Born on a Tuesday (7 page)

PART THREE

Words

2009

Jibril is the fastest person I know. He finishes his food, washes and puts away his plates when I am barely halfway through mine. When we have to do laundry for Malam Abdul-Nur and Sheikh and we split the clothes into two equal piles, he finishes washing, rinsing and hanging long before me and even sometimes offers to help with mine. The same with ironing. In the three years that he has been here, he has learned how to read Arabic and everyone says his pronunciation is better than his brother's. At first I taught him Arabic with the agreement that he would teach me English. Now I have nothing to teach him because he has learned everything I know and has read everything I have read. But I still struggle with ­English—he still corrects me every other day. It is frustrating, but he doesn't get tired, even if he has to explain things to me over and over again.

When Jibril first came, he stared away for long moments, avoiding my eyes. He looked like he was both angry and afraid. He reminded me of when I first went to Malam Junaidu's school—how it was all strange and everyone looked like they did not like me. I did not like them. I did not like the way they all stared at me and made me seem like I did not belong there. Like I was there to take something from them. So I tried not to look at him too much and make him uncomfortable and let him stare away and be angry and afraid, because I knew that it would pass. I knew that if you stare enough at something new, your eyes get used to it and it is not scary or strange anymore. He pretended not to be interested when I started telling him of the first time I came to Malam Junaidu but by the time I had finished telling about all the boys there, he was nodding and smiling and laughing.

I don't like the way Jibril returns with a red eye or swollen lip many times after his brother has sent for him. Jibril is too old to be beaten like a child. I don't like the way Malam Abdul-Nur hits people, especially the new boys, who have started living in the newly built rooms by the side of ours behind the mosque. Apart from me, the only people who live in the mosque he does not hit are Umar, Sambo and Mohammed, who act as Sheikh's bodyguards. Last month he whipped one of the boys, Khalil, with a horsewhip until he bled and Chuks had to treat his wounds. Jibril too has whip marks all over his back. He tells me most of them were from home in Ilorin, where their uncle used to beat all the children in his house every Friday, just in case they had done something he didn't know of during the week.

* * *

Last month Malam Abdul-Nur stopped me at the entrance of the mosque and asked me if there was anything I wanted. First I was confused, thinking that perhaps he wanted to scold me for having done something wrong. But then his eyes were relaxed and the lines of his forehead weren't so many and he wasn't breathing hard like he does when he is upset. Reluctantly I told him I wanted a radio that has stations outside Nigeria—something like the big one in Sheikh's office, but smaller, so that I can carry it around. At some point it crossed my mind that perhaps he wanted me to do something for him.

A few days after, he sent for me. He had just moved into his own office at the back of the mosque not far from where our rooms were. The new office has white walls and tiles and a small toilet inside. Since Sheikh has decided to make Malam Abdul-Nur the headmaster of the new school that is to be built on the land adjacent to the mosque, the office will also be the office of the headmaster. I wonder about toilets that are built inside rooms. Will the whole room not smell when someone uses the toilet?

The office has a ceiling fan and a standing fan. The curtains in the office are not the normal type hanging from a rope nailed into the wall. They close and open when you pull a rope that has tiny plastic balls like a small chasbi. Alhaji Usman's workmen built the office and they finished the construction and painting in only three weeks. The same men will build the school.

I chewed on my nails as Malam Abdul-Nur picked up two small cartons from under his table and made some notes in his exercise book. I could not read what he wrote because it was upside down from where I was sitting, but I could see that he was writing in Arabic.

Malam Abdul-Nur did not raise his head from his exercise book when he asked: ‘If Allah asks you to do something, will you refuse?'

When I did not answer, he stopped writing, dropped his pen slowly and massaged his eyeballs. Then he looked at me.

‘No,' I said, confused.

‘Are you just saying it, or do you understand it, what it means to do what Allah wants without any question?'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Are you ready to do what Allah wants when He wants it, without asking why?'

‘Yes.'

‘Yes. I know you will.'

He pointed at the two cartons.

‘Your radio is in the bigger carton. And because of how well-behaved you have been since you came here—I have been watching you; I see everybody, those who are bad and those who are good and those who are just here eating our food—the smaller carton is also for you.'

‘Thank you, Malam.'

‘Will you be able to use the phone or do you want me to show you how to set it up?'

‘Let me try, Malam.'

‘If you have any issues let me know.'

In my heart I should have been happy but I was not. I have a funny feeling about Malam Abdul-Nur, Allah forgive me. It is hard to describe. It is a little bit of fear, a little bit of anger that he doesn't want Jibril to talk to me and a little bit of confusion because I don't know what is going on in his mind. I cannot say that he is kind because he slaps people when he is angry. I cannot say that he is wicked because he also gives people gifts. And Allah only judges what is inside a person's heart.

I came back into the room and saw Jibril opening a small carton just like mine. He got a phone too. I watched how he opened it and put the SIM card inside it. Then I did the same with mine.

Tuning the radio to find stations, I find BBC Hausa and BBC English. I like BBC Hausa. Especially the news. It is surprising that I learn new Hausa words from a foreign radio station. Comparing the news on BBC English to that on BBC Hausa is interesting. Sometimes I do not know a word in English and I hear it in Hausa and I understand. Other times there is a Hausa phrase I have never heard before, like Majalisar Dinkin Duniya, which BBC English calls United Nations. If I had not heard the English, I would have translated it to mean ‘Association of Joining the World.' But then if I had heard United Nations I would have called it Dinkakun Kasashe in Hausa. Words turn into something else when they change from Hausa to English and back.

Sheikh has been planning a fundraising campaign and launch for the new school. We sent lots of invitations out and we expect the local government chairman to come. Alhaji Usman has already pledged to give most of the money once the plans are ready.

A group of five men from England came to visit Sheikh recently and only one of them was white. The rest of them were black and had names like us. The difference was the way they spoke English, just like the people on BBC English. And they spoke Arabic too. It was exciting. I do not know much about this, but I think I prefer England to America. Or maybe it is that I don't like America at all. I did not realise there were black people and even Arabs who call England their country. They don't just live there—they call it their own, just like the white people.

Malam Abdul-Nur raised his hand when one of the men from England had finished speaking. The man had said that Islam means peace and that all Muslims should be examples of peace in the community. Malam Abdul-Nur said he wanted to make a correction.

‘Islam does not mean peace,' he began. All of us went quiet in the room apart from the boys who follow him everywhere he goes and shout Allahu Akbar after everything he says. They are very annoying, those boys.

The way he spoke English, I did not believe it was Malam Abdul-Nur speaking. I was taking notes so that I could find out later from Jibril any words I did not understand. Malam Abdul-Nur's voice was different. He sounded almost like the men from England, as if there was a small man inside him pushing the words out through his nose.

‘Islam means submission. Submission to the will of Allah. And the will of Allah is not the will of the infidel or the will of America. Islam means that we do not submit to anything or anyone but Allah.'

It is not that I do not agree with Malam Abdul-Nur. It was the way he tried to make them look like they did not know what they were saying. We all understood what they were saying. They were telling us to be good and kind to change the way the world sees us Muslims. One of the men said that after the planes entered the tall buildings in America and killed people, many people started talking of Islam as if all Muslims were bombers or terrorists. He said that we must change the way people think of our religion and always ask ourselves if anything we are doing will give Islam a good or bad name.

When Sheikh finished thanking the men for coming all the way from England to see the Muslims in Nigeria and for coming to our small mosque, he spoke about the launch of the new Quranic school and the Jama'atul Ihyau Islamil Haqiqiy—the Society for the Restoration of True Islam. I think the five men were happy with this because they all dropped something, fisabilillah, in the boxes on their way out. I wonder how Sheikh met them.

When everybody had left, Malam Abdul-Nur asked me to help count the money in the boxes. When we counted the last box he told me I could leave. I thought that I would help with adding everything together. I kept all the numbers in my head. In all, we had eighty two thousand six hundred ninety naira. So I was surprised when Sheikh was talking later in the evening about how good their visit was, how full the mosque was and how people dropped ‘as much as seventy thousand naira' in the boxes. I thought it was a mistake but Malam Abdul-Nur was nodding in agreement. I don't forget numbers.

I don't understand why Sheikh and Malam Abdul-Nur are together. They are so different.

The other day, Jibril was teaching me how to use ‘him' and ‘her' in English. It was confusing. He said: ‘Give her her book' and asked me to make the same sentence with ‘him.' I knew it was ‘Give him his book.' But I didn't understand why.

‘Why is it not “Give him him book,” simple, like in Hausa?' I asked. ‘That's just how it is,' he said. ‘English is a foolish language,' I replied. He laughed and said we should see who could remember the most words from the list we had made of words that end with tion. I knew he would win and was just trying to show off. I get confused with tion. Some words end with sion but they are pronounced the same. Many times I think I can never really understand this language. The one thing I know I will never ever get is when to use its and it's. I think I know the difference but Jibril always says I get it wrong when I write.

We kept going, shouting the words at each other, giggling. He laughed at my pronunciations. Neither of us realised that Malam Abdul-Nur was standing by the entrance, watching. Jibril was the first to notice him because he was facing the door. I saw his face change. He stopped saying the words and I turned around. Malam Abdul-Nur said something to him in Yoruba and walked away. Jibril closed his notebook and told me he would be back soon. I felt bad and hoped that he would just be scolded and not beaten.

Very soon I will have memorised all the words in my book. When I find a word in an English book I do not know, I underline it and write it out. I check the meaning in Jibril's little dictionary. Sometimes I don't understand the definition and he has to explain it to me. I like the way Jibril explains things.

‘Oh this one, it is very easy,' he often says.

Then he uses a thing you know to explain the word, giving you plenty of examples and asking you questions until you understand it. Malam Abdul-Nur on the other hand is very impatient and insults you if you do not understand the first time, calling you dakiki, dull, stupid. Once, Jibril explained the word ‘illogical' to me. We had read it in a page from a colourful magazine that was used to wrap kosai that we bought from Saudatu, the older woman who also sells koko in the motor park. He first confessed he didn't really know the word and looked it up in the dictionary, then read the sentence again. The definition was just ‘without logic' and we had to check what ‘logic' meant. He was not satisfied and we went to Sheikh's office to use the large dictionary, which has better definitions and uses the words in sentences. I hate it when a dictionary defines one word with another word I do not know. Then I get lost because I end up looking at other words that interest me and forget what word I was looking for in the first place.

I love learning new words. I love reading the definitions and examples in Sheikh's dictionary, then finding those words in books or magazines and using the words with the only person who can get them, Jibril. Occasionally I find somebody in the park I can speak English with. People are always surprised when I speak English.

I have bought a bigger hardcover notebook and started using the words I like in sentences, explaining them using examples like Jibril does. When this book is full, I think I will have learned enough to teach English.

I feel terrible about what happened yesterday. I could not find Jibril, and his phone was saying it was switched off. I was sure that he had run away like he always said he would because of how often his brother beats him. Sheikh came into our room as I was outside with the others clearing the gutters around the mosque. He found a book with the picture of a naked woman on it called
Every Woman
lying on my mattress. Someone had left it in one of Sheikh's buses and hadn't come back for it for months. So I decided to take it and keep it. When he asked me what I was doing with it, Allah forgive me, I lied and said that I had never touched the book before and did not know what it was about. I told him it was Jibril who owned the book. Sheikh did not say anything. He just took the book away. Then just before prayers in the evening I saw Jibril come down from one of the buses with clothes in his hand. Malam Abdul-Nur had sent him to the tailor and told him to stay there until the tailor finished everything. Thinking of it again, it was stupid for me to think he had run away because all his clothes were there and his phone charger was still in the socket.