The Girl with the Louding Voice(27)

I wipe my face and make the decisions.

Bamidele will suffer for Khadija.

Not me. Not me.



* * *





I walk many miles, passing many paths, finding myself in front of another house, a lean tree with no leafs, a wild bush with red cherry fruits, beautiful for looking but poison for eating, but I am not finding Bamidele’s. Where is it? I walk fast, the pictures of Khadija’s body fueling my mind. It is lying inside that sand, by the river edge. The thunder is booming again in the sky and I know the rains are gathering to begin falling.

If the rains wash away Khadija’s body into the river, then she will lost forever. What will I say to Bamidele? Or to anybody? How will I tell them that Khadija is dead if I don’t have the dead body?

I beg the sky to hold hisself, to not rain, to give me more time to find the house. When I see that goat, the one with the red thread, sitting under the shade of the guava tree, I know I am nearing Bamidele’s house. I thank the goat, and keep looking until I find the place, the red door.

I pick a stone from the floor, knock it on the door. There is no answer from inside. I knock it again. Then I am starting to shout, “Bamidele, come out! Bamidele!”

The door open, slow.

The pregnants stomach show hisself first, before the woman’s face. Fair skin, face like a hungry dolly baby. Her hair is full of twists, all pointing up to the sky, be like thorns on a crown of flesh. Her round stomach, about the same size of Khadija’s own, seem to change itself in my eyes; it become a folding fist and blow my chest. This is why Bamidele is not coming back. Because he have a pregnant wife.

“I am looking for Bamidele,” I shout, breathing fast, trying to not cry. “Tell him to come out. Tell him Khadija is dead.”

“Bamidele?” She blank her face. “In which house?”

“This house,” I say as I look around, see the goat. It raise his head, look me, and I know the goat know it too. This is Bamidele’s house. “I come here this morning. He open this door, this red door. You are his wife?”

She thin her eyes, as if she is checking me well, before she nod her head yes.

“But Bamidele have travel,” she say. “He travel since three weeks now for . . . to his mother’s village. What do you want? Who is Khadija?”

“No,” I say. “Bamidele didn’t travel. He is here. He open this door for me just this morning.”

I jump forward, trying to push the door, but she come out of the house, close the door behind her, gripping the door handles.

“Bamidele is not here,” she say. “Go your way.”

“But he allow Khadija die!” I am wailing now, stamping my feets. “Her body is in front of Kere river, dead. Very dead. We must go and bring her come! Bamidele, come out! You kill a woman! Come out!”

The next house door open, one man peep out, look us.

“Are you having hearing problem?” the woman ask, her voice low. “Bamidele is not in this house. Please go before I call you ole.”

Ole. Thief.

That word is a commanding inside the ears of people. They hear it, they begin to run around, looking for the ole. If she call me that, nobody will ask any question. The whole village will come out and be chasing me. They will throw old tire on my head and put fire inside. They will burn me.

I look up, see Death. He is sailing on top my head, shining his teeths, flapping his wings, having two minds about which form to take me: as a cane or as a fire.

But I think of Khadija. I think of her childrens, Alafia and the other ones. Her sick father.

I fuel up my voice, shout again. “Bamidele, come out! Bamidele, you kill a woman! Come out!”

“Ole! Ole! Ole!” the woman is starting to shout now, her voice covering my own.

The man in the second house is looking a village fighter with his big, big hands and wide, strong chest.

“Ole?” he ask, but he is not waiting for answers as he is coming out from his house. My face is a stranger here. He know it is me. He too is starting to shout. “Ole! Ole! Everybody come out! There is a thief in our area!”

The man and the woman, they join their voice, slam my own down.

In no time, the whole place will be full of peoples.

I look my left, my right. There is a path to my right, leading to the bus garage.

I look the woman’s face, and she look mine. She slow her voice a moment, giving me a chance to run, to go and never come back.

But Khadija. Oh, Khadija.

“Bamidele!” I shout again. “I know you are inside that house. God will judge you! You kill a woman! Come out!”

“Ole! Ole!” the woman is starting to shout again. The man is nearly reaching my side. He is holding something rough and thick and brown, a branch of a tree?

I turn, see another two peoples coming out of their house.

Four peoples. One thief: me.

I close my mouth; begin to run.





CHAPTER 17

I climb the motorcycle at the bus garage and beg the driver to be driving me to my house.

I cannot be going back to Morufu’s house because what will I tell him when he ask me where is Khadija? What will I tell her childrens?

So I tell the driver to be driving me to my papa’s house. I don’t even know when we reach my house because my mind is not thinking correct. It been nearly three months since I leave this place as wife of Morufu. And now I am coming back as a what?