Our Fates: Book III of the Fate Trilogy

Twenty: I Look Forward to Meeting Her

Aisha Kabiru

“Haba Indo,” Mama says, standing outside my room. I ignore her and continue rubbing  powder on my face. Why is she overreacting? It’s just an ordinary naming ceremony. I hiss.

I pick my hand mirror from the bed and turn my face from side to side to make sure my head wrap is set.

“Indo!” Mama bellows, her hijab clad head peeking into my room.

I turn to her, “Ina zuwa mana.” I say, hissing again.

“You know they’ll expect us to come on time since we live close.” She says.

I roll my eyes, “So that we’ll work for them, ko?”

She shakes her head. “If there’s work to do,” she shrugs.

Chab, God forbid. I look down at my baby blue abaya, streaked with small crystals. It’s heavy but so worth it. Anna Sabuwa will go blind today.

Unfortunately, Alhaji’s driver isn’t coming today. He had to take the car to the mechanic, and we couldn’t wait. Nevertheless, I’ll still give them something to look at.

We arrive at Anna Sabuwa’s house, with its ugly cracked wall and roof sheet door that’s ripped in half. I hold my breath as we enter the narrow hallway stinking of smoke. I take out a soft hanky from my fur bag and cover my nose.

We enter the large compound, which I’ve always admired because of the many trees creating a shade from the hallway to the main house. But now they’ve been cut down, making space for the some women seated on mats, two plucking vegetables, three sorting through two large trays of rice, and others just gisting and clapping and laughing. The small kitchen at the far corner is empty, as three large aluminum pots are set outside on blazing woods.

I smile. I’ve missed events like these. Soon, we join some women on the mats close to the front door. I lift my abaya and bend down to greet them, from aunties to cousins to relatives that know me by name but I only know them by face. Still, I smile my way into the living room where more women are seated with two rolling a mountain of chin-chin dough.

“Aisha, ke ce wannan? Is that you?” Some ask.

“Kin yi kyau fa, sekace ba bazawara ba! You look good, as if you’re not a divorcee!” Some praise.

“Ko kin samu wani mijinne? Have you gotten another husband?” Some poke.

In the bedroom, Adda Rabi’s elder sister, my only friend in their family, Juwairiyyah (Adda Riri), is seated on the bed, looking glittery in a green lace that looks too big with her painted like a clown.

Is it by force?

 Beside her is an empty baby mattress, and of course, there’re other ladies, also well-dressed around her. A Hausa song plays from somewhere on the large wardrobe across from the bed.

I move closer, smiling, “Adda Riri!” I shout.

“A’i duniya!” She replies, throwing her hands in the air. “Toh, kowa ya fita. Adda babba ta zo. Everyone should leave. The big aunty has arrived.” Soon, I’m on the bed, holding her beautiful hennaed hands and catching up on everything I’ve missed. Even though she’s older than me, Adda Riri (Nana) never treated me like a small girl. She’s nice, way smarter than she seems, and funny. Unfortunately, she only finished secondary school before going into handmade bedsheet and soap business, which is still flourishing.

“Kai!” I shout. Adda Riri pinches me to keep quiet. I close my mouth but my eyes remain wide in disbelief. “Kice Allah.” I say.

Adda Riri smiles sadly and shakes her head. “Wallahi.”