Born on a Tuesday (19 page)

The man with the pliers is here again.

You cannot prepare for pain. You cannot get used to it.

I have nothing to say to the man. I can only faint, again.

Day X

The only comfort of this cell is that it is not as hot as the others. The darkness here is complete, not decreasing or increasing. I started out guessing what time of the day it was by the temperature but these fevers keep me cold all the time. And finally I have stopped counting the days. Once in a while, they dump a few people in the cell. I never say a word to them. And they never last very long. They do not understand that screaming or crying or jumping around trying to find a way to escape only wears you out. Especially when the food is not regular and the guards take turns torturing you.

It is always A Mutu who brings them in.

‘Landlord, I have brought you new tenants,' he says when he throws in new people.

Once he came in and dragged me out along with other bodies. They loaded me onto a truck, thinking I had died. That was the one time I saw daylight. I was too dizzy to see anything around.

‘We have one still alive here o,' A Mutu shouted as he climbed onto the back of the truck.

‘Then help him with his journey,' someone replied from the front. ‘We really need to get going.'

‘He does not need my help to die, it is not like he would last long anyway.'

‘In the name of God, please, finish him off and let's get going.'

‘Finish him off yourself, I am tired of killing these people. This is not the job I was trained to do.'

‘You are a weak man, I don't know how you became a soldier.'

‘Whatever.'

‘OK then, A Mutu, take him back to the cell. Who gave this weak man such a bold name, I do not know.'

‘My boldness is in battle and not in killing half-dead men.'

As he dragged me by my feet off the truck, I muttered: ‘What date is it?'

‘Shut up and die,' he said.

A Mutu flashes a light on me and then on the others he brought recently. He picks me up by the arm and leads me out of the cell. In another room, not as dark as my cell, he asks me to sit. There is a plate of rice and beans and a big plastic cup full of water.

‘Eat,' he says and walks out of the room.

I drink the water first, finishing it quickly. I start to eat with my hands before I notice a small plastic spoon beside the plate. I continue eating with my hands. Swallowing hurts my throat and as the food reaches my stomach I feel a sharp biting pain and then I feel like throwing up. I stop for a while holding my stomach and my hand over my mouth, thinking I will lose everything I have eaten, but the muscles of my stomach are too weak to bring up anything. A man walks in. I cannot see his face.

‘What is your name?' he asks, his voice an echo in my ear.

‘Ahmad,' I reply.

‘Do you like the food?'

I nod. My vision is getting less blurry.

‘My name is Mohammed Abbas,' he says, ‘and I am trying to see if we can get you out of this place. I just need some information from you and then we can start processing your exit from here. I take it you are familiar with Malam Abdul-Nur, the leader of the Mujahideen?'

I shake my head.

‘No?' he asks.

‘I used to know him, but it has been some time since he left our movement and since then I have not been in contact with him at all.'

‘Are you sure about this?'

‘By Allah, I swear it.'

‘What if I tell you that people of your movement are also in the Mujahideen? I have even spoken with some of them, like Sale, for example. You know Sale, no?'

‘Yes but I did not know that he was a Mujahideen. I only found out when they took him away from our cell.'

‘But he mentioned your name. Are you saying that he is lying?'

‘Of course he is lying.'

‘I would have loved Sale to be here so you could say it to his face, but unfortunately he took ill and passed on a few days ago. Apparently he had stomach issues. Did you know he had stomach issues?'

‘No.'

‘And somehow I am tempted to believe Sale because he led us right to where Malam Abdul-Nur was hiding.'

‘I swear I am not a Mujahideen,' I cry.

‘No need to get upset, no need to get upset. Malam Abdul-Nur said the same thing when we got him the second time. He had shaved his beard and was pretending to be a cattle herder. You know it's funny he used the same words: “I swear I am not a Mujahideen.” And then when we brought him in, he tried to attack my men. He didn't even give me the opportunity to have a chat with him like I am having a chat with you now, and that is sad because everyone deserves to be heard. Everyone deserves forgiveness.'

‘So he is dead then?'

‘Well, that was purely his choice, and the destiny of Allah.'

‘Everything is over then?'

‘Sale, before Allah took him,' he continues, ignoring my question, ‘told us about your bosom friend, who is undoubtedly a Mujahideen.'

‘Jibril is not a Mujahideen,' I shout.

‘Oh, I see you are very acquainted with the person I am referring to. That means you can help me and I can help you. So now, let us put an end to all of this. I am sure you have been here too long. If you could just tell me where you think Jibril might be, we can all go home and see our loved ones.'

I want to tell him about our conversations, about how Jibril's heart was broken but his spirit was strong. But this man does not deserve the truth.

‘Jibril is not a Mujahideen, that is all I know. You can beat me from now until tomorrow, refuse to give me food, but that is all I will tell you.' I push the plate aside and spread my palms on the table to show him I have no more nails for him to take.

The man gets up and tells A Mutu to take me away.

‘To the pit!' he says.

PART FIVE

Black Spirit

Every time A Mutu comes to check for dead bodies he shouts ‘Black Spirit!' to see if I am alive and I shuffle my feet to respond. I cannot say now how long I have been here. It feels like a really long time since he pulled out the last three bodies, since they last brought someone in. I don't know. Time plays tricks on me. I whisper words to myself—things I remember from my book, or from
Baba of Karo
, to stop my head from imploding, to remind myself I am still alive.

Before they throw you into the pit they tie a rope around your legs so that they can use a long hook to pull you out when you are dead.

It used to be that death was the worst thing that could happen to me. Then it was torture. Especially the pliers and screwdrivers. After ten fingers and ten toes, and you don't say anything, even the person torturing you knows there is nothing you can give them and they stop. They leave you to die. This is the hardest part. When the pain doesn't succeed. The period when they think the hunger will kill you and they leave you down here and there is nothing to show whether it is morning or night or afternoon. It is not the pain when you throw up bitter warm liquid because there is nothing to throw up and your body is turning on itself. It is not the spasms of your stomach when even the bitter liquid won't come up and your mouth is dry and cracked and your lips start to bleed when you try to open them. It is having no one to talk to and sleep deserting you and leaving you to experience every infinite moment of solitude. To count those moments, endlessly.

I wish A Mutu didn't throw the bread he throws in here, once in a while. It prolongs the suffering. The food beats my body into survival. And survival here is worse than being beaten.

It is interesting how time is different to different people. The soldiers care very much what hour of the day it is. They say things like nine hundred hours and fourteen hundred hours. It must make time drag to count every hour of every day. I can understand the useful things, like sunrise and sunset and midday; when it is time to pray and when it is time to break one's fast. And what really is an hour? I am not sure that anyone can say for certain what an hour is. Because my hours are definitely longer than the hours of the soldiers outside, who can go home and lie on soft beds. As some hours are short, so others are long. Or maybe I am having a problem separating what is real from what just happens in my head. I don't even know any more if what happens in my head is not real. Because I think of things like anger or pain when someone offends you. If you do not know of the thing that was done, it does not offend you. But as soon as you find out, something grows in your head and in your heart and in your body where once there was calm and peace and it is called anger or pain. And sometimes when that person apologises genuinely, you can feel that anger melt away like ice in the heat. So, what makes one thought or feeling real and another unreal. What makes time move differently for me at different times?

Sometimes it feels like I am going crazy and I have to speak to myself loudly, to convince myself I am still here, alive. Memory feels like a curse but it is the only thing that keeps me sane. In my mind I am a child again, sitting on Malam Junaidu's cracked concrete floor, reciting the words of the Quran. The kuka tree in Bayan Layi stands tall and alone and the boys of Bayan Layi send cigarette and wee-wee smoke up into the air. I see myself, blowing wee-wee smoke, feeling invincible and wanting to fly. I see the ashes form after we drag, turning leaves into smoke and powder, like life. My life. Every day feels like a drag that brings me closer to being burnt out, turned to ash. These days I don't know which of my memories are real and which ones are dreams, made up in my mind to keep me from shutting down. I wonder if Allah is sometimes like me, who doesn't always have a why; whether He just does things or allows things to happen because He can. Or if he always has a why, a plan, a reason for all this suffering. Today if Allah will hear me, before I die here I want him to give me a person who will write down my story like the woman who wrote that of Baba of Karo. I think it is a nice thing that long after you die people can get to read the stories of your life. The only problem is, Baba of Karo knew everything about her relatives. What do I know about my brothers and my uncles and my aunts, apart from Khadija and Shuaibu, whom I do not even know very well. But Sheikh, I can tell a hundred pages about him. As I can about Jibril. Is family really family if your relatives are strangers to you? Are they not blood, those for whom you would risk your life and die; those who know how your heart beats, and what makes you laugh and what makes you cry; those whose secrets are your secrets?

‘This one refuses to die o,' A Mutu says, ‘we call him Black Spirit.'

The man standing with A Mutu peeps into the narrow pit. Someone is shining a torch behind them. I can only see his square head and high, stiff collar. I drag myself into an upright position and squint. ‘Please,' I want to shout out to them. But I have pleaded until my mouth, knowing how useless the word is, has prevented me from voicing it. Pleas have no value in this pit. Only dying can stop them from doing what they want.

‘Where did you find him?' the man with the square head asks.

‘Sokoto,' A Mutu replies.

‘Before or after the elections?'

‘Before, sir. He is getting to nine months now.'

‘Take him back where you picked him up.'

‘Sir?'

‘Are you deaf? I say take him back. I want this place empty!'

‘Yes, sir!'

A Mutu lowers a hook and pulls me up by the legs so that I am upside down. I am dizzy. When I am out, he puts a khaki bag over my entire head. It smells of sweat and blood. He hums the one song that has been on his lips since I came here. When he sings ‘We are saying thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus, thank youuuu Laaaw-ooord . . .' I want to ask him if he knows any other song. I don't know why he keeps thanking Jesus when he comes around. He holds me by the arm and I feel my feet leave the ground, as if I was an empty bucket. He drops me gently at the back of the truck.

My bones hurt. For the first time in a long while, I smell something apart from decay. I inhale lightly. Dust. Dust smells like the best Arabian incenses now. I scratch the hair on my neck. The little light that filters through the khaki cloth over my head, more light than I have seen in the past many months, hurts my eyes. Someone climbs the back of the truck with me. I know him by smell. A Mutu smells of onions fried in stale palm oil.

After about an hour, I stop hearing any voices around and the truck begins to slow down. As the engine goes dead, I wait for the boots that will kick me off the truck. Maybe this is what the man meant by take him back. To take me somewhere and shoot me. This will be an act of kindness.

A Mutu grabs me gently by the arms and lifts me. He is careful, like he is afraid that my skin will peel off or my bones will snap. He leans me against a wall and makes me sit. Then he loosens the ropes around my legs.

I hear him walking away. I inhale and shut my eyes and wait for it, my relief. The engine starts and the truck begins to drive away. When I can no longer hear anything, I lift my hands and pull up the khaki mask. The light feels like needles in my eyes. I am in the shade outside a classroom in an empty school. There is no one else around. By my side is a sachet of water, a black polythene bag with rice in it and a pair of old slippers. Everything is grey and blurry beyond a few meters.

Away from the school, I stop by a car, supporting my weight on a stick I picked up in one of the classrooms. At first it looks like someone is looking back at me, but there is no one in the car. I touch my face. I do not know this old, shrivelled person whose eyes look like that of a rabid dog. They should have just shot me.

There are more soldiers than civilians on the streets. At every checkpoint there are metal drums and sandbags and huge rocks on the road to make cars drive slowly in a zigzag way. Even the checkpoint in front of the police station is manned by soldiers. The cars, the bicycles, the people and even the animals all seem to be moving very fast; everyone seems to be in a hurry.

All over the partly demolished fence of our school is the phrase NO MORE HAQIQIY. Most of them have ­HAQIQIY cancelled out and replaced with MUJAHIDEEN. When people pass by soldiers, they have to raise their hands in the air. People carrying big bags are stopped and searched.

A soldier stares at me. I try to stand upright but my back feels like it is about to break. He points his gun at me. I stop trying to put my hands in the air and I look him in the eye willing him to pull the trigger. He walks towards me pointing the gun at my chest and motions to me to keep moving. He looks just like a child wearing an oversized uniform. There is fear in his eyes. I spit on the floor and drag myself away.

On the floor there is a half-eaten sugarcane. I pick it up. It still tastes sweet but it is dry and dusty. I put it in my pocket.

Our mosque has been almost completely demolished. The motor park is full of soldiers and most of the shops around it are closed. Chuks' medicine store now has a woman selling provisions and travelling bags. I don't know any of the drivers. The only person I can recognise is Saudatu who is still selling kosai and koko here. I call out her name.

‘What do you want?' she asks.

‘Do you not know me?'

‘I do not know you, mister. If you are not going to buy anything please move away for others who want to buy.'

‘Why are you speaking to him like this? If you do not recognise him, just say so,' a middle-aged man standing behind me says to her.

As I turn around, she asks me who I am.

My mouth feels paralysed. I am unable to speak for a few seconds. Finally, when my lips come free, I say, ‘Black Spirit.'

‘You see? He is a madman.' Saudatu says to the man.

On my way out of the motor park I see a sticker on a pillar:

ALHAJI SENATOR USMAN MAMMAN DAHIRU

WEDS

AISHATU

The two people on it are smiling, both baring gold teeth from Mecca.

‘My wife,' I say to the two men sitting on a bench just by the sticker. One of them gets up to see what I am pointing at.

‘My wife,' I repeat, ‘she is my wife.' He hisses when he sees the picture and walks away.

The soldiers. It is the soldiers who are making everyone so aggressive.

I walk in through the open gate in my old compound. In the gate house a small radio sits on the window sill playing loud Hausa music. A chair with one broken back leg leans against the wall. There are old clothes scattered on an old mat. No one around. I walk slowly towards the room I once called home. The door is broken down and there are books and papers lying everywhere. Huge brown cloud patterns cover the ceiling and some of the ceiling boards sag. The roof has leaked. I wish now that I had hid my notebook somewhere in the room. When I close my eyes I can see the lines on the page, the words.

I can hear the radio in the gate house from the room. The news is being read in Hausa. A newscaster is talking about a suicide bombing and I am shocked to hear it is here in Nigeria. This is not what I want to hear now. I block the newscaster's voice out of my head and look around the room. I cannot stop asking myself why they let me go, why they did not kill me. Perhaps someone told them I was innocent. Perhaps they just got tired of keeping me. Or maybe, like with many things in the world, there is no why and I should stop thinking things that only make my head hurt. Allah knows.

Inside the wardrobe, I see my old wooden chasbi. I pick it up and slowly roll the beads in my fingers.

Subhannallah . . .

Alhamdillillah . . .

Allahu Akbar . . .

In charcoal, at the bottom right corner on the wall opposite the door, there are words in tiny scribbles:

I came back for you. They said you were dead but I didn't believe. I will come back again, insha Allah.

He does not write his name. He knows I will know.

I am lightheaded. I heave a sigh. My heart tells me he is OK. Jibril is OK. I stretch out on the cool concrete floor. Time slows down again. I think of all the things I must do: cut my hair, wash with hot water, start writing out my story. Then take a bus and go wherever it is headed.