The Juju Lady Next Door (Completed)

3. Bitter Trial

“A woman is like a teabag, you never know how strong she is until she’s dropped into hot water.”                              - Eleanor Roosevelt.                           

Monday, May 31st, 2004

     "Meena Lawal!" I called out as I entered the tailoring shop where I worked.

     "Welcome Aunty," Salome, one of our apprentices, greeted, her tweety voice rising above the whirring sewing machine before her. I nodded and glanced at Meena's empty seat. 

     I reached my spot, sheltered from the harsh sun rays streaming through the window, dropped my bag on the wooden stool and bent under the machine to pick my cleaning rag.

     "Aunty, I have cleaned it already." Salome said, her face as round as the circles adorning the Ankara fabric she was working on.  I sat up and shot her a grateful smile. 

     Just then, Meena's voice floated in through the open double doors. I took three steps to the makeshift wardrobe at the end of the shop to check for the wrappers I was supposed to work on.

     "Hey Sa—" I heard her from behind me, then she paused. After I found the wrapper, I turned around and my eyes clashed with her gaping brown orbs.

     Ahe was dressed in a black gown, topped with a suit jacket that was—as usual—big enough to hide her broad shoulders and wide hips. I wondered how she was able to dress and walk under the fiery sun outside. But then I knew she hated exposing her body, especially those thick arms of hers.

     She puckered her thin lips and released a loud hiss, “See this one o, so na now you remember say I dey exist abi–Is it now you remembered my existence?” She sauntered into the shop, her flat slippers sweeping the fabric pieces littered on the smooth cemented floor.

     “See me see giant wife o.” I fired back, watching her eyes turn to slits, “You no even happy say I come sef, if not na only you for dey here–You should be happy I came, if not, only you would remain here.”

     I plopped down on my stool and searched for my needle and thread in the small compartment attached to the machine.

     “Mtcheww, silly monkey.” She took her seat, took off her veil and patted the white skull cap on her head.“So because your guy is back now, that’s why you decided to add one week to your break abi? Whose permission did you go sef?" She glared at me.

     I shrugged, "shebi I'm back." I leaned forward to put in my thread.

     "I missed you sha." She said.

      I smiled. "Me I didn't miss you o, it was because of my customers that I came back. If not…" I turned the hand wheel as my legs moved back and forth. 

     Madam Fadi's Fashion House was originally owned by Meena’s mother who was a well known tailor in Navy town where she had her first shop. Meena and I met a few weeks after I came to Lagos: I was browsing through the market for a good tailor shop where I could work, as Isma’il was a workaholic and I was tired of staying at home by myself all day.

     We weren’t friends at first because she used to mock my Hausa accent, but getting to know her was the highlight of my stay in Lagos, and part of the reason why I had refused to go back home when Isma’il travelled out. We spent so much time together: going places, visiting people and exploring other shops for new ideas. 

•••

     Later, as soon as I got home, I got a call from Kano that shook me greatly. “Innalillahi wa Inna ilaihi raji’un–From God we come, and to Him we shall return.” I chanted, placing a hand over my mouth.

     “Ya rasu?” I asked my sister, Walida, who called to inform me about our brother-in-law's death.

     “Ae wallahi, this morning immediately after Subhi prayer.”

     “My God!” I cried out, my heart wrenched and reached out to my elder sister Hauwa (mamy), who had witnessed nothing but bitter trials since her marriage to uncle Auwal Sabo, a lecturer in Bayero university Kano. 

    After seven years of marriage without a child, uncle Auwal's people started complaining. So his mother began to pressure him to take another wife as he was already approaching his early forties.

     He blatantly refused, but due to aunty Mamy’s encouragement and undying trust in him, he agreed and married Sabrina, his cousin.

     Nobody knew the coming of young, quiet and docile Sabrina would lead to the forceful exit of dear aunty Mamy.

     It turned out that Sabrina was not at all who she seemed: from little bickering to unending arguments triggered by her disobedience and dubiousness towards aunty Mamy, the Sabo household became a battleground.

     A tug of war between both families ensued as a result of Sabrina's miscarriage, due to her fall from the stairs after taking a cup of kunun gyada (groundnut gruel) from aunt Mamy.

     This gave Sabrina's people more advantage in dragging the rope, consequently bringing  our family to the ground and on their knees. After numerous family meetings and endless attempts at compensation. Sabrina’s people, especially Auwal’s mother, drew a line that Auwal divorces aunt Mamy, until Sabrina gets better. 

     With his head down and heart heavy, he obeyed, not knowing that aunt Mamy was pregnant. She wasn't even aware of it until she visited the hospital for a medical checkup, mistaking her pregnancy symptoms as signs of stress and depression.

     Alas, her pregnancy saved her, but not for long, as Sabrina sought revenge by using Juju to kill Aunty Mamy’s unborn child: a black stone was discovered in place of the baby when she was about to deliver. 

     Aunty Mamy’s bitterness knew no depth as she sought for justice. But it seemed the justice would be served in the afterlife because two days later, Sabrina died in her sleep.

     Everything went back to normal as God compensated aunty Mamy with another child in less than a year: a baby girl Aliyah, a boy, Dawud, the next year, then the last born, Sakina. 

     But calamity seemed to be on rampage once again. This time, taking Kawu Auwal Sabo away. 

     “May his soul rest in perfect peace.” I whispered as tears ran down my face, not knowing that my own bitter trial was coming, very soon.

A/N

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