RABIAT'S DIARY

Mohammed comes back later than usual in the evening, but not until I prepare my defence, in case he decides to vent his anger on me.

"I hope everything is okay with you.

I greet him, and he doesn't answer properly.

But he speaks immediately.

"I trust you won t ask that woman here again. I refuse to let my wife associate herself with woman like that.

One who believes men are not important.

She is not a fit company for a wife of mine. She could introduce you to the wrong idea and the wrong people.

I want to tell him that I am his wife and other men are less important to me, but I keep quiet.

He doesn't deserve such an explanation anyway, I think.

"I had wanted to have a friend who could understand that I need to develop myself.

When we met this afternoon we got talking, so she had asked me to do some design and sketches for her aunty' s tailoring shop and get paid for it" "About what?" "About colour combination and designs." "I can permit that."

"But I want to!"

"I am sorry, I hate having to repeat myself. I wouldn't let you be friends with that woman."

"You are acting as if you don't want me to be doing anything to earn a living to distract me from my unhappy situation," I say accusingly as I rise to my feet to face him.

"What nonsense! I am just trying to be a good husband!

He shouts at me.

"But you behaved differently when you were in Kaduna. You had confided in father that I could go back to school or have a business of my own."

"I said so quite alright.

Of course I did say so because I thought I could cope, but marriage isn't abut independence or about dependence."

"But..." "Listen Rabiat, "he cuts in.

"It is a biological of life that women are weaker and need to be looked after while men are strong and seek to protect them." "You wish to have Angela's kind of life, and be independent, perhaps?"

"Oh God, no, I'd hate to live alone or be on my own. I absolutely must..."

"Then I fail to see why you criticize me as a husband," he remarks with finality.

I give up.

I am miserable.

As usual I know he is rationally right and as usual I sense that in some way beyond my powers of definition he is absolutely wrong.

If it is impossible to give Mohammed love, I compensate by giving him dedicated service.

Nearly every day I devise so many ways on how I can please him.

There is indeed an imbalance in our mismatched lives.

I open my arms to his relations.

I suffer patiently his long absence from my section.

Gracefully I tolerate his lack of attention. I am scrupulous about his meals and at night I count the ceiling, thinking why he can't even face my side of the pillow in bed, eventhough I have had my bath and put on some perfume.

MARCH 1

I have suppressed all my desires because I want to give him a chance to recover himself, as if the self I am experiencing isn't his self.