Chapter 33
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 12 min read
t Le Grand Hotel des Thermes, Ahmad and Audu spent all their time
brainstorming on their line of action. Ahmad’s priority was ensuring
that no questions were raised about how they got Malama Husseina’s
address because Zehra could easily be persecuted if the authorities found
out. She had broken about three different clauses in her government
contract regarding privacy laws by giving him the file containing sensitive
information on a resident.
For days, they monitored the two women’s routines. Halime’s husband,
who drove a grey Subaru, left the house first with the youngest kid. A few
minutes after, the mother or grandmother would walk the two older children
to the bus stop and watch as they got on the school bus. Later in the day, the
women would walk to the store to get groceries.
One Friday in the grocery store, after Jumaah prayer, Audu bumped into
the older woman as she picked out vegetables. He turned to face her and
started apologizing profusely in English, even offering to hold her shopping
cart for her.
“Bai ji miki ciwo ba, ko? Hope he didn’t injure you?” It was Halime.
“Ku Hausawa ne? You’re Hausa?” Audu’s eyeballs almost popped out
of their pockets as he feigned surprise. He looked towards Ahmad, who was
picking out plums – or more accurately, pretending to – and beckoned him
over. “Zo ku gaisa; come and say hello. They speak Hausa.”
Ahmad walked towards them and the group exchanged pleasantries.
They asked about each other’s countries of origin and what they were doing
in Saint-Malo. At first, Halime was uneasy about divulging any information
about her mother due to immigration concerns, Ahmad figured. But when
he explained that they were working on a project and researching older
Africans in the diaspora, she seemed a bit more relaxed. He even showed
her the falsified identification cards he and Audu hung around their necks.
Three days later, they were at Halime’s house to interview Malama
Husseina for their project. They spent an hour listening to ‘yar Agadez
narrate why she and her twin sister fled their hometown in the middle of the
night. Ahmad thought about how remarkable human memory was – to be
able to remember vivid details from decades ago due to trauma. Her face
was lined with the ordeals of time. She told them about how her husband
had stayed back to cover their tracks so that they could cross over to the
other side safely. He’d promised to meet her in Kano and he waited for him
for years, but he never found her.
Ahmad remembered a migration book he read while in University.
Economic situations, violence and political devastation in the 1990s led a
lot of Fulani, Tuareg and Hausa citizens from Niger to migrate to
neighboring African countries. Most of them went to Nigeria through
porous borders without proper identification; they blended in well due to
some semblance in religion and language. The men found menial jobs
working as security guards for northern households, and many of the
women went into trade. Some women eventually married into northern
families and got absorbed into what was now known as the Hausa-Fulani
tribe in modern-day Arewa.
“How did you enter Nigeria?” Audu pretended to read from the research
questionnaire that made up part of their cover.
Ahmad was sitting opposite them. According to his ID card, he was a
radio program producer. Between them was a voice recorder recording the
conversation, which was primarily in Hausa.
“We came in through Gumel,” her dialect of Hausa was different from
what Ahmad was used to. “We walked until we boarded a commercial bus
carrying rams in Ringim and it took us to Wudil. I was heavily pregnant at
the time.” She had a faint smile as she reminisced.
As she spoke, Ahmad could not stop looking at her; this was a woman
he had never seen before, yet he felt inexplicable compassion towards her
for a reason that defied logic. He almost wanted to ask where she got the
scar on her left hand; he’d noticed it earlier when she rubbed her face after
reciting the opening prayer to start the interview session.
“Wudil,” Audu repeated as he scribbled on his paper. “So, how many
years did you spend in Kano?”
“I was born in Wudil,” Halime answered, walking into the room with a
silver tray and small glass cups. “Ga shayi,” she said, offering Ahmad a cup
of tea.
He smiled and accepted it without explaining that he was observing a
six-day fast for the month of Shawwal. He watched as she poured the hot
liquid into another cup for Audu. “We lived in Kano until I graduated from
BUK. I studied Mass communication.” Audu kept the feigned look of
surprise, even though he already knew all this information.
Halime looked at Ahmad as she sat opposite him, the similarity between
both women was even more obvious now that he was seeing them in
person. “You said this interview was for BBC Hausa?” she asked.
“Yes, and the Voice of America.”
Halime seemed pleased with the answer and as Ahmad watched her
movements, he had the most tremendous urge to ask if she had a younger
sibling around Fa’iza’s age. If it turned out that Malama Husseina was the
one who suckled them both, they would leave the women alone without
them ever knowing what really brought them here. But he knew they had to
stick to the script; they was no need asking such a question right now.
“What kind of jobs did you do in Kano?” He looked at the
questionnaire. “Earlier you said that you didn’t go to school.” Ahmad
listened to her talk about the menial jobs she took up to sustain herself and
her infant daughter. Some of them matched information that they found
about her while they were in Kano. Even though she did not state the years,
she remembered the governors of Kano at various times.
“After that, I got a job in Tarauni in the household of the state’s
Permanent Secretary at the time,” she finally said.
Ahmad cleared his throat, the signal he and Audu had agreed upon to
indicate when something about his parents came up. Audu looked up at
Ahmad and immediately knew they had hit the spot.
“Okay, so this Perm Sec,” Audu probed, “do you remember his name?”
“I honestly can’t remember his name. I never met him. I only worked
closely with his wife whose name was Hauwa, but everyone called her
Mami. She was an exceptionally kind woman who treated me well.”
Audu looked up at Ahmad, who nodded in agreement; that was his
mother. It took all his willpower to sit calmly in the living room.
“What was your job in their house?”
“I breastfed their first son, Ahmadu,” she paused. “It was just before the
elections. I was a cleaner at the hospital when I heard the nurses saying that
the family of a patient was looking for a Muslim with a suckling child to
help feed a young child. I had a baby of my own at the time and the
payment multiplied my salary as a cleaner about four or five times.”
To Malama Husseina’s surprise, Audu handed her an old sepia-toned
picture. Ahmad, a toddler, was being held by his mother, who was sitting on
a chair; his father was next to her, his arms around her. She recognized her
former employers immediately and asked the two gentlemen how they got
the picture. Before he answered, Audu brought out another picture Ahmad
found in one of his mother’s old albums; it was one with Fa’iza’s parents.
Audu asked her if she knew the couple in the picture. She took longer to
respond this time, taking the photograph from him and squinting as she
raised it to the light. “I think I know her,” she said, pointing at Umma.
“Did you ever work for her?” Audu asked.
Ahmad held his breath. The only sound that could be heard was the
ticking of the clock. The hand on the wall clock above the door ticked
slowly; it was as if time itself paused to witness this moment. As he looked
at Malama Husseina, who was still studying the picture, he wondered if fate
had brought him this far and lured him in with the possibility of what could
be only to find out that the same woman was hired by both families at
different times of her life to breastfeed both of them.
“Did you ever work for her?” Audu asked again.
She looked up at him slowly and shook her head.
“Did you breastfeed any other child, after the Perm Sec boy?”
She shook her head again. “No,” she replied. “I stayed in their house for
over two years, helping them raise the child. I couldn’t breastfeed another
child even if I wanted to because I was not blessed with another child after
Halime.” With the remuneration from the Perm Sec’s house, she bought a
house in a low-cost area and started a business selling jewelry, patterned
textiles and mixed perfumes in Kano GRA. In no time, she was no longer
referred to as ‘yar Agadez; all her customers called her Dillaliya, the trader.
The room was quiet for a moment, even the clock seemed to have read
the tone of the room. Halime’s expression had now turned from welcoming
to confusing, as though she were wondering if her previous reservations
were right. Her mother was also confused, but only because she couldn’t
quite figure out the connection between these two women and a BBC
broadcast. Are they in some kind of trouble? She asked herself. Have I said
too much? She looked up to meet Ahmad’s gaze and as their eyes met for
the first time since their meeting. He looked away immediately and headed
towards the door.
Outside, he paced up and down the front yard, trying to wrap his head
around the information he’d just gained. He would start typing Fa’iza’s
number but could not bring himself to dial. The only thing more painful
than not being able to speak to her at that moment was the knowledge that
she did not want to hear from him. But he needed to tell her. He needed to
tell her that their marriage in Toronto was valid, that she was his wife. She
was still his wife. He needed to see her. He needed to tell her that what they
had – that night she couldn’t forgive herself for – was never haram. They
were never forbidden from each other.
When Audu came out of the house, he found Ahmad pacing the outside
porch, staring into nothingness with his phone in his hand. “Malama
Husseina just confirmed that her sister worked as a wet nurse for another
wealthy family. The pict –” he started.
“Where does her sister live now?” Ahmad asked as they boarded their
flight back to Nigeria.
“Suleja.”
Ahmad could not stop himself from laughing as he looked outside the
cabin window. The answer they had been looking for was just an hour and a
half from his parent’s house in Abuja. On a good day, he could get to Suleja
in 50 minutes; yet it had taken them years – and thousands of miles – to get
there.
* * *
Back in his parents’ house in Abuja, Ahmad watched as his mother looked
at the picture of the twin sisters that Halime had given them. After he and
Audu explained who he really was and the journey that had taken them to
Saint-Malo, both women were moved to tears. Halime said that her mother
spoke fondly of how well his family had treated her, but when she went
back to their house in Tarauni decades later, she was informed that they had
left Kano. Ahmad promised that he would be back to visit. From the files
Zehra provided, he’s seen that Malama Husseina was on a long wait list for
a corrective knee surgery and he planned to take them to Canada to
accelerate the process. That was the least he could do for the woman who
saved him. Twice.
The shock on his mother’s face was evident as she stared at the picture
of the twins for a whole minute before handing it to Ahmad’s father. Next to
her, Afreen looked confused; she looked like she wanted to laugh and cry at
the same time. Unlike her usual self, she had remained quiet as Ahmad
narrated the story – starting from how he met Audu to meeting Malama
Husseina in France. When he ended his story, he requested for his parents to
accompany him to Fa’iza’s house to speak to her parents in light of the new
information. Afreen, still quiet, rubbed her protruding stomach as she met
her mother’s gaze.
“God is great,” his father said, unable to take his eyes off the picture. He
was lost for words and looked at his wife for some sort of help. She moved
her gaze from her son’s excited expression to her husband’s unreadable
expression to her daughter’s confusion.
“I thought you hadn’t spoken to Fa’iza in years?” she asked Ahmad
when she returned her gaze to him.
Ahmad wondered why she was bringing that up. The reason his wife cut
herself out of his life was because of this misunderstanding. Now that it had
been corrected, they could resume their relationship. “Yes – which is why
we need to let them know right away. I have all the evidence they could
possibly ask for.”
The room was quiet for what seemed like forever until Afreen finally
spoke: “But it’s been so lon –”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“What if she has finally moved on? Did you stop to think about that? I –
I just don’t want you to put yourself out there and – and get rejected,” her
eyes were moistening up and tears were beginning to form.
“But she hasn’t,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly. He never moved on, and
neither did she. He knew her well enough to know that just as he never
stopped loving her, she still loved him. This was why she avoided being
around him and why she practically made herself invisible during Afreen’s
wedding, even though he could tell she was looking for him every time she
entered a room. Her eyes would keep searching until they found him, and
then she would avoid that area for the rest of the night.
The sound of Afreen blowing her nose brought him back. He looked up
to find his sister burying her face in her mother’s lap in tears.
“Ahmad, you know there’s nothing that would make me happier than
bringing Fa’iza to this house as your bride,” his mother started, shaking her
head slowly. “I didn’t know how to tell you this, but last week… last week
Umma came by. She came by and… she came by with – with an invitation
to Fa’iza’s wedding.”
“I know Justice Mohammed. He would never go back on a promise he
made – especially about something like this,” his father chirped in. “It’s not
done. It would make him a man with no honor. And that’s not the Justice
Moham –”
Ahmad was watching his father’s lips move but was unable to make
sense of the words coming out of them.
T
brainstorming on their line of action. Ahmad’s priority was ensuring
that no questions were raised about how they got Malama Husseina’s
address because Zehra could easily be persecuted if the authorities found
out. She had broken about three different clauses in her government
contract regarding privacy laws by giving him the file containing sensitive
information on a resident.
For days, they monitored the two women’s routines. Halime’s husband,
who drove a grey Subaru, left the house first with the youngest kid. A few
minutes after, the mother or grandmother would walk the two older children
to the bus stop and watch as they got on the school bus. Later in the day, the
women would walk to the store to get groceries.
One Friday in the grocery store, after Jumaah prayer, Audu bumped into
the older woman as she picked out vegetables. He turned to face her and
started apologizing profusely in English, even offering to hold her shopping
cart for her.
“Bai ji miki ciwo ba, ko? Hope he didn’t injure you?” It was Halime.
“Ku Hausawa ne? You’re Hausa?” Audu’s eyeballs almost popped out
of their pockets as he feigned surprise. He looked towards Ahmad, who was
picking out plums – or more accurately, pretending to – and beckoned him
over. “Zo ku gaisa; come and say hello. They speak Hausa.”
Ahmad walked towards them and the group exchanged pleasantries.
They asked about each other’s countries of origin and what they were doing
in Saint-Malo. At first, Halime was uneasy about divulging any information
about her mother due to immigration concerns, Ahmad figured. But when
he explained that they were working on a project and researching older
Africans in the diaspora, she seemed a bit more relaxed. He even showed
her the falsified identification cards he and Audu hung around their necks.
Three days later, they were at Halime’s house to interview Malama
Husseina for their project. They spent an hour listening to ‘yar Agadez
narrate why she and her twin sister fled their hometown in the middle of the
night. Ahmad thought about how remarkable human memory was – to be
able to remember vivid details from decades ago due to trauma. Her face
was lined with the ordeals of time. She told them about how her husband
had stayed back to cover their tracks so that they could cross over to the
other side safely. He’d promised to meet her in Kano and he waited for him
for years, but he never found her.
Ahmad remembered a migration book he read while in University.
Economic situations, violence and political devastation in the 1990s led a
lot of Fulani, Tuareg and Hausa citizens from Niger to migrate to
neighboring African countries. Most of them went to Nigeria through
porous borders without proper identification; they blended in well due to
some semblance in religion and language. The men found menial jobs
working as security guards for northern households, and many of the
women went into trade. Some women eventually married into northern
families and got absorbed into what was now known as the Hausa-Fulani
tribe in modern-day Arewa.
“How did you enter Nigeria?” Audu pretended to read from the research
questionnaire that made up part of their cover.
Ahmad was sitting opposite them. According to his ID card, he was a
radio program producer. Between them was a voice recorder recording the
conversation, which was primarily in Hausa.
“We came in through Gumel,” her dialect of Hausa was different from
what Ahmad was used to. “We walked until we boarded a commercial bus
carrying rams in Ringim and it took us to Wudil. I was heavily pregnant at
the time.” She had a faint smile as she reminisced.
As she spoke, Ahmad could not stop looking at her; this was a woman
he had never seen before, yet he felt inexplicable compassion towards her
for a reason that defied logic. He almost wanted to ask where she got the
scar on her left hand; he’d noticed it earlier when she rubbed her face after
reciting the opening prayer to start the interview session.
“Wudil,” Audu repeated as he scribbled on his paper. “So, how many
years did you spend in Kano?”
“I was born in Wudil,” Halime answered, walking into the room with a
silver tray and small glass cups. “Ga shayi,” she said, offering Ahmad a cup
of tea.
He smiled and accepted it without explaining that he was observing a
six-day fast for the month of Shawwal. He watched as she poured the hot
liquid into another cup for Audu. “We lived in Kano until I graduated from
BUK. I studied Mass communication.” Audu kept the feigned look of
surprise, even though he already knew all this information.
Halime looked at Ahmad as she sat opposite him, the similarity between
both women was even more obvious now that he was seeing them in
person. “You said this interview was for BBC Hausa?” she asked.
“Yes, and the Voice of America.”
Halime seemed pleased with the answer and as Ahmad watched her
movements, he had the most tremendous urge to ask if she had a younger
sibling around Fa’iza’s age. If it turned out that Malama Husseina was the
one who suckled them both, they would leave the women alone without
them ever knowing what really brought them here. But he knew they had to
stick to the script; they was no need asking such a question right now.
“What kind of jobs did you do in Kano?” He looked at the
questionnaire. “Earlier you said that you didn’t go to school.” Ahmad
listened to her talk about the menial jobs she took up to sustain herself and
her infant daughter. Some of them matched information that they found
about her while they were in Kano. Even though she did not state the years,
she remembered the governors of Kano at various times.
“After that, I got a job in Tarauni in the household of the state’s
Permanent Secretary at the time,” she finally said.
Ahmad cleared his throat, the signal he and Audu had agreed upon to
indicate when something about his parents came up. Audu looked up at
Ahmad and immediately knew they had hit the spot.
“Okay, so this Perm Sec,” Audu probed, “do you remember his name?”
“I honestly can’t remember his name. I never met him. I only worked
closely with his wife whose name was Hauwa, but everyone called her
Mami. She was an exceptionally kind woman who treated me well.”
Audu looked up at Ahmad, who nodded in agreement; that was his
mother. It took all his willpower to sit calmly in the living room.
“What was your job in their house?”
“I breastfed their first son, Ahmadu,” she paused. “It was just before the
elections. I was a cleaner at the hospital when I heard the nurses saying that
the family of a patient was looking for a Muslim with a suckling child to
help feed a young child. I had a baby of my own at the time and the
payment multiplied my salary as a cleaner about four or five times.”
To Malama Husseina’s surprise, Audu handed her an old sepia-toned
picture. Ahmad, a toddler, was being held by his mother, who was sitting on
a chair; his father was next to her, his arms around her. She recognized her
former employers immediately and asked the two gentlemen how they got
the picture. Before he answered, Audu brought out another picture Ahmad
found in one of his mother’s old albums; it was one with Fa’iza’s parents.
Audu asked her if she knew the couple in the picture. She took longer to
respond this time, taking the photograph from him and squinting as she
raised it to the light. “I think I know her,” she said, pointing at Umma.
“Did you ever work for her?” Audu asked.
Ahmad held his breath. The only sound that could be heard was the
ticking of the clock. The hand on the wall clock above the door ticked
slowly; it was as if time itself paused to witness this moment. As he looked
at Malama Husseina, who was still studying the picture, he wondered if fate
had brought him this far and lured him in with the possibility of what could
be only to find out that the same woman was hired by both families at
different times of her life to breastfeed both of them.
“Did you ever work for her?” Audu asked again.
She looked up at him slowly and shook her head.
“Did you breastfeed any other child, after the Perm Sec boy?”
She shook her head again. “No,” she replied. “I stayed in their house for
over two years, helping them raise the child. I couldn’t breastfeed another
child even if I wanted to because I was not blessed with another child after
Halime.” With the remuneration from the Perm Sec’s house, she bought a
house in a low-cost area and started a business selling jewelry, patterned
textiles and mixed perfumes in Kano GRA. In no time, she was no longer
referred to as ‘yar Agadez; all her customers called her Dillaliya, the trader.
The room was quiet for a moment, even the clock seemed to have read
the tone of the room. Halime’s expression had now turned from welcoming
to confusing, as though she were wondering if her previous reservations
were right. Her mother was also confused, but only because she couldn’t
quite figure out the connection between these two women and a BBC
broadcast. Are they in some kind of trouble? She asked herself. Have I said
too much? She looked up to meet Ahmad’s gaze and as their eyes met for
the first time since their meeting. He looked away immediately and headed
towards the door.
Outside, he paced up and down the front yard, trying to wrap his head
around the information he’d just gained. He would start typing Fa’iza’s
number but could not bring himself to dial. The only thing more painful
than not being able to speak to her at that moment was the knowledge that
she did not want to hear from him. But he needed to tell her. He needed to
tell her that their marriage in Toronto was valid, that she was his wife. She
was still his wife. He needed to see her. He needed to tell her that what they
had – that night she couldn’t forgive herself for – was never haram. They
were never forbidden from each other.
When Audu came out of the house, he found Ahmad pacing the outside
porch, staring into nothingness with his phone in his hand. “Malama
Husseina just confirmed that her sister worked as a wet nurse for another
wealthy family. The pict –” he started.
“Where does her sister live now?” Ahmad asked as they boarded their
flight back to Nigeria.
“Suleja.”
Ahmad could not stop himself from laughing as he looked outside the
cabin window. The answer they had been looking for was just an hour and a
half from his parent’s house in Abuja. On a good day, he could get to Suleja
in 50 minutes; yet it had taken them years – and thousands of miles – to get
there.
* * *
Back in his parents’ house in Abuja, Ahmad watched as his mother looked
at the picture of the twin sisters that Halime had given them. After he and
Audu explained who he really was and the journey that had taken them to
Saint-Malo, both women were moved to tears. Halime said that her mother
spoke fondly of how well his family had treated her, but when she went
back to their house in Tarauni decades later, she was informed that they had
left Kano. Ahmad promised that he would be back to visit. From the files
Zehra provided, he’s seen that Malama Husseina was on a long wait list for
a corrective knee surgery and he planned to take them to Canada to
accelerate the process. That was the least he could do for the woman who
saved him. Twice.
The shock on his mother’s face was evident as she stared at the picture
of the twins for a whole minute before handing it to Ahmad’s father. Next to
her, Afreen looked confused; she looked like she wanted to laugh and cry at
the same time. Unlike her usual self, she had remained quiet as Ahmad
narrated the story – starting from how he met Audu to meeting Malama
Husseina in France. When he ended his story, he requested for his parents to
accompany him to Fa’iza’s house to speak to her parents in light of the new
information. Afreen, still quiet, rubbed her protruding stomach as she met
her mother’s gaze.
“God is great,” his father said, unable to take his eyes off the picture. He
was lost for words and looked at his wife for some sort of help. She moved
her gaze from her son’s excited expression to her husband’s unreadable
expression to her daughter’s confusion.
“I thought you hadn’t spoken to Fa’iza in years?” she asked Ahmad
when she returned her gaze to him.
Ahmad wondered why she was bringing that up. The reason his wife cut
herself out of his life was because of this misunderstanding. Now that it had
been corrected, they could resume their relationship. “Yes – which is why
we need to let them know right away. I have all the evidence they could
possibly ask for.”
The room was quiet for what seemed like forever until Afreen finally
spoke: “But it’s been so lon –”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“What if she has finally moved on? Did you stop to think about that? I –
I just don’t want you to put yourself out there and – and get rejected,” her
eyes were moistening up and tears were beginning to form.
“But she hasn’t,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly. He never moved on, and
neither did she. He knew her well enough to know that just as he never
stopped loving her, she still loved him. This was why she avoided being
around him and why she practically made herself invisible during Afreen’s
wedding, even though he could tell she was looking for him every time she
entered a room. Her eyes would keep searching until they found him, and
then she would avoid that area for the rest of the night.
The sound of Afreen blowing her nose brought him back. He looked up
to find his sister burying her face in her mother’s lap in tears.
“Ahmad, you know there’s nothing that would make me happier than
bringing Fa’iza to this house as your bride,” his mother started, shaking her
head slowly. “I didn’t know how to tell you this, but last week… last week
Umma came by. She came by and… she came by with – with an invitation
to Fa’iza’s wedding.”
“I know Justice Mohammed. He would never go back on a promise he
made – especially about something like this,” his father chirped in. “It’s not
done. It would make him a man with no honor. And that’s not the Justice
Moham –”
Ahmad was watching his father’s lips move but was unable to make
sense of the words coming out of them.
T