hotel bar. Sha'ria law on one side, Western sins on the other—each pretending the other didn't exist. She skirted the hotel grounds, where a muddle of foreign words leaked out from barroom doorways, punctuated with sudden bursts of laughter. These would be Nigerian businessmen from the Christian south, or traders from Ghana; there might even be a few pink-faced batauri , what other Nigerians called oyibos. She'd heard how these batauri, foolish and indiscriminate, would fling their money about as though it were dried petals. If she could find a batauri businessman basting in alcohol and blasphemy, she might be able to induce a few nairas' worth of pity money... She edged closer, but a security guard spotted her and cut across, his path intersecting hers, his voice yelling out in anger as she quickly withdrew.
Beyond the hotel grounds, a heavy-set woman minded a fruit stall at a small market. Wealthy, given the quality of her head scarf and bracelets. She scowled at the girl but allowed her to come nearer. The girl pleaded softly, speaking Hausa, her voice dry with dust, palms held outward in supplication. "Faranta zuciya," she whispered. "Faranta zuciya ..."
"Don' me?" the woman demanded. Why?
" Don' me?" said the girl. " Don' me?" In answer, she cupped her belly, looked back at the woman, eye to eye.
The market woman snorted at this, but then, with the slightest of movements, she gestured with her chin toward an overripe mango on the ground beside her stall. The fallen fruit, bloated with sweetness, was shrouded in a hover of tiny flies, and the market woman looked the other way as the girl retrieved its pulpy weight, water can balanced precariously as she knelt.
She crouched in a doorway, ate greedily, right down to the rind.
The sweetness would get her through a few more steps, and as long as she always took that next step, she would never fall.
The day was seeping away. The clay and concrete of Zaria glowed rust-red in the light of a dying sun. People were flocking home, trying to beat the darkness, and she followed them over the rail tracks and across a girder bridge above the milk-tea waters of the Kubani River.
She had entered Tudun Wada, the colonial section of the city, built by the British, its regal facades now faded. As businesses emptied for the day, chophouse light bulbs flickered on. It's not safe here. She could feel this in her belly, and she began to look for a place to hide. She found it along the water's edge, by the marshy shoreline of the river: undeveloped and littered with rubbish and small plots of planted maize. She threaded her way along squelchy grass, avoided voices and well-trodden paths, sought refuge in the burned shell of a Peugeot taxi where she curled herself in, to once again wait out the night.
All through the evening she heard laughing male voices passing by and then—the laughter was upon her. Voices outside the taxi frame. A pause, followed by the sudden sound of piss hitting the side of the car. She cupped her belly to calm it, as though the flutter inside might somehow give her away, and she waited for the moment to pass. The voices grew fewer and farther away until all she heard were whispered winds and the sound of a nearby goat ripping up grass.
She fell into sleep, like a body down a well.
CHAPTER 36
She woke to beauty: the wailing cry of the muezzin calling out to the faithful from minaret heights.
She walked down to the water's edge and bathed in a hidden bend of river. Sifted through cobs of fallen maize along the shore.
No way to cook them, and no time to let them soak in water to soften, but she tucked several into the folded pockets of her robe anyway, would chew on the kernels later if she had to; it might fool her body into believing it had been fed.
A soft light had settled on the musky riverside, and she followed a path back to the bridge. The sleepy streets were filling with worshippers, men in
Beyond the hotel grounds, a heavy-set woman minded a fruit stall at a small market. Wealthy, given the quality of her head scarf and bracelets. She scowled at the girl but allowed her to come nearer. The girl pleaded softly, speaking Hausa, her voice dry with dust, palms held outward in supplication. "Faranta zuciya," she whispered. "Faranta zuciya ..."
"Don' me?" the woman demanded. Why?
" Don' me?" said the girl. " Don' me?" In answer, she cupped her belly, looked back at the woman, eye to eye.
The market woman snorted at this, but then, with the slightest of movements, she gestured with her chin toward an overripe mango on the ground beside her stall. The fallen fruit, bloated with sweetness, was shrouded in a hover of tiny flies, and the market woman looked the other way as the girl retrieved its pulpy weight, water can balanced precariously as she knelt.
She crouched in a doorway, ate greedily, right down to the rind.
The sweetness would get her through a few more steps, and as long as she always took that next step, she would never fall.
The day was seeping away. The clay and concrete of Zaria glowed rust-red in the light of a dying sun. People were flocking home, trying to beat the darkness, and she followed them over the rail tracks and across a girder bridge above the milk-tea waters of the Kubani River.
She had entered Tudun Wada, the colonial section of the city, built by the British, its regal facades now faded. As businesses emptied for the day, chophouse light bulbs flickered on. It's not safe here. She could feel this in her belly, and she began to look for a place to hide. She found it along the water's edge, by the marshy shoreline of the river: undeveloped and littered with rubbish and small plots of planted maize. She threaded her way along squelchy grass, avoided voices and well-trodden paths, sought refuge in the burned shell of a Peugeot taxi where she curled herself in, to once again wait out the night.
All through the evening she heard laughing male voices passing by and then—the laughter was upon her. Voices outside the taxi frame. A pause, followed by the sudden sound of piss hitting the side of the car. She cupped her belly to calm it, as though the flutter inside might somehow give her away, and she waited for the moment to pass. The voices grew fewer and farther away until all she heard were whispered winds and the sound of a nearby goat ripping up grass.
She fell into sleep, like a body down a well.
CHAPTER 36
She woke to beauty: the wailing cry of the muezzin calling out to the faithful from minaret heights.
She walked down to the water's edge and bathed in a hidden bend of river. Sifted through cobs of fallen maize along the shore.
No way to cook them, and no time to let them soak in water to soften, but she tucked several into the folded pockets of her robe anyway, would chew on the kernels later if she had to; it might fool her body into believing it had been fed.
A soft light had settled on the musky riverside, and she followed a path back to the bridge. The sleepy streets were filling with worshippers, men in
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