Narrator’s Name: Unknown, Still
III. The King, Dihaara, and Time
Hint/Confession: I am still an Unknown person to you. You should also know that I am a character in this story. I have a name, a place of birth, and a place of death. I’m your storyteller. You should also know that there are more than one thousand ways I can tell you about a single beginning. And as exciting as the explore of words mounting numbers, marching time, and gushing tales, just a few beginnings are more than enough. And that’s what I’m giving. Do you want it?
Because now, you’ll meet a king, the thirty-seventh state of Nigeria and time.
Umar’s phone rang and he picked it up. “Hey, Umar. Assalamu alaikum, How are you holding up,” said Saleem Ja’far – the brother, the writer.
“Wa’alaykumus salam. I’m good. You?” said Umar Ja’far – the brother, the boy who came back home.
“Grandfather wants to see us,” Saleem said. And there was silence and it was right that there was silence. Umar knew he’d have to face him eventually, he just didn’t expect it to be this soon. Grandfather was the king of the thirty-seventh state of Nigeria known as Dihaara. A state where the central power rests on a monarch.
“I don’t want to meet him now.”
“Well, you know how grandfather is. There’s no saying no to him. So just get ready.”
Umar didn’t want to go but he knew he had no option, “when?”
“Today.”
“Today? But it’s nighttime. It’ll take you at least two hours by car to get to Zaria. And then another four hours before we get to Dihaara.”
“Grandfather had arranged for a private jet to take me to Aviation, Zaria. I’m in the jet right now. I was in my study when I noticed a tinted car in front of the house. I went out to check who it was that was when grandfather’s call came in. ‘A jet is waiting for you,’ was the first thing he said to me. ‘Get in the car; an aircraft is waiting for you. Board it and stop at Zaria to pick up your brother. From there, Junaid, my aide, will bring you to me by road,’ straight and precise. As if he was reading it off from a transcript in a horror movie. No pleasantries. No explanations of how long we are going to spend there or why he needed to see us. Nothing. Look, I know you need to rest especially after what you went through. If you say you won’t go, that’s understandable.”
“It’s okay, really.” Umar disliked the pity Saleem had been showing him ever since Safiyya died. “I’ll go.”
“Good. That’s more like it,”
“Yeah,” Umar said, and he remembered that it was just yesterday that he came back from Kano. It felt like a lifetime ago. It was as if yesterday wasn’t, at any point in time, anticipated nor did it come to pass. If only all my yesterdays can be this kind, he thought. Like a footnote that has faded and so spares you the burden of the further details. But he remembered all his yesterdays, and as he did he couldn’t help but wonder what awaited him in the next few hours. So Umar told his brother, “I’ll be ready before you get here. Send my regards to Hafsa and Aisha.”
“I will. The same to umma. Tell her I love her.”
***
Umma tried to hide the worry on her face when Umar told her what Saleem had told him. She knew why the king wanted to see her two children. She just prayed for them and wished for their safe return.
Umar had texted Abubakar and Jameel to inform them he was leaving for Dihaara. At least this time, he did the right thing; he told them he was leaving town. When Saleem arrived, umma was happy to see him. Saleem brought her some frozen fish because he knew she loved fish a lot. She thanked him and asked about her granddaughter, Hafsa. “Umma, she’s doing great,” Saleem said. She didn’t know that I was going to come here because she had gone to the evening Islamiyya when I left. I know she’s going to be devastated when she comes back and discovers that I had left without stopping by to say goodbye. It’s just that there was no time. I know I have a lot of explanation to do when we talk on the phone later.”
“May Allah bless her. I really think you should all move back here. This house is way too big for me and Umar.”
“Soon, umma. I’m working on that.”
“And don’t you worry about meeting your grandfather, it’s all going to be fine. Just try to meet your father when you get there.”
“I don’t think meeting Abba would be possible,” Saleem said.
“Just try. Your father hasn’t seen Khalifa in forever,” umma said. Umar’s nickname was Khalifa.
Junaid the king aide’s, interrupted their conversation when he entered the house and said, “Apologies, but we don’t have time to waste. The king expects to see you before midnight. We must leave now.”
“Try to meet your father, will you? Especially you, Umar,” were the last things umma said to her children while she was watching them leave.
***
The two brothers were seating in the back seat of a tinted Mercedes. Junaid and the driver were in front. The two brothers could talk about everything and nothing – both so perfectly. They didn’t speak about what was ahead but they talked about what they left behind. They talked about the most beautiful things that connected them – their favorite conversation. This is to say they talked about Hafsa, their niece. In a way, talking about her was like talking about the immediacy and lateness of what was ahead. Even though what was ahead was meeting grandfather. But to them, the only fibre of time that held water now and forever was Hafsa.
“Stop the car,” Junaid said. Junaid was the king’s most trusted man, chosen only for the most crucial job. He doesn’t leave the king’s side unless it was completely necessary.“Rabe, open the boot now.” Junaid told the driver and then he took the car key from Rabe.
The two brothers didn’t know what was going on. I don’t think even Rabe, the driver knew what was going on. In his bewilderment, Rabe opened the boot. Junaid got out of the car and got a knife from the boot. It was then Umar saw why Junaid made them stop at the middle of nowhere with darkness descending so that every truth was a silhouette of what it once was. Umar saw Abubakar’s car a few miles away from theirs but Umar wasn’t sure if it was Abubakar’s until it came closer.
“Wait, are those Jameel and Abubakar?” Umar said. Abubakar’s car was now parking behind theirs.
“Yes. It’s them and what the hell is Junaid going to do with that knife?” Saleem said. There was fear and anger mixed in Saleem’s voice and with that the realization dawned on Umar. They both tried to open the door but Junaid had locked it.
Junaid went to the driver’s side and gestured to Jameel to lower his window and he did.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Junaid asked Jameel. He was the one driving Abubakar’s car while Abubakar was riding shotgun.
“Wherever the roads take us, mister,” Jameel answered while waving his hand. “Wait a minute is that my friend Umar in your car? What a coincidence! Can you tell him that I said he should call me? I’ve been trying to reach him but I couldn’t get him. Can you do that for me?” Junaid just smiled and walked past Jameel who was almost the same age as he was.
Junaid used the knife to punctured two of the car’s tyres. He punctured two tyres so that they won’t be able to change with a spare and keep following him. “Mr. Jameel Shatima, I suspected you’d follow me. Stop. Go back home, young man,”
“Young man? We are the same age dude,” Jameel said coming out of the car. Junaid turned around and got back inside, gave Rabe the keys, and told him to zoom off.
“Why the hell did you that?” Saleem said.
“My master’s instruction was to bring you two. Just you two. I had noticed them following us since we left Zaria. I’m sorry I had to do that but I have my orders.”
“That was uncalled for. How do you expect them to go back after you’ve stabbed their tyres in the middle of nowhere? Junaid, turn around and go get them this instant”
“There’s a motel close to where we left them. I’m sure one of them would think to go there.”
“It’s dark,”
“It’s 2024, sir. And the road to Dihaara is one of the safest roads there is.”
Umar had been trying to call either of his friends but couldn’t. Junaid looked at Umar through the rearview mirror and knew what he was doing. “You won’t get any network in this car. You can’t contact anyone until we get to Dihaara.”
***
Umar took out his phone and opened a message. He read the message R sent him.
R: Welcome back home, U.J.
I know what you thinking. Who is this? You can call me R.
I actually thought you weren’t coming back. I thought you’re too weak. Anyways, we have a lot of work to do.
Here’s something to keep you motivated about the work we are going to be doing: I KNOW WHERE YOU’VE BEEN FOR THE PAST TEN MONTHS. AND I KNOW ABOUT THE GUN.
He didn’t know who R was and he didn’t want to think about it so he put his phone away.
There was one thing Umar had been wanting to ask Saleem so he did.
“Saleem, do you read your books?”
“Of course I read my books. What writer doesn’t read his book? A writer has to read his manuscript before it is turned into a book.”
“You know what I mean. Do you read your books after it has been published? Simply reading for pleasure without the need to edit or perfect? Have you read your book, The Color of Blood after it was published?”
There was a pause and then Saleem said, “I think every writer has a chapter, a paragraph, a line that he’s written but now doesn’t want to read. Mine is a book. Because when I read it, when I read this – four-hundred and some pages – every word in those collections of words move with my eyes so that my heart walks side by side with the colors I spilled with a pen and pain, and the laws witnessed the sun dry my tears and cursed those moments. Moments I’ve lived never to be revisited but beget to be written because I have to. Because I don’t know any other way to breathe. Because to me, and I dare say people like me, words are softer than air. To write is both to bury and to raise to life. So to answer your question, no I don’t. But I know it like I know the fine substance I breathe.”
Umar understood that but he didn’t think it was fair. Even as they spoke, the book – Saleem’s book, The Color of Blood – that he had read a great number of times was sitting in the car boot in his backpack.
You know that’s the problem with writers. Whatever great work they produce always seems like they are hiding behind their words proffered to their poor audience. Writers are always observing or instructing or narrating, they are never the victims of the burden of the words. They seem close to the words they pour for their audience to fetch from, but in truth that’s rarely the case.
Maybe I am also guilty of that. But we’ll see when you know who I am. Just pay attention.
When Saleem was younger and an aspiring writer, he used to tell them – Safiyya and Umar and anyone who cared to listen which was everyone because he made sure of that by standing up and raising his voice and gesturing, “If words could talk what do you think they’ll say?’
They’d be quiet, which was the response he wanted judging by the glint in his eyes. And then he’d say, “Words don’t just serve as a conveyor of people’s thoughts and feelings, or live in the extent of verbs and nouns and what have you. Words are only as strong as the person who gushes them to stand. If words could talk they’ll learn the word silent only in the context of thought and action, and they’ll say ‘When you speak, give us our due. Please give us our due. That’s what writing is about.”’
That was a long time ago, and Saleem still had those beliefs.
“Four hundred and twenty-three,” Umar said to break the silence that ensued in the car.
“What’s that?” Saleem asked bewildered.
“The pages of your book. It has four hundred and twenty-three pages.”
“I… I didn’t know. As I said, I only read the manuscript before submitting for publishing but never after.”
“You wrote we shouldn’t be afraid of the past and to look forward. Looking forward entailed embracing the past and also looking backward as often as required.” Umar said, hoping Saleem would remember what section of his book he was referring to.
“Oh yeah! I believe it’s the first paragraph of chapter seven: The past is a hollow home. The more you stay, the more you slip into its warm darkness. For some, it’s the warmth that keeps them. The way the extent of familiarity hugs all their breaths and all their dimensions. For others it’s the darkness, a place where their fading color doesn’t matter, neither does the light of morning break it, nor wake it, nor disturb its stillness. Everything lost here is found there. For me, it’s a little of both. A warmth that is dark and a darkness that is warm. I live there. Too found to lose this beautiful home but not too lost to find myself in the present or the future. Even though Safiyya won’t be a part of it anymore.”
Umar didn’t memorize Saleem’s book but when Saleem read those words off heart Umar knew those were the words. For a minute, Umar was surprised then Umar remembered Saleem did say he knew the words like the air he breathed. I guess writers do that, Umar thought.
“These words; I got it all from something Safiyya said. It was a few years ago. It was shortly after she had moved to Kano. I think she was six months pregnant; little Hafsa was yet to become the cute little girl we’ve come to love. Unbelievable how time flies!”
“Where was I then?” Umar asked.
“I think you were in school. Anyway, she called me. When I arrived she told me she wanted to paint Hafsa’s room. I told her she shouldn’t worry herself with such trivial things and reminded her that she was pregnant. She still insisted. So I acquiesced and told her that I thought the baby wouldn’t need a room until she was older and that when the baby is born, she would be in her mother’s room. Safiyya said we were going to paint both rooms: hers and the baby’s, for when she’s grown up.”
“She always had a lot of energy – our sister,” Umar interjected.
“She does. So I asked her what color she wanted and she just laughed. She said she hadn’t thought of that. So as a joke, I suggested red. She said ‘the color red would look great, won’t it?’ I told her I was joking and red isn’t really fit for a baby’s room. And then she said this – and I remember every word – she said, “Isn’t it funny how much we dream of the future? We are not painting a room we are painting a space yet to be touched by its intended occupant. And not just a space; we are painting time and hope and memories that will be touched and felt and leaned on and even breathed on by my little girl. And so today, you and I will make a path to that address in the future. Don’t worry bro, the color red can work. Any color is welcome so far it can carry the future and my baby-girl’s persistent and gentle hands. So far the future knows my girl’s little hands.’ I agreed with her and we painted the room.” This right here was one of the many moments that sowed the immeasurable love Saleem had for his niece. Saleem had revisited that moment time without number.
“Is that also why you named your book, The Color of Blood?”
“For the most part, yes,” Saleem said. “ And that’s why I began the first chapter with:
’What I don’t say, I write. And what I write I say. Unapologetically. But nothing of mine is hidden. Nothing of truth should be. That’s the way all things should be. Truth – any truth – burdens before it unburdens.
’The thing is we, humans, are made up of pieces of dreams and memories – future and past. And whatever piece holds your heart – future or past – that’s where you find yourself going.
‘I’ll tell you the color of blood. No! No! Not red, not burgundy, not crimson, or any shade of red. But the true color of blood.”’
Now, knowing this new information, Umar started seeing the book in a new light. He wanted to read the book again. “Stop the car,” Umar said to the driver, oblivious of both the driver’s and Junaid’s existence until he thought of getting the book from the boot.
“I’m afraid we can’t stop the car again,” Junaid said.
“I need to get something from my backpack,” Umar said, regretting not having the book with him because there was no reasoning with Junaid.
“I’m sorry but our next stop would be Dihaara. I know you think you must get whatever it is you want to get and I apologize but we’d be late if we have another stop and we can’t have that.”
“Umar, what is it you want to take?” Saleem asked.
“I wanted to have another go at your book,” Umar told him.
“I guess I can help with that. I can read from memory if you can remember where you want us to start from.”
“I thought you said you don’t read your book.”
“Yes I don’t but this is different. I’m reading it to someone; which is new and a privilege. Because that someone is you: my kid brother,” Saleem said.
“Thanks,” it felt like old times, and because it did Umar said, “Chapter Seven: Where Air Turns into Color.”
Saleem smiled, then said. “Nice choice. Let’s begin where air turns into color then.
‘The past is a hollow home…”’