After Alhaji - by Big Dee

"Kai, yarinyar nan ta yi sa'a ƙwarai.""Wallahi. Alhaji Ibrahim da kansa zai aura ta." "That girl is unbelievably lucky," they whispered. "Alhaji Ibrahim himself is marrying her." Their eyes never left the gold around my neck. They smiled at it. They blessed it. Nobody noticed the girl carrying it. I was sixteen. My father had barely been buried when my stepmother decided the only way to keep his wealth was to marry me to the richest man in town. She called it protecting the family. The neighbours called it favour. The women said I would never know poverty again. By sunset, I was somebody's wife. The wedding fed half the town. People still talk about the horses. The praise singers. The food that never seemed to finish. Nobody remembers the bride. Maybe because I barely remember her myself. I remember the weight instead. The veil. The gold. The scent of turaren wuta clung to my veil until I could barely breathe. Women smiled as they adjusted the heavy gold around my neck. "You're a lucky girl." I smiled back because that was what brides were supposed to do. I was trying not to cry. The house stood behind high walls and iron gates, large enough to swallow every sound I made. Everyone called it home. I called it the place where doors were always closing. By eighteen, I had stopped counting birthdays. I counted footsteps. Some nights they passed my door. Some nights they stopped outside it. I never decided which was worse. When Alhaji Ibrahim came into my room, I learned to leave before my body did. I stared at the ceiling. At the curtains. At anything that wasn't him. Then Usman arrived. He wasn't much older than I was. Alhaji introduced him as his new personal assistant before leaving for Kaduna the following morning. "Anything this house needs," he said, "tell Usman." I expected another man who had mastered the art of looking through me. Instead, Usman looked at me. Not in the way men usually did. Not with pity either. Just... as if I were there. The first time he spoke to me, I was walking back from the garden with a basket of fresh zobo leaves. "Barka da yamma, Hajiya. Yaya kike?" Good afternoon, Hajiya. How are you today? I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had been interested in the answer. "I'm your boss's wife," I replied. "You should concentrate on your job. You know what Alhaji is capable of." He nodded once. "Sorry, ma." He turned away. Then he stopped. "No." He looked back at me. "No... scratch that. I'm not sorry." I frowned. "I only wanted to know how you're doing." His voice was calm. "If the only person you can see is a husband who isn't even here... that's your choice." He walked away before I could answer. After that, we crossed paths more often. In the courtyard. On the veranda. Near the kitchen. Nothing happened. Sometimes he only greeted me. Sometimes we talked for five minutes. Sometimes we said nothing at all. I told myself we were only talking. I told myself I was only grateful that someone remembered I existed. Perhaps I believed that. Perhaps I simply needed to. Then came the back Monday. December 13, 2010. Alhaji Ibrahim's helicopter never reached Kaduna. The news travelled faster than the Harmattan wind. By afternoon the compound was full. The compound filled with businessmen, politicians, respected clerics, and traditional rulers. Men who had waited outside his office for hours while he lived now competed to praise him after he died. They called him generous. Visionary. A pillar of the community. I sat in the middle of the condolences and wondered if relief could make someone feel guilty. I wasn't even sure we were mourning the same man. I expected freedom to feel lighter. Instead, it felt unfamiliar. That night, when everyone had gone, the house became unbearably quiet. Usman found me sitting alone on the veranda. Neither of us spoke for a while. He poured me a drink. Then another. The silence between us felt easier than the silence inside the house. I don't remember who reached for the other first. I only remember waking up the next morning wishing I could forget it. The lawyer arrived before breakfast. I was still trying to make sense of the night before when the housekeeper asked me to come downstairs. Usman was already there. He stood beside the window, hands behind his back, saying very little. The lawyer unfolded a file. He read through the will without emotion. The house. The land. The companies. The accounts. Everything belonged to one person. "Mr. Usman Ibrahim." I looked at the lawyer. Then at Usman. Then back at the papers. "I don't understand." The lawyer adjusted his glasses. "Alhaji Ibrahim's first son." No one spoke. The room suddenly felt smaller. Every conversation in the garden. Every drink on the veranda. Every quiet moment I had trusted. Nothing looked the same anymore. The lawyer gathered his documents, offered his condolences, and left. The front door closed behind him. "You knew," I said. Usman didn't answer immediately. "I wanted to tell you." "But you didn't." "No." That single word settled between us like a verdict. He walked away. I stayed where I was. That night I locked my bedroom door. I checked it twice. Maybe three times. I don't know. You stop trusting locks. You stop trusting silence. You stop trusting yourself. A knock came. Soft. "It's me." I said nothing. Another knock. Then the handle moved. The door opened. Usman stepped inside. I stared at him. "I locked it." "I have a key." Of course he did. His father owned the house. Now he did. He stopped a few feet away. "My father spoke about you." I felt my stomach tighten. "What did he say?" He looked at me for a moment before answering. "He said you were weak." Another pause. "He said fear made you obedient." He spoke without raising his voice. "He believed people only stay loyal when they're afraid." The room seemed to shrink around me. "I never believed him." I wanted to believe that sentence. I really did. Then he took another step. "But after watching you..." He smiled. "...maybe he wasn't wrong." Something inside of me broke. He reached toward me. Maybe to calm me. Maybe to touch my shoulder. Maybe for something else. I never gave myself the chance to find out. My hand found my father's carved walking stick behind the wardrobe. The first blow landed before either of us spoke again. The sound was dull. Wood against bone. Usman's eyes widened. He staggered forward, one hand reaching for the back of his head. I hit him again. And again. By the time the walking stick slipped from my hands, he was lying across the rug without moving. Blood spread slowly beneath him. I stood there, unable to breathe. Then I ran. Down the staircase. Past the family portraits. Through the front doors. I didn't know where I was going. I only knew I had to get away from that house. Away from him. Away from every room that still remembered me. The darkness swallowed the road. My legs gave way. Something cold touched my shoulder. I flinched. "Sorry, ma." My eyes opened. Usman was leaning over me. His hand rested gently on my shoulder. There wasn't a mark on him. Not on his face. Not on his clothes. "I saw you were shivering," he said quietly. "You had a fever, so I carried you up from the sitting room." I stared. He picked up the glass of water beside the bed and placed it within my reach. "You've been asleep for hours." A small smile. "A bad dream?" My mouth opened. Nothing came out. He waited a moment. When I still said nothing, he nodded to himself and walked toward the door. "Try to get some rest." The door closed. I looked across the room. The carved walking stick still stood where it always had. Clean. Untouched. Then I heard the front door downstairs. It opened slowly. The faint scent of oud and turaren wuta drifted through the hallway before the footsteps came. Heavy footsteps crossed the marble floor. Deliberate. Unhurried. I knew that walk. I had spent years listening for it. One step. Then another. The staircase creaked. The footsteps climbed. My bedroom door stood at the end of the corridor. They stopped outside it. Three quiet knocks. The brass handle began to turn. I closed my eyes.

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