RABIAT'S DIARY

I get through to her minutes later.

We talk about Samson and his sister, then I ask Aminu, her husband.

"Oh, he said I should tell you he has found another husband for you," she informs me jokingly.

"Really?" "Oh, just joking! But he

I get through to her minutes later. We talk about Samson and his sister, then I ask Aminu, her husband.

"Oh, he said I should tell you he has found another husband for you," she informs me jokingly.

"Really?" "Oh, just joking! But he says if you don't pick one by the end of this month, you should be forced back to Mohammed. It's better than staying idle and unmarried."

I trust Aminu to take life so seriously. I can see how people think of divorce, how they perceive it. Divorcing means irresponsibility, and that means a failure one shouldn't endure.

I can see exactly how the situation of my divorce appears to people.

My father tells me I could go back to my former marriage if I wished to. Mother says I should give it a try again because of Aisha.

Other people tell me that the devil I know is better than the one I don't know.

One question stands out, though how sure are people that I indeed know the devil they are talking about?

It's been almost a year since my divorce but what do people do about it? They talk, they blame, they pester, I feel like running away somewhere I can be myself and have a life not of force or pretence, but a life I could live, not merely exist.

What a life!

I used to go to see a friend of mine. After she and her husband disagreed, unpleasant consequences followed. What happened after that? They would say I instigated her. They transferred their troubles

to me. Why?

I wasn't the one that made Bebi speak back to him in the way she did. Just because I am a harmless creature wearing the unmarried label, I am blamed. Poor single people!

        AUGUST 3

A whole fortnight has passed. I had not once opened these pages of my diary. Yesterday was all confusion. Must I write? I must. Anything is better than thinking.

Mohammed and his friend had come to see father. Mama is called to the sitting room afterwards. She comes back to tell me the meeting was all about after they had gone. We are sitting in the parlour- the three of us: mother, my sister, and I have been silently watching a Hausa home video on the television. "Rabiat, I have something to tell you," mother says, not looking at me. My sister, who has been sitting opposite us, rises suddenly without a word and leaves the room. "I don't pretend to understand you. I never had," starts mother. "All the same," she continues, "I have realized that going back to Mohammed's house would be one of the last chances you should give to this marriage." "But mother...."

"I know, I know, but your father has accepted Mohammed's apology and has considered your auntie Hajara's letter about your having to go back to your matrimonial home and give it another chance."

... If only I had ran, if only I had ran away. I am thinking. I had anticipated neither my mother's interest in the whole issue nor my father's insistence that I give the marriage a try.

For a moment I am so distressed to put straight my defences and, besides, I wouldn't want to hurt my parents.

I am very fond of them.