45 The shame handcuffed her feet

Lunch was served on the south terrace. The air was warmer now. Humidity was a rare thing in Kano, as rare as discovering salt water fish in the shallow lakes. But as the first prolonged sunshine in months brightened the town, waterlogged soil aerated intensely. It was almost possible to see the vapours rising from the ground. The result was burning sunshine and sticky stiff breezes. Kaka waved a paper fan by her face. Nabila as usual did not perspire. Immersed in a planting chart she was creating for her plot of land. A sunken garden Kaka gathered from elementary explanation; to provide shade from the high sun in early afternoons. If it was half as effective as Nabila described Kaka intended to commandeer the space. She beckoned a servant girl, relaying a message to be repeated to the chef. "Lunch is no longer to be served on the south terrace."

"More tuwo shinkafa - rice pudding " Nabila added gesticulating to the empty cooler on the table

Kaka could have sworn there were at least five mounds when they sat down. The soup was all but gone as well. It was good to see Nabila eating again. Months ago she could barely swallow the teas Kaka personally brewed. The servant curtsied- once for each request- and left. Kaka had eaten with a fork, which she placed down now to enable her use her right hand to stroke her granddaughter's hair. The short natural curls wound around her fingers as she traced the uneven scalp tissue. Despite the damage Nabila had done the hair was growing back at a good rate, currently between the stages of a low cut but not voluminous enough to be a minimal sized afro. The doctor had predicted it would heal slowly and till then, the hair was not to be stretched. Which was the only reason Kaka had not insisted it be subdued in plaits. Nabila tired of Kaka poking around her head again and she edged away, earning a smile for her efforts

A large ball of tuwo was placed on the table. It was obvious they had just been taken off the fire for the steam emanating seemed prepared to burn a hole through the clear nylon it was wrapped in. Kaka gave a look that seemed to say "You better finish that." Nabila knew she would, she was really hungry these days. Previously she could barely bring herself to down herbal teas now she ate for two....

That thought stopped Nabila mid sketch...eating for two. Her heart began to beat faster, drowning out Kaka's monologue. Eating for two... that did not make any sense. She had no morning sickness so she couldn't be. Although her energy levels were back up, she still fell tired pretty quickly, her sense of smell was heightened, and she was eating a lot. If she thought about it her breasts have felt a little sore of late. Now she was overreacting. It was nothing, absolutely nothing. There was a simple method to discover the truth. When last did she have her period? She could not think. She wasn't even aware what day it was. Here in Balarabe estate time moved differently, at a slower pace. How long had she been here for? Two months. When last did she even need that blue pack of Always...Nabila sighed. She had not seen a sanitary towel since Abuja. She was checking her supply to make sure she had enough because her period was on its way. Then she had gotten distracted...because Jamal was an hour late returning from work.

The following morning Kaka left for Abuja hugging Nabila tightly she prayed on her head, her lips muttering for Allah's guidance and protection. Kaka finally sat down and settled in, she stared at her granddaughter through a tinted window till the BMW drove out the monogrammed coral gates of the estate. Nabila watched the car proceed down the private driveway leading onto the main road before letting her plastered smile waver. She bit her lip and clawed at her belly. Since last night it had begun to feel like an alien had hijacked her body. This thing growing within her was unnatural and unwanted. It was punishment, a final fuck you from Jamal. She wanted nothing more to do with him and did not need to be taunted by something that would breathe the same air she inhaled, feed on the same foods she consumed and fill her breast with heavy milk. Nabila did not want this child. She had promised herself to suffer no more and this was pain in its most lethal form. Nabila turned her hand into a fist and pressed it to her stomach, pushing in. She hoped the thing could feel that. She would not tolerate it... It must go.

Rabi Bello did not feel like a married woman. Yet married she was. Alhaji Tukur was not the husband Rabi thought he would be. She assumed he would leave her in the house, a perfect trophy wife to be admired by all who visited. Reality was far from that. He intended her to hang on his arm and be present for every function imaginable. So far they had been to the army barracks in Kaduna, a wedding in Katsina, a mosque opening in Gombe and a burial in Zamfara. Next week he would be receiving a medal in Lagos and Rabi was required to be on his arm, eyes full of manufactured love. Each morning a troop of women dressed her in heavy lace and adorned her skin in henna before she could be presented to her husband; a perfect made up doll. He had never seen her with a strand of hair out of place, unlined eyes or naked lips. "This is what I married" he often said to her, "young and beautiful Rabi"

At night Alhaji Tukur summoned her to his quarters by aid of the intercom. Her personal servant walked her to his door, a light knock to signal his parcel had arrived before departing. He would bark "shigo [enter]". She would undress at the foot of the bed while he watched licking his lips and touching himself, big belly rising with quick breaths. Then he would beckon her forward, finger sticky with pre cum and she would climb atop him to gyrate for his pleasure while he lazily gave directions. His words: "Haka ne [that's it]", "bude [open]" "sama[top]" "kasa [below]" told her what paces and positions to observe. He would command her to moan and agree to the names he called her, Rabi had learnt to do this without prompt now. Soon after ejaculation he would roll over and snore, Rabi as required of her would get up and return to her quarters. Alhaji Tukur was not to be disturbed when resting.

Her marriage was a level of hell she never knew existed. Every morning Rabi Tukur awoke in her Queen Size ivory bed and wished she died in her sleep. She hated her life, hated the cold un-sexual being she had become. She used to love sex, she used to love laughter, she used to love life, but she no longer recognised any of it. The painted geisha in the mirror was not her. Her hair hurt from the tight styles it was pulled into, her breasts subdued in traditional garb. She missed being free to do as she pleased. Free to come and go however she liked. Free to wear skinny jeans.

This was a beautiful prison, adorned with gold trinkets, diamonds and rubies and polite speaking guards but a prison none the less. What good are two underground garages if she is not allowed to drive any of the cars? What good is all the finery in the world if it is to please those you cannot be with? All the money at her disposal but she had to seek permission to spend it. Permission, permission, permission; her life was a never ending loop of question and answer, 'Please' and 'May I'. Rabi of many friends was lonely in her gilded cage. Baba turned away from her like she had been corrupted. He no longer spoke to her not even on her wedding day...as long as Nabila remained in exile, Rabi remained in family prison. She was shamed in front of the entire staff when Mama slapped her and she was ordered to apologise to her sister. Not to return till she had proof of vindication but Rabi could barely make it halfway to Kano. The shame handcuffed her feet and with hung shoulders she returned and begged to be let in. The gates were wheeled open but it was never the same. Theirs was a close family no more.