Narrator’s Name: Jameel Shatima
II. All Starts Here
Day: First day after Umar’s return
It was midnight when I received Umar’s text message
U.J: Hey Jameel, I’m back.
That was what the idiot texted. He had finally decided to resurface. I told my cousin, Abubakar Basheer, that if Umar wasn’t dead to have been unable to call and let us know where he had been all this while, I’d kill him. And he won’t be the first person I’ve killed.
I’m a murderer. Maybe.
The security man opened the gate for me. I entered and packed the car beside Safiyya’s Honda. It was seven a.m. when I entered the premises to see my friend, Umar. I turned off the engine and collected myself. Umar arrived late last night. I had wanted to come that night so I snuck into Alhaji Shatima’s house and took one of his car keys. Even though Alhaji Shatima is my father, I do not live in his house anymore but I needed the car because Abubakar was not picking up his phone. I wanted Abubakar to pick me up with his car but the idiot didn’t pick up. That makes it two people I’d probably have to kill.
I had gotten the car key when I called Umar to tell him I was on my way.
I heard umma asking Umar to give her the phone. A few seconds later, she called my name and asked me how I was doing. I love Umar’s mother, umma. Umma is very kind and sometimes, I don’t know what to do with it – the kindness. I didn’t have a mother while growing up. She left me when I was three. More on that later. And by later, I mean never.
After the pleasantries, umma told me not to come since it was late. She advised me to come the next morning. I gave her acquiescence and told her I won’t come. Then I put back the car key in the tray of car keys that were by the door in the living room, went to my apartment, and got to bed.
Now that I was here, I felt glad and a little nervous. I exited Alhaji’s car and closed the door. Before I strode into the house, I heard Umar talking to someone in his room. It was Abubakar, my cousin. How’s that guy here without me? I thought.
As I entered the living room, I saw Umar and Abubakar sitting on a rug that had small pillows strewn over it. There were no chairs.
I hadn’t seen Umar for almost one year. A few days after Safiyya died, Umar left and went completely off the grid. I don’t think even umma knows where he had been. I got his contact only a few days ago from his brother, Saleem. Saleem called me and told me Umar was in Kano with him and that he’d be back in a few days. He told me to check my inbox for Umar’s new contact. Later, I found out that Saleem had also called and texted Abubakar Basheer and Adam Talha and told them the same thing. All these happened within a few days. I was glad time brought us to this moment.
I remember the first call I made with him after getting his contact. It lasted for an hour or so. Sometimes Abubakar, Adam, and I made a conference call with him. All we had was his voice and the memories it echoed. All we had was a dim ray of hope that grew brighter every day, counting down the days he’d be back. We never asked him the obvious question: where has he been all this time?
Now, he has returned. After ten month, Umar has returned. And today was the first day of a new chapter.
When I entered the living room that chilly morning, I stared at Umar. He seemed different but I didn’t know the specific thing that was different about him. It could be the fact that his goatee was slightly longer. Or that his eyes still held that depth that made you forget about the grotesque scar on his cheek (for the record, Alhaji caused that scar). It could also be because he was fair-skinned but, now, he looked darker – maybe that was it. I almost blurted out that he has eventually become black; for a true Nigerian is supposed to be dark-skinned but I didn’t say it. I stopped myself. But I made a mental note to remember to say it.
“Hey, this is not fair,” I said. “U.J, I called you yesterday and offered to bring you home from the bus stop, but you said I shouldn’t bother since you were going to come in late. I called you again after you had arrived and umma said I shouldn’t come, that it was late. Why’s this fella here this early in the morning? Did he sleep over? Did you sleep over, Abubakar?”
“Good to see you too, Jameel,” Umar said smiling, proffering his hand to me for a handshake. “I’ve missed you, you know.” I didn’t shake his hand though.
“Calm down, Cozz! You enter you did not even say salam. And for your information, I came to your apartment after Fajr prayer and knocked but I guess you went back to sleep after Fajr,” Abubakar said. “So I left and came down here. I hope that answers your question?”
“Oh not even close,” I said even though I knew it did. Being me can do that to you: never yielding even if it’s a losing battle. And I rarely lose my battles. You’ll see. “Did you consider climbing up and coming in through the balcony? Did you consider hitting the door with all your might as if you were going to break it down? No, you didn’t. And the worst part of your crime – the very worst is YOU ARE SITTING ON MY SPOT!”
“Your spot?”
“My spot. All that you did this early morning can be forgiven but not this. My spot is off-limits.
“Alright! Alright! You win, your Lordship. I’m so sorry,” Abubakar said. Umar was just smiling at me.
“So Abubakar, has he told you already. Has this man told you where he has been?” I said ignoring Umar’s existence even though I was obviously asking about him.
“Umar, have you told me already?” Abubakar said, facing Umar with an all-too-serious look.
Umar smiled then lowered his gaze. “I know we said no keeping secrets between us,” he began. “But I need you to let this be. I need this one to be mine. I promise you I’ll let you know… just not now. Is that okay?”
“You know her death is not something that happened to you alone,” Abubakar fumed standing up. “It affected us all. You left for ten months without saying goodbye. No one could reach you. We spent most of the days in this house. Sometimes in your room. Your leaving made everything worse. What gives you the right to pack up and disappear?”
I had never seen Abubakar this distraught but it was justified. I hate it when people leave. “Cozz, let it be,” I said soothing my cousin down. “He’ll tell us. If he doesn’t – if you don’t, well you know the rest?”
“You know I will,” Umar said. He stood and pleaded with Abubakar to sit down. No words were uttered after that. There was now calmness in Abubakar’s demeanor. “I’ll tell you guys,” he reiterated. “… Just as sure as Jameel would say I had become black as a true Nigerian should.”
“How did you…” I said surprised. Abubakar and Umar chuckled. “I was just thinking of saying that a minute ago. But of course, you should be proud of that, young man. You are now officially a true Nigerian. And Abubakar, you shouldn’t be laughing. You are the only person in our group who’s not a true Nigerian yet. Please do something about that.” My cousin, Abubakar, was born in Nigeria but his mother is Saudi and that makes him both Nigerian and Arabian – long story, but we’ll get to that. Or maybe we won’t. The truth is, I don’t expect anything from anybody neither do I let people’s expectations get to me.
Umma was in the kitchen. She was on the phone with Hafsa, Safiyya’s little girl. They usually talked in the morning. There is something to that voice. That little innocent voice that coordinates every fiber in your being in the most serene way. And it reminded me of Safiyya a lot. After Safiyya died, Saleem took Hafsa with him to Kano where she now lives with him and his wife, Aisha. It took a lot of convincing before umma agreed to let her granddaughter live far away from her. I haven’t seen Hafsa in a while.
Umma handed the phone over to Umar and he had a long conversation with his niece. Hafsa was upset that he had left. Umar apologized and told her that he left because he had to take care of umma and a few things here in Zaria. Hafsa accepted her uncle’s apologies on the condition that he will go back as soon as possible and that he will bring umma with him. Umar thanked his niece then asked her to give Saleem the phone and the two brothers talked for a while. After that, he spoke with Saleem’s wife, Aisha, and then he hung up.
“Boys, now that your brother is back,” umma said, “why don’t you take him for a walk?”
***
“Give me a minute, will you?” Umar said when we got outside. He walked to where Safiyya’s car had been parked for months. It was covered in dust. He opened the door and sat in the dust and the memories. He sat on the passenger seat where he used to sit while Safiyya drove. He switched on the ignition. The car didn’t start.
From where I stood, I saw him smiling, and almost at the same time, I saw the tears that traced his face. Some weeks ago when Umar was still nowhere to be found I had opened Safiyya’s Honda and sat where Umar was now sitting. And, somehow, the brilliant fragrance was still there. With each breath I took, the memories of the night she died started coming back like a looping slide show. But her amazing fragrance was still apparent in the car months after her death. I knew Umar was perceiving just as I had perceived it. He was tearing up because it still felt like she was beside him, telling him for the umpteenth time to put on his seat belt. And he was weeping because as the memories came, so did the tears.
I also knew the second reason why Umar entered the car, especially when he looked at us through the side-view mirror, hoping we won’t notice what he’d do next. He had created a secret opening and hid a gun. A pistol. He wanted to check whether it was still there.
Umar came out and closed the door. I think he believed nobody knew about the gun. I think he was pleased when he found the gun where he had left it a few days before he disappeared. I looked at Umar intently and it didn’t seem like he picked up the gun. Perhaps he just wanted to make sure it was there.
You might be wondering how I know about the gun. You can as well start being suspicious of me as Umar would soon do too.
But the truth is, the burden of knowledge is the bane of my existence. I know what I want to know and I know what I don’t and that’s why you’re here. Because I’m more permanent than real. Because I know too much broken world, and like a broken mirror, I break reality and see it for what it is.