African Women Writing Resistance: An Anthology of Contemporary Voices

Hailstones on Zamfara

On the day I die I will rise up, arms outstretched, magnificent as the mother of the Holy Prophet, then my executioners will be forced to admit, “We were wrong. We should have revered you more.” I am not guilty. I have always preferred men as I make them up in my head; invisible men. Not the kind some women want, those silly fantasy men in foreign romance books. My men are plain, ugly even, with facial marks, oily skins, dust in their hair. They look like men from Zamfara. They ride motorcycles , take buses and taxis to their places of work. They walk mostly. They never own cars, otherwise they would have to be rich men, the kind who become senators of the Republic of Nigeria, chairmen of federal banks, and such. No, my men have spread-out feet from being barefoot as children. They have palms as brown as tobacco leaves. Under their robes their ribs are prominent. Some have had a hand cut off because they stole to eat. Allah forgives them now that they are cripples. After all, my men pray as Moslems should, five times a day, even though they perform ablution in gutters. Plus they are humble before Him, even if capable of going home to beat their wives to deafness. 104 Hailstones on Zamfara Sefi Atta Did Our Husband think I was pretending the day I stopped hearing him? Had he forgotten he caused the very condition that made him so angry? I tried to help him understand. “You call me, I can’t hear. You insult me, I can’t hear. You tell me to get out of your house. How can I leave when I can’t hear?” “You witch!”he shouted. “I know you’re doing this on purpose!” “It is not my fault,”I said. “My left ear is damaged from the beating you gave me. Sometimes I hear, sometimes I don’t, even if I face Mecca.” “I divorce thee!” “Huh?”I said. “I divorce thee!” “You must be asking for food again. I’m off to the market.” Where else would I go so early that morning? The trouble with Our Husband was that his anger was like lightning. Lightning from drinking too much burukutu, wasting half the profits from his mechanic shop on the brew, and not being accountable for his actions afterward. Lightning loves to show off. “Look at me. See what I do with the night. Let me turn it to day and confuse you.” I came home one day, and he was calm. I came home the next, and he behaved as though I’d insulted his father’s lineage. Off and on, that was Our Husband, like lightning before thunder comes along and shows who is in control. He was angry that day because I was not enthusiastic about his announced betrothal, so he boxed my ears. I showed him thunder: of no secondary education ; of being married to him at fourteen; motherhood three times over. To prove my endurance, I even chaperoned his new bride, a girl the same age as my eldest daughter, Fatima. I called her Junior Wife, and from then on called him Our Husband. It pains me,”Junior Wife said to me, the morning after her wedding night. “It will eventually stop,”I said. Her eyes were red with tears. She made me so angry. I did not want another child around the house. I had raised mine already. “I want to go home,”she whined. “You’re lazy,” I said. “You did not rise early to make Our Husband’s tea. You’re supposed to make his tea from now on.” She wrapped her head scarf over her mouth. Under the white chiffon her jaw trembled. “You see me crying. You don’t even take pity on me.” How could I? This was my only home. “At least you are old,”she said. “You should be like a mother to me.” Her kohl appeared like a bruise. Hailstones on Zamfara 105 “I’m thirty-two years,”I said. I was orphaned. Mama was long gone. Baba passed away before her, and while he was alive, he had three wives. Mama had only one son. I stopped hearing from him after I left home for marriage, and to be his older sister when he was born was an ousting if ever there was...