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Rabiat’s diary(IV)
Laraba has phoned to say she is coming! What a relief. I have a lot to
discuss with her. Being my childhood friend, there has been no one I can
confess things to like her except my diary, of course; not even my mother
can know some of my things.
Every woman needs a special friend of her own sex with whom she can talk
about everything from cooking to male monsters. Laraba has become that
special kind of friend. It makes no difference whether she understands or
not. She always has lots of sympathy. We have listened and consoled each
other over the years. Her problems are over by her marriage while mine
started after it. Such is life.
I would not think of what Laraba would say if I told her how serious things
are getting from the other side in Kano. I will wait till she comes. I’ll
think of Uwa instead. Poor Uwa has been staying with us for weeks. Her
mother, my grandmother’s sister from Rigachukun, brings her over so that we
can find her a husband. Uwa has insisted that she will only marry somebody
from the city, not the village. Being the youngest of all her mother’s
children, she is doted on by her mother.
Poor Uwa! I have been drumming up eligible men for her to marry like our
relations here in Kaduna but, alas! I know she hasn’t a hope of suiting
them. She’s nineteen years and ready to be married but has never had anyone
in love with her. What can it be to a girl of nineteen, six feet tall, with
mousy hair, deep-set eyes and flat bosom? How unfair it is that the success
of a woman’s entire life depends on her physical appearance! I honestly do
feel very sorry for Uwa and so, although she drives me to distraction with
her boring conversation, I make every effort to be nice to her. Bello, my
brother, treats her like an imbecile. It is men like Bello who make life
hell for women like Uwa. The other day, a friend of Habu’s came to visit.
After he had gone, Bello was wicked enough to let Uwa believe the friend was
in love with her, which was not so.
Uwa, with her usual naivety, thought it was true and would from then on
always dress up, waiting for the man to reappear. He never does. Since then
Bello has kept congratulating her on her newfound lovers any time his friend
or Habu’s friends do call.
“You see this other guy?” he would say to her.
“Yes, you mean the one with the glasses that came today in the morning?”she
would answer.
“Yes, yes! Okay, he said he loves you also,” Bello would tease her.
“But they never talk to me. Why?”
‘They are waiting for the right time when you are ready,” Bello would hint.
“I am, I am! You know I am,” she would remind him, stupidly.
“Next time, Uwa. Next time,” he would say wickedly.
“It is not fair,” Amina, my sister, would say. She has tried severally to
make Uwa understand that her stupid crushes on Habu or anybody’s friend is
not going to get her anywhere. But Bello teases, and Uwa responds.
Poor Uwa! Poor innocent girl!
Lately Habu told me that Musi was interested in Uwa. I don’t know how far
this is true. The only truth I know about the certainty of what Habu told me
is that I once heard grandmother say it would be a good idea to have them
both joined in marriage. I had laughed at the idea and asked her if she had
dreamt about it or it was only her sixth sense that suggested to her how
comfortable Musi was with Uwa.
Grandmother had shook her head and said, “I am not a fortune teller. But the
best person for Uwa is Musi, because when one knows two people very well,
one senses instinctively how they will behave in certain situations or what
sort of person they would get on well with,” she explained.
I can remember how relieved I was about the compatibility between Musi and
Uwa because lately I had betted for a heart-break for Uwa if she should
insist on clinging to Garus, Habu’s irresponsible friend.
Garus, who has been Habu’s friend since time immemorial, has severally
stayed in our house. Stealing and telling lies are some of his specialties.
Everybody knows because he has done so a number of times. Mother has
insisted on not sending him away whenever he visits.
The first time I noticed Uwa’s love for Garus was when I felt I had to shut
my misery by playing the song It’s Not Right But It’s Okay in the cassette
recorder in the family sitting room. Suddenly, Uwa shouted for Asharalle. I
gave up. Uwa started to dance, after which I left the room. After some time
I came back for my cassette and found Garus had joined her while Habu and
Bello cheered them.
Later in the night, Uwa had told me she liked Garus. Typical of her. It
would take a foolish girl like Uwa to fall for a layabout like Garus. He
works in the city somewhere but calls himself a businessman. I don’t believe
he is ever more than a clerk because he never showed us his office. Uwa
confesses to me that she thought he was sexy. Typical again. He is a heavily
built person, with curly hair, who proves himself on his questionable Hausa
charms.
“Uwa, are you sure Garus is the right person for you?” I ask without
seriousness.
“But he is such a catch, Rabiat!” she sighs. “And the lovely thing is that
he is like one of the family, so I don’t have to explain anything”.
Not wanting to hurt her by further discouragement, I decide that things that
seem so wrong can be right. Maybe she can make him a better person.
“I understand, Uwa. Maybe you are lucky.”
I am in a muddle myself by this time, not understanding how everything can
be so right in my case with Mohammed, yet so wrong.
“Uwa, your situation is quite better than mine as far as having the right to
choose what kind of partner I wanted,” I confide.
I have felt so confused that even my stupid cousin seems a desirable
confidante at this time.
Uncle Aliyu is coming to see me tomorrow. Now is the time to pray if I were
religious enough. In all my life, I had never thought I would be faced with
this kind of dilemma, a situation where I cannot think or even decide for
myself.
What will I say to Mahmud- the Mahmud I promised to love unconditionally
this time around? Or Suleiman who has gone on a course to Jos but should be
back very soon? Enough. No more questions. I must face the problem squarely
and try to work out how I can deal with it. As far as I can see (after a
long, painful thought) there is one truth here I must acknowledge, and that
is not to doubt Uncle Aliyu’s verdict in this case. I respect Uncle and very
well know he understands me more than father and mother.
The thought of going back to Mohammed’s house is quite frustrating because
of what I know of his attitudes. But it seems I have no choice but to admit
that since he didn’t deny what he did and that he asked his friend to beg me
for forgiveness on his behalf I must relent. He even said I could go back to
school.
Mahmud has already proposed and I was the one that asked him to wait till
middle of the year that is, in three months’ time. Now that I have found
myself about to go back on my words I feel almost ashamed.
Tomorrow Uncle might tell me that going back to my former husband is the
only course I should take. The one question which remains is: am I capable
of taking this step? It’s tempting just to answer ‘Yes’ or No’ and my answer
is no because it is only I who knows what a very, very unhappy situation I
had found myself in.
I am bound to feel guilty if I don’t listen to Uncle and my parents. No, I
mustn’t despair. I must live in the hope and gather some strength to face my
fate if that’s the way God wishes it to be.
Soon after 4 the following day I am summoned to my mother’s room. As I head
there I am hoping how I could outwit Uncle if I am lucky enough.
Uncle has the reputation of being outspoken and honest. The first thing he
says to me after I greeted him and sat down beside my mother on the carpet
is, “Rabiat, if you want justice you have to hear us and respect us.”
I stare at them, thinking they never know me. Of course I do respect them;
why should they have any doubt because I am honest enough to own up to my
weakness of not taking any more pain? I am human as well as woman enough to
know what I am up to. So why?
I feel so vulnerable that I should be judged so by the people whom I more
than anyone need to be praised by.
Father scratches his head awkwardly and turns the other side as if he can’t
bear to look at me.
Mother is quiet while Uncle pleads with me to give this marriage a last
chance.
“You see, Rabiat, we are all in a muddle. Mohammed came to me and there is
no way we could ask you not to consider him. Firstly; you have a child with
him and secondly he seemed to be sorry. So what should we do other than urge
you to try again? Please give us all a last chance!”
When he has finished, I say; “The problem is the attitude, not the man.”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be alright.”
I try to speak, but I can’t.
“Take things easy; Rabiat. All will be well, God’s willing,” Uncle says when
he notices that my eyes are filled with tears. “Okay? Now just leave this to
me. Go and dry your eyes. I shall see you later,” he finishes.
Back in my roon I sink on the bed, shed some tears, glance around the room
and give a huge sigh. That cures me.
Much later in the night, after my mother has told me that Uncle and father
wish the engagement to take place in a week, I decide to break the news
myself to Mahmud. I spend about an hour thinking of how to begin the letter.
At last I write one which goes like this:
Mahmud,
I can’t think of how to begin this letter except to tell you that I care.
Mahmud, I cannot see you again because I shall be going back to Mohammed
soon due to some pressure. I am sorry for the unhappiness I might have
caused you. I suppose we were wrong in thinking that we could have a future
together: I don’t expect you to understand or even forgive me, so there is
no need to reply my letter. I can guess how you might feel, that’s how I am
feeling, too. It’s just I have to tell you this before someone else does.
I must close by telling you that I did love you and that’s all I can say for
now.
Rabiat.
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SUNDAY, DECEMBER 17 2006