the white wooden table, a simple table top she'd stitched years ago placed over the table.

Fatiha looked away from it and up to her sister. "I gave it to you, so you should take it." She pointed to the set of lipsticks she came to return.

Rolling her eyes, the dark skinned lady fell back on the pillows she'd stacked underneath her, and pressed play on the YouTube video she had been watching. "I don't need it," she grunted.

"Well," Fatiha began as she walked to the door. "Neither do I. Goodnight." She was out of there and in her room before her sister could protest.

Climbing into bed, Fatiha flicked off her light switch and stared at the consuming darkness of her ceiling as she prayed for sleep to come. Her mind was preoccupied but she didn't want to think. It took her several weary turns, a glass of water and her playing the recitation of the Holy Quran to push those thoughts aside and finally fall asleep.

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          Sundays Were Meant To be a special one day vacation for Professor Hassan Dahiru. On Saturdays he went to the Federal Polytechnic Nasarawa where he taught Business Management to handle whatever leftover workload he had, and on Sundays, he spent his time reading, sleeping or treating one of his girls to street food.

This Sunday however was not in sync with his plans. His wife had grumbled words to him that he had listened to halfheartedly the night before, and as a result, she had refused to wake him up for Fajr prayer. The mid sixties man with a full head of thick hair had only been able to get up thanks to his third daughter who had woken him up, although he'd missed the first rakat of the congregational prayer.

Rather than going back home where he knew trouble brewed between his wife and eldest daughter, Hassan Dahiru had taken a turn and headed straight for his friend, Alhaji Dawud Garba's house after his nawafil prayers, where they spent their morning reading the newspaper and like the old men they were, discussed the derailing economy and security issues of their country.

"If only I had a male child, we would have formed a barricade against the women." Hassan began once they had gobbled down the kunu gyda and kosai his friend's daughter-in-law, Zaynab, had served them. "I'm glad to have the girls, proud sef, but as a man I am outnumbered."

His already graying haired friend laughed at him. "Women are treasures, Hassan. You will have good son-in-laws, insha Allah. Do not worry yourself." He reassured.

Hassan spat out particles of the miswak he was chewing on to the ground, then used his feet to cover the spittle with sand. "Do not let Rashidah hear you or I will be the one to blame." He said, referring to his wife. "As far as she's concerned, I'm responsible for not forcing the girls to marry." He turned to his friend and pointed the chewing stick in the air. "I swear if they were all boys, she would have forced them to get married just as she's forcing them now as girls. What is the big deal? They can marry when they are ready, as long as they are not involving in haram acts or committing zina."

Hassan Dahiru knew it was a big deal, after all he was an educated man. But the thought of walking through his house one day and calling out to his precious little women and hearing silence in return terrified him.

"My friend," Alhaji Dawud placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, jerking him out of his reverie. "Do not let my wife hear you, or have you forgotten they go to the same Sunday meetings?" He warned and they laughed.

The topic of marriage and their wives antics to get their children married ended there. Hassan Dahiru spent his entire morning in the company of his friend, only biding the political critic farewell after zhur prayers.

He was seated in one of the joint that sold his favorite gurasa when he decided to call one of his daughters to join him. He scrolled down to his second daughter's contact but decided against it. She was just as hot tempered as her mother, and after spending all those time abroad, she had began to avoid public outings with him. He taught of calling his last born, Nafeesah but remembered she would be studying for her exams. Zarah, his third born would be busy holding the house while trying to maintain its tranquility. So his last option was his first daughter.

He scrolled back up and dialed the desired contact. The number was unreachable. Hassan Dahiru tried again but the result remained the same. She had probably turned her phone off or put it in flight mode, he reasoned and then gave up.

He scrolled back down and dialed his second daughter's number. Holding his breath, he waited as the phone rang.  She picked up after the second ring. "Sir?"

"Do you want to eat gurasa?" The professor asked at once with a whoosh of breath since he knew his second born hated dilly-dallies.

The line stayed silent for a while before an answer floated into his ear. "No, thank you. Should I call Nafee?"

The tall, dark man who was dressed in a black jalabiya and was broad shouldered for his age shook his head, then realized he couldn't be seen. "No, don't worry." He answered before hanging up. As much as he knew the baby of the house would come running, he didn't want to disturb her studies.

A heavy weight pressed menacingly onto Hassan Dahiru's chest. It promised a bittersweet future he wouldn't be able to escape once his daughters began showing interest in marriage. And for the first time in fifteen years after he'd began the tradition with his daughters, he eat alone at his favorite spot.

——————

        Fatiha Woke Up with a headache that Sunday morning. She'd groggily forced herself out of the bed as Zarah knocked one more time on her door.

"I'm up. I'm up." She had called out languidly as she went to her bathroom to brush her teeth and perform wudu.

After performing her Fajr prayers that day, Fatiha had taken her time to make du'a and perform two rakats of obligatory prayers, shameful of the fact that she had been skipping it recently. She read a few verses of Surahtul Baqarah after her nawafil prayers before going back to sleep. She was awoken by Zarah again at thirty minutes past eleven. 

A little lightheaded but better than before, Fatiha had taken her bath and was dressed up in a simple tangerine sundress with the hope that the color would uplift her mood. The sleeves were a fluxive essence of sunshine that brought an appreciative smile onto her face. The bodice of the dress was trimmed with an intricate white lace, while the full skirt swirled around Fatiha's waist down in ripples. It pleased her so much!

During her late teen years, Fatiha had decided what her wardrobe would consist of: modest, chic, and non-leering clothes. Of course her dresses were considered to be grandma dresses by her mother, but she considered them comfortable and fashionable and just her style. 

Glancing once more at her reflection in her full-length mirror, Fatiha satisfied with her look began to exit her room when her phone vibrated on the bed where she'd left it. She rushed to it—almost tripping on the hem of her gown—with her heart thudding in her chest as she hoped and prayed it was Faisal finally reaching out to her after so long.

It wasn't.

The text was from Basmah asking if she could come over to spend the day. Fatiha unlocked her phone to type back a reply. After exchanging a few more words with her friend, she dropped the phone back on the bed then decided to just switch it off.

Plucking a white bead encrusted satin scarf from her wardrobe, Fatiha fashioned it loosely around her head, selected the carefully worn out copy of Nora Roberts' Taming Natasha, and then went outside for a late breakfast. She sniffed the air around her appreciatively as the scent of the spicy and woody turanre wuta she'd gotten from Noor filled the entire house.

Fatiha greeted Nafeesah who she met at the dining table reading with a cheerful wave. Her mother had gone out for her Sunday meetings and because she would also be going out for to visit her friends, she wouldn't be back for hours.

Walking out to the compound, Fatiha squinted her eyes up at the bright blue sky, where fluffy white clouds and sparrows glided across the vastness. The weather although hot felt absolutely wonderful. She went back in and met Zarah in the kitchen prepping up for lunch. Madinah on the other hand was nowhere to be seen.

Fatiha hummed as she skipped around the house, grateful for a peaceful day–albeit only temporary. She wasn't psychic, but she was well aware of the threat that loomed ahead. However, she was going to savor up whatever goodness she could get until her mother came back from her meetings.

Basmah came over at around past twelve in a big brown hijab. Her face lacked its usual vibrancy and there were bags underneath her deep dark eyes. Her appearance was an entirely different one from the last time Fatiha had met her. In fact, from any other time, Fatiha thought and it was quite unsettling.

Tugging on her hand, Fatiha ushered her friend to her room before asking, "What's wrong? Are you okay?" She pressed the back of her hand to her friend's forehead. It was... hot.

Because she wasn't a fan of displaying or accepting intimate affections, Basmah moved away from Fatiha's searching hand. "I'm fine, nothing's wrong." She said in a voice so weak Fatiha was slightly taken aback.

Something was definitely not right. "Bas–" Fatiha began, but she was cut off.

"Fatiha," Basmah called, her usually animated and brash voice loaded with weariness as she took a seat on the made bed. "It's just my aunties and dad, they want me to come home."

Fatiha pursed her lips at the announcement. She knew about Basmah's aunties. They were the worst, but not as worse as the man who had walked out of his five year old daughter's life and left her fatherless. Fatiha knew how Basmah's dad unapologetically milked off of her. She knew about how exhausting it left her friend to deal with a jobless drunk of a father, a shameless bunch of aunties, and an unsupportive woman for a mother. She knew how hard it was for her friend, but Fatiha had never seen her friend this depressed about it before. She looked defeated; almost broken. The Basmah she knew wouldn't have taken things quietly, unless it was something she couldn't do anything about. What was going on?

"Basmah," Fatiha called tentatively as she settled down next to her friend. "You know you can tell me what happened, right?" she asked but her friend just looked back at her with blank eyes.

There seemed to be a war going on behind those eyes; between body and mind. Basmah's body won. She took off her hijab, climbed back into Fatiha's bed and coiled her six foot two inches self into a ball, her face to the wall.

"I'm tired, Tia." Basmah's voice, so small and so unlike hers reached out. "I haven't been able to sleep since Friday. Just let me sleep and then we'll talk."

Fair enough, Fatiha thought as she threw a quick glance upwards to her wall clock. There was just a few more minutes until the adhan for zhur prayer was called, so she stood up, thankful there was light and switched her fan to its fullest. She pulled her curtains apart and folded Basmah's discarded hijab. "Okay," she agreed in a whisper. She could wait just a few more minutes. "I'll wake you up for zhur."

There was no answer, so she concluded that her friend had fallen asleep. In a spur of the moment's decision, Fatiha settled down on her reading chair and pulled out a basket filled with varieties of yarns from underneath the table. She pulled out the unfinished royal blue baby duvet she had been making for a customer along with her crochet pin and got to work, all the while trying not to feel agitated about what was happening with her friend.

Fatiha failed. She had succeeded in adding four more rows to the piece when her mind wandered back to the woman lying in her bed. She had tried waking her up for zhur, but Basmsh had shunned her off. She had been sleeping for hours. A glance at the clock showed that asr was due soon. Fatiha peeked over her shoulder at her friend's still form as her mind revved with thoughts. She couldn't think of anything else Basmah's family could do to her that could cause such distress to befall her.

Lost in her thought, Fatiha hadn't noticed when Basmah turned over on her side in bed and was looking directly at her.

"Fatiha?"

The sudden sound of Basmah's voice startled Fatiha out of her mind. "You're awake!" she shrieked.

"Not really," Basmah countered. "Can I get some diclofenac and a pad?"

Fatiha almost asked what the drug was for, but stopped herself just in time. "Sure." She nodded a bit reluctantly. Basmah never used painkillers. She was all for Team Hot Ginger Tea. She had even helped Noor compile a blog post a few years back on how to deal with menstrual cramps.

"I have some Lady Care somewhere here, but I'll have to go buy the medicine. Mine is finished." She informed her friend as she stood up from her place.

Basmah smiled gratefully at her, muttered her thanks, then turned back to face the wall.

Securing her veil around her head, Fatiha silently stepped out of her room with her brows knitted. She looked back at the door leading to her room like she had x-ray vision and could see the lady sleeping in there. With a resigned sigh, she walked away. Something was definitely going on, but what it was she didn't know.

As she stepped out of her house for the first time that day, Fatiha decided waiting an extra minute was not so bad, but afterwards, she was forcing an explanation out of her friend.

***
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