July 9th For the past eight months since I left Mohammed's house with my divorce letter, no one

seemed to be 'mad enough to get serious with me. Mohammed had already frightened me by being one person before we got married, and turning out to be another afterwards. Then Mahmud frightened me once again by not willing to forget about my first marriage and the fact that he had felt betrayed and couldnt forgive. Perhaps I should be clearer. The fact of life is that all second marriages must have to adjust to the idea that the previous marriage had existed, and in the majority, an adjustment is made. The truth is time would distance us from our past. Yes, I have believed that after second marriage, this time to Mahmud, Sulieman, or any other person, the first one would just fade away. That was what Mahmud had failed to understand. It had not been easy for him to understand that. What a marriage my last marriage had been! I cannot stop thinking of it as I write; I remember how furious I had been those times. No, I must stop. Its pointers worries about the past and anyway I am sure that sort of happening would turn out to belong to just that. The past. I have had my first ray of hope to love again with the appearance of Mahmud and Sulieman almost at the same time. That had been consoling until I found out that even though I had admirers, half of the people I knew were bent on convincing me to give my last marriage another chance.

As I blossomed into a more beautiful and less burdened kind of woman, I felt mature and blessed. I even decided it was important to make a more fashionable impression. So I had sown so many tie-and dye materials. "You look much better these days, Rabiat!" People complimented me. Even mother commented on my new self. Poor woman! She had seemed relieved I had stood my Grounds. She actually hated squabbles. She had a quiet attitude to life. She blamed people for dragging an issue for a long time. "Rabiat, how lovely you look," commented Suleiman, my other admirer, when he came visiting. As a relation of my mother's, he doesn't have to stay in the sitting room or outside like Mahamud; he goes right into my mother's room most times. He is no stranger in the house. Infact, I had severally spent time trying to figure out whom I ought to take more seriously between Mahmud and Sulieman. Time would tell, I used to say to myself. I loved Mahmud because he was my first love and Suleiman because I know he does care very much regardless of my past. In fact, comparing Mohamed and Suleiman to me is like comparing kalangu and goge music. They all serve as musical entertainment but appeal to the audience in different ways. I remember the time Mahmud got angry over my being addressed as 'Mrs. Mohammed ' He had shouted, "Bloody women! Bloody hell!" I know men and women are utterly different but sometimes the little similarities of behaviour makes me wonder if the differences are as great as everyone says they are.
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We soon reconciled afterwards. But only partly. Suleiman, on the other hand, keeps asking me to consider his proposal of marriage if really in truth I do love him as he loves me. Mama dares me to marry one of them if really I am sure of not wanting to go back to Mohammed. What she doesn't know about my state of mind is that giving chances and getting to understand the person's aim require more patience, that the only way I could cope with my life at present is to keep going steadily towards my goal which is towards a less burdensome marriage , if ever there could be such thing. There we sit, Suleiman and I, in Mama's front room, eating together in the same plate. I had brought him a plate but he insisted that we must share a plate in order to gather more closeness and trust. Since history has recorded many a Hausa man as being too chauvinistic to the point of not caught eating on the same plate with a woman, Mama had looked surprised. "Sulieman is pleasant and courteous and is doing very well," she observes after he has gone."You wish to get married again, marry him." "To you he might be okay since he is your relation," I answer, smiling. "No Rabiat, it's because you told me of the argument you used to have with Mahmud. I thought you would prefer a less quarrelsome marriage. "Yes, but arguments make relationships better, Mama."

There is a rumour mother hasn't heard, rumours from Kano. Probably started by aunty Hajara and Mohammed. It's Mahmud who tells me about it. "Your Aunty Hajara had told someone who told me that I should be
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careful how I go about wooing you again, that I might be disappointed once more and that your marriage has not finished because there is room for reconciliation." "Who told you that? Ah, it is not fair! People are spreading this rumours to get back at me. Why?" I almost shout. "Why can't they let me dance to my own music?" Our eyes meet. I now see how much he loves me. Yet there is fear in his eyes. Well, almost. And the fear is about nothing but disappointment. He has confessed to me severally that he is very serious getting wedded to me, but some people have kept warning him.

"That is why I seem to be un-serious about the issue. Rabiat, I don't want to get hurt again, especially by you," he informs me. "My parents didn't tell me about all that. Where is the rumour coming from? Mahmud, just tell me if you don't love me enough to trust me. I am prepared to let you go. You know I am still not healed of the pain of your last letter in which you told me that you'd found another girl that suited you." "I have found out that I don't love her enough to marry her," he answers. "Why then did you write me so soon? Just to get back at me? I ask accusingly. "Not really." "What's not really?" "I think I have made a mistake, Rabiat," he says, getting up to go. "No sensible man ever engages unprepared in a fencing match of words with a woman." I look into the dark, handsome face of Mahmud. I see the scared, innocent heart of the man whose loving eyes look back at me. I hang my
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head in silence. After he has gone this evening, I allow myself to brood for one last time on the unpalatable facts which I know I am powerless to alter; the fact that I had ever married Mohammed and that I have a daughter for him and the other fact that I could go back to him after another engagement or marriage if I wished to. Another hard and irritating fact is that the people concerned in the marriage are not ready to let it be. My father has said if I like I could give it a chance, but he isn't forcing me. Mother has said she wouldn't mind my going back for the sake of Aisha, my daughter. My parents still believe I love Mohammed, while the society believes I am just trying to make a stand wanting to prove what a capable, rebellious woman I am.

"Prove something, like women are something," People keep telling me. "Women can never win," argues my cousin Labaran, whom I saw in Zaria during the Sallah celebrations last month. "Rabiat, you can't get even with men. You would end not having a husband at all, if you continue like this because there are more women than men nowadays," he adds, as if I never heard that kind of diatribe before. "Whether it's true or not, I don't care. I only care about what I am and where I am going, i.e. dancing to my own music," I tell him. "You are selfish, then!" he shoots back mockingly. What it really means is that I am not interested in his so-called advice. As I write, I begin to wonder about what sort of human being people expect me to be. I suppose I have been a good daughter and also a good relation, but what is expected of me is against my own wishes and capability as a woman first and foremost. What right have they got to order, through such insulting words, how to get on with my life? To an extent I will not miss the pleasure of being how I am to the displeasure of being what people want me to be. It is such a case of someone being made to lie on the bed that one did not make. The weather on Saturday is beautiful, soothing with a wind and a bright sun. Mama is having an afternoon nap. I have just finished a very interesting book, and I feel bored. Father has taken to spending much time in Lagos, sometimes staying there for weeks. My sister, has come for holidays, and my brother Bello is
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expected today, while Sadiq, the eldest of the boys, has finished his O-level and is expecting to start in a polytechnic to study marketing. As they have all gone out, I am the only one in the house. Having tidied up my room, which is next to mother's, I pick up the pieces of lace and appliques to sew on my gown. I have been saving them for the right occasion to wear them. Since my tailor stays just nearby, I decided to take a stroll. As I am going by a shop a few meters from the house, a man walking by rapidly stops and speaks to me. If he had not been the first to greet me I would certainly have passed him. It's Samson, my school-mate. He has so much changed that I hardly recognized him. His face looks bogged and his manner is hurried and uncertain, clothes old and somehow dirty looking, He used to be spick and span, confident, almost a fashionable. "Rabiat, I am surprised you didn't recognize me," he stutters. "Samson, but you are changed! And I didn't expect to see you this way." "Mhm!" I answer. I then ask him about his sister. "She,s married." Samson is happy to inform me that he is a taxi driver and ask if I have married. "Yes , and you?" Shaking his head, he says, "Not yet." He asks me to meet him at the mechanic's place on my way back from the tailors. Shortly afterwards, I come back from my short walk and say goodbye to Samson after exchanging addresses. I make my mind to phone Laraba in Lagos and tell her I saw Samson.
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I get through to her minutes later. We talk about Samson and his sister, then I ask Aminu, her husband. "Oh, he said I should tell you he has found another husband for you," she informs me jokingly.

"Really?" "Oh, just joking! But he says if you don't pick one by the end of this month, you should be forced back to Mohammed. It's better than staying idle and unmarried." I trust Aminu to take life so seriously. I can see how people think of divorce, how they perceive it. Divorcing means irresponsibility, and that means a failure one shouldn't endure. I can see exactly how the situation of my divorce appears to people. My father tells me I could go back to my former marriage if I wished to. Mother says I should give it a try again because of Aisha. Other people tell me that the devil I know is better than the one I don't know. One question stands out, though how sure are people that I indeed know the devil they are talking about? It's been almost a year since my divorce but what do people do about it? They talk, they blame, they pester, I feel like running away somewhere I can be myself and have a life not of force or pretence, but a life I could live, not merely exist. What a life! I used to go to see a friend of mine. After she and her husband disagreed, unpleasant consequences followed. What happened after that? They would say I instigated her. They transferred their troubles
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to me. Why? I wasn't the one that made Bebi speak back to him in the way she did. Just because I am a harmless creature wearing the unmarried label, I am blamed. Poor single people! July 13th A whole fortnight has passed. I had not once opened these pages of my diary. Yesterday was all confusion. Must I write? I must. Anything is better than thinking.

Mohammed and his friend had come to see father. Mama is called to the sitting room afterwards. She comes back to tell me the meeting was all about after they had gone. We are sitting in the parlour- the three of us: mother, my sister, and I have been silently watching a Hausa home video on the television. "Rabiat, I have something to tell you," mother says, not looking at me. My sister, who has been sitting opposite us, rises suddenly without a word and leaves the room. "I don't pretend to understand you. I never had," starts mother. "All the same," she continues, "I have realized that going back to Mohammed's house would be one of the last chances you should give to this marriage." "But mother...."

"I know, I know, but your father has accepted Mohammed's apology and has considered your auntie Hajara's letter about your having to go back to your matrimonial home and give it another chance." ... If only I had ran, if only I had ran away. I am thinking. I had anticipated neither my mother's interest in the whole issue nor my father's insistence that I give the marriage a try. For a moment I am so distressed to put straight my defences and, besides, I wouldn't want to hurt my parents. I am very fond of them. I look at mother again. People say Sadiq seems to be her favorite but it appears I am favoured too, because I sense that she makes special efforts to be loving towards me. In early childhood. I had taken this warmth for granted but later, when I was more mature,I started to value it more. My fear of my father has long been gone by the knowledge that my mother would always stop him if he begins to preach his own rules too much.

"But mother," I respond quietly, almost inaudibly, "Have you forgotten how much I suffered?" "I know, Rabiat. Still, you need not upset us by too much complaint. Just try to give it a chance." She does not move. Her eyes are not seeing me. She is looking at some point beyond my left shoulder, thinking. As we sit there, I reckon she understands what I am trying to drive at. Perhaps understanding is one thing and having the courage to display it is another. "Rabiat!" my father suddenly calls from his sitting10

room.

I go to meet him, and meet him pacing up and down the room. I sit on the carpet and wait for him to talk to me. "I cannot let you stay like this," he says coolly, "without doing something to save your situation." "Father, I have told Mama that I wish to go back school, after which I shall marry. I have applied for admission late, that's why you haven't heard anything about the school," I explain. He listens, his face expressionless. The silence yawns between us. When I feel my face becoming hot, I add, "It's not true that I want to consider Mohammed again." "You mean to say you hate him, Rabiat? He responds sternly. "No, father, I don't, far from it. It's the idea about him that I hate." "Of course," he says politely, and after that the conversation is close. To me there is nothing else I could say. When I am finally alone in my room this evening, I reflect on how Aunty Bilkisu persevered when I paid her a visit in Zaria recently. What I saw that day was what makes one pay to stay in a meaningless marriage, or so I thought. I had found her hysterical. "I want to become a wife and good mother. Not some sort of old bag who sits around getting lean and lets those bloody kids scatter my house and brains!" Slaps on the kids.
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More slaps. Tears. "God, what hell marriage can be! She had lamented. "The misery of an unhappy marriage shouldn't be rubbed off on the children. Aunty, they wouldn't like you," I had advised her. "I can see they don't like me but I want peace and order, not affection. I am tired of looking for it in anyone." "I like Baba more than I like you!" wailed one of Aunty Bilkisu's children, as if he had heard what I said. "I wish father buys as another mother tomorrow!" the other boy joined in. What a life. What a family. Aunty Bilkisu's marriage (if such a word can be used ever to describe such a pain-wrecked association) is obviously far from the ideal sort of marriage, as anyone can observe. It's a marriage of convenience, as Aunty Halima would say. The idea that it is a marriage is the only reason that has kept it alive. I have come to understand early in life that a great gulf dose exist between reality and ideology. That's why, when I was growing up, I had loved only fantasy stories. In such stories the princes always fall blissfully in love and live happily ever after in the palace of their dream. I know I haven't been alone in this kind of plight, yet I know that if reality would be half as good as fantasy the world would be a better place to live in. When I look back on Aunty Bilkisu,s marriage, I think it survives because of the courage she and her husband need to show to the world that
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they have not failed. Aunty is enduring it all. She has been simply struggling on day after day and somehow keeping sane. Yet her courage, which hasn't been obviously recognizable, is what has been the factor sustaining the marriage, not love, understanding, or even a sense of duty. To people, she is not a coward, because she has never wished or wanted a divorce. Cowardice means running away from it all. I have been called a coward and I have asked my favourites Aunt." Aunty, why?" Aunty Halima tells me it is because I couldn't stay and fight it out with Tani over Mohammed. However, as far as I am concerned, I am not a coward. I just didn't have a reason to fight. Whenever people tell me what I did was an act of cowardice, I laugh heartily and insist that I am just being self-protective. Anyway, who is not a coward? All sensible people are cowards, when they are off their beat, they are cowards. Anybody that feels he/she is in danger of being roughly handled or rejected is a coward. So is anyone who is afraid to hurt someone. The only remedy for peace is cowardice. Sensible and successful people depend on it. When Mahmud comes around that evening I don't tell him what transpired between my parents and me about my going back on my words. There I sit with him on the back veranda of our home, playing a game of ludo. Whenever our eyes meet, I know that my eyes are betraying me. I know again that I am not heroic at all, not because I couldn't be a heroin as far as coming face to face with my reality Mahmud is concerned. I can't hurt him.
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14

So I don't tell him. I am writing these lines in the solitude of my room, long after midnight, having tried very hard to get a wink of sleep. A'isha has been brought to me by her father's friend, Aliyu. She has grown taller than I imagined her to be. Over the six months I hadn't seen her, I wouldn't know she was the one if she had turned her back. When she was younger she had looked like Mohammed. Now at ten years old people comment on how she has changed. Anyway, she has been the golden girl, Mohammed's adored only daughter for now, doted on by relations as either 'cute' or sweet when they believe she looks like Mohammed. "Sunshine, do you miss me? I ask little A'isha. "I miss you everyday mummy. Aunty what's her name...? said Aunty Tani is my mummy and I told her she wasn't. Comes the response. "Of course, I am your mummy and Tani is only an Aunty," I say jealously. A'isha tells me she loves school. Her report says she always comes second in the exams. There are certain situations in life which aren't subject to the power of one's will, and very unfortunately Aisha's circumstance seems to be one of them. After long I feel like crying my eyes out. I say to myself, "Let it be." She stays with me for seven days. A day before Aisha is to be taken back, she confided to me that Tani is going to have a baby soon. I hear her but say nothing.

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"My daddy gave party for me and I wished you were there," she tells me sadly on our away back from the market. As the car comes to roundabout, she falls on to my side in the car and stays like that for long time. "I have a friend in the school whose mummy said she knows you," she says with a sigh at last. "What's her name?" "Maryam, and she said her mother once left to go back to her parents' home and she cried so much. Her mother did come back. Would you come back if I cried for you?" This is too much. To divert her attention, I give her my wristwatch and ask if she can tell the time. "Five thirty!" she shouts, the last issue forgotten. At home, mama is waiting to tell me that Ali has come to tell us to get Aisha ready to leave tomorrow morning. When I tell A'isha, all of a sudden she becomes very quiet and withdrawn. Later in the night after she has bathed I am consoled she can bathe herself properly as I supervised her she looks very clean and fresh in the new nightdress I bought for her. The sweet scent of Saturday night talcum powder drifts towards me. A'isha's dark, plaited hair, which is much darker than mine, is neat. "Tell me a story, mummy, before we sleep," she begs, yawning. I tell her the tale of a prince who fell in love with a young, ugly and abandoned village girl and they succeeded in marrying each other and living happily ever after. "That should be you and daddy," commented A'isha sleepily.
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"No, your daddy wasn't a prince and I was not a village girl," I answer, hoping to distract her from thinking about Mohammed and I. What things go on children's mind! The following day is miserable for me. Quite so. Aisha is about to go because Aliyu has come.

"I don't want to leave you mummy," she groans tearfully as all of us lead her to the waiting car. My gives her a hug after Mama did. My arms tighten around her when it is my turn to hug her. She raises, her tear-stained face to mine, and pleads tearfully, "Will you come to take me with you to ask daddy if I could live with you? I put her down and rush inside, because the world has suddenly gone dark. July 20th Grandfather, who had an attack of stroke two years ago, is dead. To say that he died instantly is an exaggeration as he had lived after the attack. He spent the days in a coma and he never regained consciousness. What a merciful release! Death is all right because we must all die some day, but it is the idea of dying that is the nightmare. People from all over Zaria, Rigachukun and Kaduna come to condole us at our family house-receiving visitors with Uncle Aliyu, his cousin, uncle Aliyu and uncle Mudi, both his second cousins. In fact, father and his relatives are demonstrating how a genuine grief can be displayed with dignity by not shedding tears as women do. They hold on to their prayer
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beads and make some rounds chanting the Qur'anic verses that beg for the deceased's soul to rest in peace. Meanwhile, inside the house, there is more noise as some relatives go about distributing food while some sit dewy-eyed with swollen faces and said expressions. "May God forgive us all and grant us paradise, amen," My grandmother prays. "Amen!" we all chorused.

Aunties Hajara, Bilkisu and Halima are in the visitors' section, busy distributing drinks and food for the numerous visitors. Old, young, near and far relations fill the house to condole us. Mohammed and his relatives come, too. A relation of mine, a foolish but kind-hearted girl who came with grandmother's sister from Rigachukun, snuffs and sniffs entirely throughout the afternoon, as I sit beside her. "Uwa, here is your plate of food. Have some so that you could go and help grandmother distribute other dishes to her friends," I tell her. "Hmmm," she answers. I sight Aunty Bilkisu looking about her, probably looking for one of her children to see if they have eaten. She had wept ceaselessly yesterday, and grandmother had to lecture her about accepting God's will, before she sobered down. Musi weeps in the most vulgar way, as could be expected. Shouting lamentations and asking about whom would be his father now

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that God has taken back 'his father,' he laments that he has never loved even his natural father the way he loved grandfather. Suleiman has ventured into the house since he is a relative and says his condolences to the women and grandmother, while Mahmud sent an old lady from outside with his own words of comfort. It's quite a reflective day. It is the following day, being the third day of mourning, that Aunty Hajara starts talk about Mohammed. We are all sitting round grandmother, who has been more silent than ever, perhaps thinking of the days gone by. I am sitting next to them when aunty Hajara says It is a pity uncle has not been destined to witness rabiat,s going back to Kano. "That is God's will," replies grandmother Life is nothing, Rabiat," says Aunty Hajara looking sideways at me, "Give Mohammed a chance " Did I say life was more than what it is?" I shoot back angrily. Sensing that it was Indeed an emotional blackmail. "Don't be rude to your aunt," grandmother cuts in I got up from Where I Sit and over to another group of relations. My

mind jumps to the last time I saw grandfather. It was in the hospital. It was after he had taken his usual lunch of pap mixed with water that we started talking Rabiat, what have you been up to these few days? Isnt

the rest from the marriage enough? Or does that mean that I have finally 'snatched you but don't I have another rival?" he asked jokingly. I had laughed out loud enjoying the grandfatherly joke.

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Sometimes grandfather liked to call me 'wife' in his less serious moods; in the Hausa Fulani custom, it is alright for grandparents to address their grandchildren as spouses The relationship between grandparent and grandchildren is of playmates rather than serious relationship like in the case of fathers uncle and brothers. So it is alright to feel free with grandparents. grandchildren. "Soon I hope to settle down, grandfather," I had replied, laughing heartily. " In God' s time you will," he had prayed. "Rabiat, he said, adjusting his head, which was propped up on the pillow. "Be truthful and guard you conscience against whatever you do. If you do so whatever mess you get into, you shall come out of it, God willing. "Here is a philosophy for you. Know that what you give is what you shall receive in terms of good or bad. This is the only kola I can give you now that I am in the hospital bed." "I understand. Thank you grandfather. It's good of you." "Yes but I am a bad man, Rabiat." I sat up, surprised. "Why? What's wrong?" I asked, electrified. "Of course, I am a bad man because I say what people only think. When the rest of the world decides to accept the mask in place of the face, mine is without the mask," he explained cryptically. I dont pretend I am straightforward. Without grandfather explaining more, I understood fully what he had meant. In short, he was realistic and unpretentious person, to say the
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We

are

pampered,

teased and played with

as

least. Looking at his frail body on the bed, I felt tears well up in my eyes. He looked so serene, peaceful. In that sacred rest I left him. Let him remain undisturbed. And now as I ponder, my lips motionless. I pray quietly: May his gentle soul rest in peace.

JULY 31ST It has been three weeks since grandfather, s death. I go this afternoon to see grandmother and deliver a message to her from father. On our way I tell the driver that I would like to spend the whole day there in order to visit some friends and relations, and he answer, "No problem, ma." Also, I inform him that he could have some rest while I do my rounds on foot. After I have stayed with grandmother for a few minutes, she tells me that my friend Bebi has come to condole her and that she sends her condolence to our family in Kaduna, too. "Are you dropping to see her today?" she adds. "No, I shall go round to other relations' house I would like to see Cousin Labaran. Bebi's house will be next time," I explain and grandma understands. So I go to Labaran's house. His section which was built mside his father's compound is very clean.
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I announce my arrival from outside and walk inside after exchanging greeting with some women outside the room. Labaran's wife, Amarya, is writing something on a piece of paper. She stops and gets up to welcome me from inside the second room of her palour,being her bedroom. I must say I find her looking disturbed and wearing a very unfashionable dress which is too loose and has different wrapper which didnt match. I feel like saying to her, "Why, Amarya, what's wrong with your dressing? You look awful!" But I restrain myself from saying so. Since I would not like things to be concluded about me like that just because of mere appearances, so it is my duty not to say anything to her until she needs to be told. After greetings she tells me that Labaran has gone to the market to do some shopping and she has been writing to her father to report him about something. "Hmm!" I grunt "So maybe you are not supposed to see me looking like this. I even forget I was dressed this way, wearing a different wrapper from my dress," she says apologetically and promptly breaks down, sobbing. I stand there, arms akimbo, not knowing what to do Or what to say. "Your cousin is getting married soon," she continues in between sobs." I am not staying with him anymore, I am fed up and to cap it all, he is marrying a secondary school leaver. I have not been to school, you know. He has been making so much noise about it, telling me that soon
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he is going to feel like the enlightened man he had dreamt of being, and that he would start life as a new person." That unfair, I must say. Why did he marry you in the first place if he knew he was going to find you uncivilized later? Uh hum Rabiat thats why I like you, you speak the truth. Let me go to the kitchen and come back.

She gets up and goes to the kitchen to start preparing for lunch. I watch quietly, still at a loss about what else to tell her to put her mind at ease. I am brooding when Labaran comes back. "Hello Rabiat. You? today in our house? Hmm!" he feigns a surprise. "It isnt you I came to say hello to I came to see your wife." I answer. Sitting down, he picks up a copy of a weekly newspaper and starts to browse through it. "But it's too early, Labaran. You have married only eleven years," I start, trying to dissuade him. "Must you marry again at all?" I add pleadingly. "I have had no intention of marrying until I fell in love with this girl, and I had never done anything ever since I met her except think of her, and dreaming of a life with her." he explains helplessly. Just then, I hear a male voice announcing himself. It's Nasiru, Labaran's childhood friend. I am glad to see Nasiru after so many years. There he is, looking distinguished and his usual handsome self. He had once sent me a love letter when I was in secondary, to which I never replied. I didnt know how to answer love letters then even though I had a crush on him too.
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Nasiru takes his seat in small, compact sitting room and asks after me and my mother, whom he says he hasn't seen for some time. "Oh we are all fine," I reply. "Why nasiru? Maybe you've got married ever since without letting us hear about it," I say to him accusingly. "No I haven't, rabiat." You are long overdue, Nasiru," I observe earnestly. "Well, I couldn't get a wife." "Are you serious? You!" "Of course, I am, since you are around, would you marry me? And when?" he teases. "Tomorrow. I am not doing anything tomorrow," Comes my equally teasing answer. We all laugh heartily. "No, I am serious, nasiru. Why aren't you married? I really want to know why," I insist. "It's because I once said I loved you when you were in secondary school and you never returned my love and I lost interest in love altogether." " No,Not because of that," I say sourly. "You see, rabiat, I've had so many relationships and have even got engaged and called it off. I prefer to stay unmarried for a much longer while." "Yes, but I had no intentions of marrying until I find a woman who could communicate with me on the levels other than the horizontal, you
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know what I mean. He said winking.And since I myself was apparently unable to do anything except look at women in that way, this paragon of womanhood has proved to be as elusive as ever because almost every girl I met thinks that way. I want a

less boring companion , infact I want a wife who would stimulate me mentally." "Then you ought to marry a robot woman with a high I.Q., I tease. "Is that what you really advice me to do?" Nasiru is looking at me in a way other than the one I knowin a romantic sort of way. I look away. After lunch I take excuse to go. "Why, Rabiat, are you going too soon?" asks nasiru. "Yes, I have stayed two hours." "I am not tired of seeing you, rabiat." Then what stops you from visiting me to see me when you want? Indeed I must. After saying goodbye to Amarya, who says she would like to have some discussion with me when next I visit Zaria, because as she confessed our discussion isnt finished yet. I assured her I shall come because of her the following week, and I would make sure I come when labaran isnt at home. I stand up to go. Nasiru tells Labaran to sit and wait for him while he walks me to the car. "I am not going by car, I am going to Aunty Halima's house straight from here on foot. I enjoy it." I tell him. "'Oh, is she still living in her late husband's house?"
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"Yes." Outside, he asks me of telephone number, which 1 give him. Before turning back, he takes a look at me and says softly, and earnestly "I love you, rabiat, I still do." My heart skipped. After seeing Aunty Halima and Aunty Bilkisu, we drive back to Kaduna this late evening. Later in the night when I return to bed I sleep off immediately. Tired. A few hours later, Nasiru's husky voice tears into my mind, telling me he loves me, and I wake up. What's wrong with me? Am I a flirt or what? Maybe I am in love with his frank, simple, affectionate ways. Maybe. I open my diary to write this confession out of my mind. If I have not had a relationship with Mahmud and sulieman, I would have given Nasiru a chance but how do I deal with three loves at a time? Am not confused actually because I love each of them in my own way surprisingly. I must confess in these pages that Nasiru has interested me, attracted me and forced me to remember how I felt for him years ago. In those two short hours, he had warmed his way into my heart again. Let me see who loves me better. There is a hausa proverb which says love the one who loves you more than the one one you love. Huh! AUGUST 6TH Laraba has phoned to say she is coming! What a relief. I have a lot to discuss with her. Being my childhood friend, there has been no one I can confess things to like her except my diary, of course; not even my mother can know some of my secrets.

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Every woman needs a special friend of her own sex with whom she can have talk about everything from cooking to male monsters and I have mine, laraba and father. I miss Fatima who had been transferred to yola with her husband but as she had told me over the phone, they hope to come back in a year,s time. Laraba has become that special kind of friend who knows me well enough to predict me anytime. It makes no difference whether she understands or not. She always has lots of sympathy when am in a mess or delima. We have listened and consoled each other over the years. Her problems are over by her marriage while mine started after it. Such is life. I would not think of what Laraba would say if I told her how serious things are getting from the other side in Kano and how I cope with my flirty attitude loving three men at a time. Did I say loving? I will wait till she comes anyway. I'll think of Uwa instead. Poor Uwa has been staying with us for weeks. Her mother, my grandmother's sister from Rigachukun, brings her over so that we can find her a husband. Uwa has insisted that she will only marry somebody from the city, and not the village she came from. She had confessed that her Class is not that of village, and that shes too classy for village guys. Being the youngest of all her mother's children, she is doted on by her mother.

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Poor Uwa! I have been drumming up eligible men for her to marry like our relations here in Kaduna but, alas! I know she hasn't a hope of suiting them. She's nineteen years and ready to be married but has never had anyone in love with her. What can it be to a girl of nineteen, six feet tall, with mousy hair, deep set eyes and flat bosom? How unfair it is that the success of a woman's entire life depends on her physical appearance! I honestly do feel very sorry for Uwa and so, although she drives me to distraction with her boring conversation, I make every effort to be nice to her especially when I had nothing to do and want a bit of humour. Bello, my brother, treats her like an imbecile. It is men like Bello who make life hell for women like Uwa. The other day, a friend of abu's came to visit. After he had gone, Bello was wicked enough to let Uwa believe the friend was in love with her, which was not so. Uwa, with her usual naivety, thought it was true and would from then on always dress up, waiting for the him to reappear. He never does. Since then Bello has kept congratulating her on her newfound lovers anytime his friend or abu's friends do call. " You see this other guy? " he would say to her. "Yes, you mean the one with the glasses that came today in the morning?" she would answer. "Yes, yes! Okay, he said he loves you also," Bello would tease her. "But they never talk to me. Why?" They dont talk to you because they think you too classy and are afraid you wouldnt answer them. "I will, I will! You know I will," she would remind him, stupidly.

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"It is not fair," My sister, would say. She has tried severally to make Uwa understand that her stupid crushes on abu or anybody's friend is not going to get her anywhere. But Bello teases, and Uwa responds. Poor Uwa! Poor innocently stupid girl! Lately Sadiq told me that Musi was interested in Uwa. I don't know how far this is true. The only truth I know about the certainly of what Sadiq told me is that I once heard grandmother says it would be a good idea to have them both joined in marriage. I had laughed at the idea and asked her if she had dreamt about it or it was only her sixth sense that suggested to her how comfortable Musi was with Uwa. Grandmother had shaken her head and said, "I am not a fortune teller. But the best person for uwa is musi, because when one knows two people very well, one senses instinctively how they will behave in certain situations or what sort of person they would get on well with thats old age thats experiance," she explained. I can remember how relieved I was about the compatibility between Musi and Uwa because lately I had sensed a heart break for Uwa if she should insists on clinging to Garus, abu's irresponsible friend Garus, who has been Sadiq's friend since time immemorial has severally stayed in our house. Telling lies is one of his specialties he steals too. Everybody knows because he has told some untruth about his circumstance of birth and his parentage. Mother has insisted on not sending him away whenever he visits though. She had insisted every boy is like a son to her.

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The first time I noticed Uwas love for Garus was when I felt had to quit my misery by playing the song it,s not right,but its okay from the cassette recorder in the family sittmg room. Suddenly, Uwa shouted for asharalle I gave up. Uwa started to dance, after which I left the room, after some time I came back for my cassette and found Garus had joined her while Sadiq and Bello cheered them Later one night, uwa had told me she liked Garus typical of her. It would take a foolish girl like Uwa to fall for a lay about like Garus. He works in the city somewhere but calls himself a businessman. I don't believe he is ever more than a clerk because he never agreed to show us his office but Uwa confesses to me that she thought he was sexy typical again. He is a heavily built person, with curly hair who is very proud of his Fulani charms Uwa, are you sure Garus is the right person for you? I ask with seriousness. "But he is such a catch, Rabiat!" she sighs. "And the lovely thing is that he is like one of the family, so I don't have to explain anything." '

Not wanting to hurt her by further discouragement I decide that things that seem so wrong can be right after all. Maybe she can make him a better person and he can make her a wiser person.

Tomorrow I heard that uncle aliyu might come. Maybe he would tell me that going back to my former husband is the only course 1 should take.
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My sister confide in me that she heard mother arguing with him over the matter on the phone and that she has heard mother telling him she was expecting him, before replacing the phone. As soon as I found myself alone after that news I become restless. The one question which remains is, am I capable of taking this step? It's tempting just to answer 'Yes' or No' and my answer is no because it is only I who knows Where my roof leaks as the proverb says. I know what I had been through. I had I am bound to feel guilty if I don't listen to Uncle and my parents. No, I mustn't despair. I must live in the hope and gather some strength to face my fate if that's the way God wishes it to be. Soon after four oclock the following day I am summoned to my mother's room. As I head there I am hoping how I could outwit Uncle if I am lucky enough. Uncle has the reputation o being outspoken and honest. The first thing he says to me after I greeted him and sat down beside my mother on the carpet is, "Rabiat, if you want justice you have to hear us and respect us." I stare at them, thinking God help me. Of course I do respect them. Why should they have any doubt that I respect them because I am honest enough to own up to my weakness of not taking any more pain? I am human as well as woman enough to know what I am up to. So why? They shouldnt try to make me guilty of disrespect. I feel so vulnerable that I should be judged so by the people whom I more than anyone need to be praised by.

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Father scratches his head awkwardly and turns the other side as if he can't bear to look at me. Mother is quiet while Uncle pleads with me to give this marriage a last chance. "You see, Rabiat, we all in a muddle. Mohammed came to me and there is no way we could ask you not to consider him. Firstly, you have a child with him and secondly he seemed to be sorry. So what should we do other than urge you to try again? Please give us all a last chance!" When he has finished, I say, "The problem is the attitude, not the man." "Don't worry. Everything will be alright, we are praying for you." I try to speak, but I can't. "Take things easy, Rabiat. All will be well, God's willing," Uncle says when he notices that my eyes are filled with tears. "Okay? Now just leave this to me. Go and dry your eyes. I shall see you later.," he finishes. Back in my room I sink on the bed, shed some tears, glance around the room and give huge sigh and told myself if thats my fate I have to bear it. So I had been taught in my Qur,anic school. That cures me. Much later in the night, after my mother has told me that Uncle and father wish the engagement to take place in a week, I decided to break the news myself to Mahmud. I spend about an hour thinking of how to begin the letter. At last I write one, which goes like thisMahmud, I can't think of how to begin this letter except to tell you that I care. Mahmud, I cannot see you again because I shall be
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going back to Mohammed soon due to some pressures. I am sorry for the unhappiness I might have caused you. I suppose we were wrong in thinking that we could have a future together.I don't expect you to understand or even forgive me, so there is no need to reply my letter. I can guess how you might feel, that's how I am feeling, too. It's just I have to tell you this before someone else does. I must close by telling you that I did love you and that's all I can say for now.

Rabiat. I immediately send my broyher with the letter before I can tear it up. Soon there is so much rumour about me once again. For once people are right in their prediction about my going back. To console myself I think of how happy Aisha will be to have me back. I dare not think of how Mohammed and his wife are going to behave this time around. Anyway, I should just concentrate on the positive and happy part of having my dearest daughter with me once again. Ten days after Uncle's final discussion it isn't a surprise when I received Suleiman's letter from Jos. If it wasn't mother that told him, he might have heard it from somewhere, I think. The letter makes me very thoughtful. It reads thus:
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Dear Rabiat, Allow me to congratulate you on your engagement. I am happy that at least you are taking another step towards solving your life's problems. This step by worldly standards in quite splendid. Judging by your recent confidence to me on the subject of marriage I have reason to believe that this is not your doing. I never expected you to change your mind about what we talked about. If you are quite certain that you wish to go back, good luck; if not I don't try. It would be the greatest mistake to marry for worldly gains alone. I am asking you, rabiat do you really love Mohammed? Can he make you laugh as I do ? I shall miss you, my love. Please do not take offence at my letter. I am aware that you are a mature woman of thirty. If you believe in your decision then I congratulate you once again even though I feel very much deceived by you, infact I feel stupid for thinking you cared enough. Yours Sulieman.

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I smile after reading the letter, not because I find it funny but because I didt know what else to do. Hes made me feel terribly guilty, I feel bad. But what can I do? Since guilt and unhappiness about the whole matter and how everthing happens that prevents me form being out and about I stay mostly at home. When I tell a' isha the news on the phone when I visit a friend's house, she is overwhelmed. Thrice in a month I go to the phone booth to call her since our phone line has been permanently dislocated because of some major electrical problem; father's mobile phone is always with him and he hardly stays at home ever since he ventured into politics a month ago. The night I am supposed to have my last sleep in my father's house Mohammed invades me in my sleep. I dreamt of my Kano arrival I saw Mohammed. He comes to meet me at the door as 1 arrive Kano. His face isn't showing any emotions he just opened the door to let me in and turned back into the house without saying anything to me, not even a word of welcome. When I abruptly wake up I pray he would not be as I saw him in my dream. I must stop worrying. Worry is an enemy of a well- ordered mind. The following day as I slam into my dependence I say bye to my independence once again. Mother wishes me good luck and soon I am on my way to Kano, escorted by my aunties. September 3rd
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As early as the end of August, the daily course of our lives has assumed its settled direction, and we three- Mohammed, Tani and I were as completely insolated in our own section as if the house we lived in had been a desert and the streets outside of the house seemed like the sea. I could now on some leisure time begin to consider what my future plan of action should be, and I might arm myself more securely at he struggle for my sanity due to Mohammed and Tani' s atrocities. I give up all hope of appealing to people, mostly my friend Labara and mother or Aunty Halima, for good counsel. Since my love for Mohammed is not more in amount than my sense of reason, I thank God. The outward changes brought about by psychological suffering are there for all to see again on me. I have had my own observations. They are not getting any better in previous months when I had been away. If people had seen them together enjoying themselves, there would have been no cause for alarm, but now that I am back everything that happens is like it is being aired on the radio. Just as there are meddlers in any marriage there are more in the mind. The meddlers believe I don't know what they say or p<an between Mohammed and I. Sometimes Tani gets as much as she can of stories about me from my so-called friends. The way she eyes me and hisses whenever she sees me confirms that. I even learn that she has got supporters too and has severally exchanged words with my supporters. Funny. There are now real-life examples that show I am not meant to be in this house. My only pleasure is in being with my daughter. To be truthful, that is
36

not enough. It is not enough for a woman like me in her early thirties, who is sentimental enough to have a crush at he idea of a nice, sensitive and understanding man. I can't pretend to be seventy years of age as far as my sentiments towards love are concerned.

Most times we watch films chewing at something: chocolate or biscuits, while we watch comedy videos. I help A'isha with her homework and sometimes we even go for a stroll, but still something is missing. In truth it is. I don't feel settled and there is no sense of belonging on my side. I feel outside but yet inside. I phone Asabe to tell her I am going to see her newborn baby, which she got two days ago. No, I shall wait till weekend when A'isha will not be going to school in the morning. Tomorrow being Saturday, I am looking forward to that outing. Mohammed? He doesn't mind whatever time I go out. He seems engrossed in his own time with Tani. I'm supposed to be just an addition to the family. There is A'isha the following morning, bathed and ready to go to see Asabe's new baby: "When are you getting me a new baby, mummy? 1 hope it will be soon because I love babies. I can feed them and take care of them," she says excitedly. "I will try." I can't blame A'isha; she has spoken to me as only an only child could. She has told me her thought as any child would. A child who doesn't have

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an idea that he parent's marriage is on the rocks once again. An innocent and blameless child who suffers due to no fault of hers. I ask Mohammed for the car keys, as I can drive, since the driver is on leave. He hands the keys to me without saying a word. Soon, we are driving towards Asabe' s house. Soon we are in her spacious house. I meet Asabe's husband at home. "It's you, Rabiat! Do come in," he says cheerfully as he meets us at the door. The house is still the same house but now they are richer in furnishing. Asabe runs to embrace me while

A'isha tags along and greets her obediently. "Hello my dear," Asabe says as he hugs A'isha. "I must say you guys make a charming couple," I compliment Asabe while we are alone in the room. She has taken A'isha to the sitting room, to watch The Simpsons on the TV. "Yes, Rabiat, everything is okay now. I wouldn't change him for a hundred Umars. What about you? " "Hmmm!" I sigh. Then she says, "You know, we had a rough time in the beginning, but with love and understanding we conquered all our problems, which had to do with living together. Whenever two human beings exist side by side, there have to be arguments and differences."

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I rise to have a look at the baby. "Oh he is so sweet, your happiness seems complete." The door opens and suddenly Asabe's husband comes in, carrying with him some roasted meat and yogurt. "Here you are," he says to her. "For your visitor." "You shouldn't have bothered yourself..." I begin. "No. It's my pleasure, anything for my darling wife," he remarks and winks at her as he leaves the room, asking after Mohammed. "I know he is not the easiest of men but I thank God we are living peacefully," says Asabe, adding, " That is what is expected of a couple." "I am second rate woman to Mohammed," I point out. My friend's bosom heaves, her dark eyes flashing. And she sounds furious when she asks, "who says you're second rate?" "I saw it through his action, Asabe; it is quite a shame." Happy with magnificent display of friendly loyalty, I tell her almost everything, saying I may not last long in such a situation. "Sure?" she asks doubtfully. "Yes, but during our last quarrel he called me a jealous and useless woman." "You should tell your parents, Rabiat. You really should." After some time, I hand her the present I brought for her baby. "Thank you for coming, Rabiat," she says when I stand up to go. "Don't forget to do what is right and see what good would happen. "My God," she says sympathetically, "what a life!"

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We laugh, drawing strength from each other. Then I leave her and get into the car with A' isha and drive off. I stop by Alhaji Nurudeen's house to see Aunty Hajara. After exchanging greetings, she remarks, "I hope you are being tolerant enough Rabiat." Yes," I reply stupidly. "I phoned you last week and throughout the following day but didn't get you. What is happening?" she asks with concern. "Nothing. It is just that my intercom wasn't working," 1 lie. "But Tani used to take up the phone and say you were not in!" "It's not true. I had been at throughout." After some time, I take my leave. A'isha has decided to stay on till Sunday evening. I drive home thinking of the observation of Tani's behaviour towards the phone call from Aunty Hajara. I don't know that I am going to witness another bitter fate at home. I arrive, eat and go to do some general cleaning. Just as I am scrubbing the toilet, ready for

Mohammed, since that evening I will take up the cooking, 1 hear him open the door. He comes into his room, picks up the telephone and starts talking with someone, may be his friend. May be relative. All I hear is, "....she doesn't have to love me or I to love her." Why? Who? I ask in my mind. Then I hear him say arrogantly, "Of course, I'm doing her a favour by taking her back!"
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I feel numb. September 9th "Rabiat." Angela. Can it be Angela? It is indeed Angela David, the girl who had been at a boarding school with Labara. At the age of ten, Labara was transferred to our school, which was a day school. I knew Angela as a friend of Laraba's. She had spent more than one holiday with Laraba in Kaduna. "Rabiat, it's been years!" she exclaims. "How are you? Quite surprising that we should bump into each other like this in the market!" Angela is now thirty, a year younger than me, but unlike me she is not married and she has a job. I ask her why she has to work. Because she doesn't have to work for a living, as her father is rich. She explains that it is, just because she likes it. Puzzled about why she's never married because she must have had her chances, I ask her. Her reply is that she just doesn't fancy it. Angela lives all alone in a flat. She says she doesn't have time for marriage and that she is too busy enjoying her independent life to care. She has money. I wouldn't like a life like that, of course. I am scared

but I admire her having the courage to live it. Why don't you forget he exists and get something doing?"

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She said she has excused me from going to her flat since I am married and, besides, she knows that my husband would object. All the same, she tells me where she lives and I in turn give her my address. She promises to check me on her way home in an hour's times. Just as I have finished talking to Laraba after telling her I had seen Angela, Angela comes in. A'isha rushes forward to hug her from where she is almost dozing, trying to read a book. Since it is with A'isha that I went to the market, she has recognized Angela again. "Aunty Angela!" she exclaims. "How are you my dear?" says Angela, handing A'isha aplastic bag containing some goodies. I immediately bring some refreshment. "Actually Rabiat, you ought to do something even if is to prevent you from feeling sorry for yourself," Angela advises. "Anything that doesn't resemble going to the office could be okay," I suggest. I know Mohammed will not tolerate a working lady. Just as were are about to start lunch. After having chatted about the old days at Kaduna, Mohammed comes back. As it is my turn to cook today, I lay down his lunch not far from ours. "Mohammed, you remember Angela?" I ask him good-naturedly. "Ofcourse. How are you? Angela, you went off after our wedding and I never saw you again," he observes. "Oh yes, I went to London for two years after the weedding
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"Angela has just come to see where we stay, she is going to Benin to see her father tomorrow," I put in " So you are from Benin? " "Yes but my mother is form Bida." For some time all is well as we eat. In fact, I am just thinkino with relief how I how I had been worried m assuming the two of them would detest each other, when the conversation starts heading for disaster. From poises the conversation leads to the status of women, especially working women. Angela, you would agree, says Mohammed in response to a remark about workingwomen, "that women find happiness only as wives." "Yes " she responds. "What are they to do other than pretend to be happy? They have no option." Silence I quickly ask Mohammed if he would like some tea after his lunch as he usually does. "No, no tea," he answers. Then, glancing sideway at Angela, he asks, sounding rather angry, "Am I to take it that you don't believe women find happiness in being wives and mothers?" "Not being a wife or another, I wouldnt know. "In other words..." "What I mean is," says Angela, "that I am happy

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exactly as I am."

"But are you speaking for the majority! "Not at all, I speak for myself. How can I? Besides, all women are different." "Despite the normal differences, you sincerely believed that all women wish to be wives and mothers, he stresses No, they don't. I don't, and I disprove that entirely by my happy existence." I wish the conversation would end. "Aren't you ever lonely? No doubt you have friends but when you are at home don't you miss the company of husband? No! says Angela, amused. "I see my boyfriend two or three times a week and that's okay with me. Thank you. I am stunned. I realize I have just seen Mohammed defeated! And by a woman! A voice in my mind says, serves him right! The male Chauvinist. "My dears!" I said, finding my tongue at last. What a dialogue I feel too handicapped by my upbringing to have the last word you would not understand how I reason. I give up," says Mohammed resignedly. "How good of you," laughs Angela. 'Remember, this is the twentieth century. We are not in the Dark Ages you know.

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Mohammed comes back later than usual in the evening, but not until I prepare my defence, in case he decides to vent his anger on me. "1 hope everything is okay with you. I greet him, and he doesn't answer properly. But he speaks immediately. "I trust you won t ask that woman here again. I refuse to let my wife associate herself with woman like that. One who believes men are not important. She is not a fit company for a wife of mine. She could introduce you to the wrong idea and the wrong people. I want to tell him that I am his wife and other men are less important to me, but I keep quiet. He doesn't deserve such an explanation anyway, I think. "I had wanted to have a friend who could understand that I need to develop myself. When we met this afternoon we got talking, so she had asked me to do some design and sketches for her aunty' s tailoring shop and get paid for it" "About what?" "About colour combination and designs." "I can permit that." "But I want to!" "I am sorry, I hate having to repeat myself. I wouldn't let you be friends with that woman." "You are acting as if you don't want me to be doing anything to earn a living to distract me from my unhappy situation," I say accusingly as I rise to my feet to face him. "What nonsense! I am just trying to be a good husband!
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He shouts at me. "But you behaved differently when you were in Kaduna. You had confided in father that I could go back to school or have a business of my own." "I said so quite alright. Of course I did say so because I thought I could cope, but marriage isn't abut independence or about dependence." "But..." "Listen Rabiat, "he cuts in. "It is a biological of life that women are weaker and need to be looked after while men are strong and seek to protect them." "You wish to have Angela's kind of life, and be independent, perhaps?" "Oh God, no, I'd hate to live alone or be on my own. I absolutely must..." "Then I fail to see why you criticize me as a husband," he remarks with finality. I give up. I am miserable. As usual I know he is rationally right and as usual I sense that in some way beyond my powers of definition he is absolutely wrong. If it is impossible to give Mohammed love, I compensate by giving him dedicated service. Nearly every day I devise so many ways on how I can please him. There is indeed an imbalance in our mismatched loves. I open my arms to his relations. I suffer patiently his long absence from my section. Gracefully I tolerate his lack of attention. I am scrupulous about his meals and at night I count the ceiling, thinking why he can't even face
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my side of the pillow in bed, eventhough I have had my bath and put on some perfume. I have suppressed all my desires because I want to give him a chance to recover himself, as if the self I am experiencing isn't his self. That is a stupid way of being patient, but all the same I give it a try. I never thought that I could be forced by circumstances to be this stupid. One evening I even try asking him a personal question. I ask: "Mohammed, truthfully, have you ever regretted remarrying me?" No answer. I have been back for five months, now but I feel so depressed, so absolutely cut off from him that he sleeps in the sitting room now instead of his room because he says I bother him. I feel so frustrated now I feel like having a lover. But I will not, and it's not just because I am terrified of what would happen when Mohammed finds out. (Of course there would be somebody who would be willing to tell him). I won't have an extramarital affair because it would stem from despair. It may temporally lessen my misery but my problems would remain not only unsolved but would also be exacerbated by guilt. Of course, even romantic fools like me know that love doesn't come with a manufacturer's guarantee, but, from what I know, there is hardly a happy ending for those who love, or is there? Maybe. I seek sympathy when I feel feverish on an afternoon. I corner him just as he is about to go to his room as he has stopped sleeping in the parlor now. "I had wanted to talk to you but I am afraid I must go and lie down for a while. I am feeling really feverish," I say.
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He says he is sorry and that of course I should rest without even looking at me. No love, no care, no concern. What sort of husband is this? I don't want to think how long I can live with this monster called husband. I have pondered about whether God intends me to find some deep meaning in the fact that reality is different from illusion. But even reality has its own good side; it's just that it is not real. After a prolonged meditation, I come to the conclusion that I am gaining experience the way God intends me to. Or else what should I think? I am a changed person, but not the kind of change that is good for me. I feel so timid emotionally and physically. For example, I hardly see Tani because I have never been inquisitive about what she is up to. What I know is that Mohammed's only defence is that Tani is the woman he listens to because he had reason to, and that she is his relation and that as a man has the right to love whom he desires. I am not wishing he didn't love Tani. I am only wishing that I had never known him. "What is it if I love Tani more than you? Maybe she deserves it," he says viciously when I ask him why he is behaving like a bloody jailer. "I need to be loved. I need compassion. .."I begin. "Oh, stop that and search for it elsewhere if the one I am giving is not enough!"

"Mohammed I can be good, decent and honest. Why do I have to be treated this way again?"

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"Stay for A'isha's sake then, "he says. "No, I can't stay chained in a loveless marriage for her sake I am too young and hopeful for that." "How dare you...!" I break down, sobbing After this episode, as if it was not enough, I Mve another experience. This time I am shocked whe.. Mohammed drops what seems like a on his bed while I am making it. I pick up the to read: Darling, I am tired of waiting. I have waited almost six month now. You told me I am the woman you love and all else is false. About the money, you are a rich man; you can give me what else I am worth. You said Rabiat was going but when ? I shan't feel sorry for her to have a deserting husband as you because she deserved it. You told me you don't sleep in the same bed with her, but I have heard that she is pregnant. If it is true I shall seek my divorce. I know you married her to fill time even the first time, but this time your excuses won't do. What would her parents do to you if you divorce her as you said? Do they give you housekeeping money? Don't break yourpromise to me, darling. Tani.
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Let me try and collect my shattered thoughts. What should a sister say to another in a truly catastrophic situation? Good luck, Tani. How can a woman go to such an extent in trying to take a man from someone? Tani, how can you think of building your happiness on someone else's misery? How can you expect to drive me away from the husband you met me with? Is that the beauty of tolerance? Is that the wonder of sharing a husband? Is there fairness and justice in this case? I decided to divert my mind from this mess.

Reading is out of the question, I can't fix attention on books. Praying? Oh yes, I shall pray... At around 12:00noon, Aunty arrives. She comes in just as I am having breakfast. I had slept for a long time but awoke only at 7:30am. Aunty is looking worried. She is wearing green, a color that suits her. She looks tired but peaceful. " It's alright, Rabiat. Everybody is fine and they send their greetings." I sit down. Outside, the sun is shining. Looking at me straight in the eyes, she intones, "Mohammed isn't the easiest of men to deal with. Your mother said I should come and see what is really the matter." "Yes, aunty, he is simply a monster. It was I who phoned her." "Don't you say that, Rabiat! It is against marriage commandments to call your husband names." "But aunty, I feel so miserable," I say tearfully. I turn. I see Mohammed walking towards the door form outside. I stare. I se he is

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smiling at me. He immediately greets my Aunty before she could greet him. Obviously, he is trying to give the impression that all is fine. After the greetings, the whole parlor becomes so quiet. I think I could have heard a pin drop. Tears well up in my eyes I must not cry. I tell myself. I mustn't. "Well," says Mohammed. "Rabiat told me you were coming. She seems to have complained to you." Then he adds with some urgency, "Aunty, she would have been a perfect wife if she could change her attitude...." Then he stops as he sees me go wide-eyed and stiff. "Let me tell," I begin hotly, "I am such a bitch as you believe me to be! I know my present life has no connection with the kind of person I am. I am mostly angry all the time I am here, but I am a happy person naturally." "You are the cause of your unhappiness," accuses Mohammed. Not me!" I scream, springing to my feet. "You are the wicked one, God knows!" Somehow I manage to get a grip on myself. Sinking down in my chair again, I say in a level voice, "I'm sorry. Please do forgive me, but the main reason why I am so distressed is because. My Aunty's face is at once painfully withdrawn. Several seconds pass before she is able to say to me, "Mohammed he said nothing to me. Allow him say what he has to say." "I am sorry aunty." Some seconds pass. I wait till I am sure I have myself well in control. Then I say, "Very well. I'll say no more. Excuse me!" And, getting to my feet, I leave them and go to the kitchen where I am preparing lunch.
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'I hope all is well, madam," says Kande, the house help, showing some concern. "Oh, you must have heard me shouting." "Yes, but I know it isn't your fault. Take it easy." Keeping a tight lip, I go about bringing out the cooking ingredients and supervising Kande. In the ten minutes I have been in the kitchen, I conclude that it is the kind of life I lead that is strangling my personality and blighting my soul. Kande is outside washing the dishes while I try the tomato, past for a dish of rich and stew with salad. I don't want human supporters anymore, I tell myself. I want God's support. Mohammed is not so bad, people tell me, I do not care about people's opinion anymore. I won't bother. Oh, I am so tired of this marriage, I affirm. Oh so tired. Mohammed really has to respect me and talk things over, about why he is treating me like a doormat and put the situation in order. He has to be the husband I need him to be: sympathetic, caring and honest. If he continues to show elements of dislike and treat me so badly. I shall be driven to turn for consolation to the memory f my old love, Mahmud, who had loved me so much, and once I start to embrace this symbol of love, Mahmud who had love, only God knows what would happen. Because I need to be loved more than ever now. When I go back to the sitting room, I find the two in silence. But it's not a comfortable silence. I feel I can guess what they are thinking. "What's going to happen now? What am I going to do about this jealousy and lack of patience? Asks Mohammed, looking at me.
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Ignoring him, I say simply to Aunty Halima, "Do you know what he means by jealousy? It means I am afraid of myself, I am afraid of your injustices, only not of myself." "I can't think of anything more wrong than wanting me to treat you as superior to Tani, because you are not," he retorts. "I know that you always tell her that is how I feel. Tani's supporters, who are your friends and relations, told you things, not me. I know you have got nothing to say but insults. I believe that was why you took me back, to molest me," I answer. "Well if you don't like it..." "I should quit!" I finish up for him. "I didn't exactly say so but.... "That's what you are driving at, and so what? I would gladly leave your jail of a house!" I cry. "What are you flustered at?" he demands.

"You, your Tani and her biting letters... Oh I am sick and tired of you all! Didn't you think I saw that letter? It's there in your cupboard. I have kept it, saved it for you, to ponder about it." Aunty and Mohammed look at me. Then they look at each other. But they both decide there is nothing more that can be said. Later when Mohammed has excused himself, I lead my Aunty to my room so that she can pray and relax before lunch. She looks highly agitated. "Oh, what a day! She says with a deep sigh. "Because I go I must go and see Hajara to ask what the solution is. This mustn't go on."
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"Aunty Hajara will deny most things," I explain. "She doesn't want the marriage. She would rather it flops, certainly." "Okay, I will see Alhaji Nurudeen since Mohammed doesn't have much respect for anybody other than him. He brought him up after his parent's death, didn't he?" "Yes, Aunty," I answer softly. Later in the night when Aunty Halima has come back from Alhaji Nurudeen's house, she informs me that most of the accusation I made was rejected. "Your aunty said that you were just too sensitive and had listened to so many people whom you believed were your supporters she even said that Mohammed told them that you have a friend who detests marriage and who has been giving you ideas." "But I had been complaining even before Angela came into my life," I answer weakly, drained by the surprise of the charges. "Of course I know that you knew what you were doing...? "A wise woman doesn't listen to or look for people's approval over what she should do or to get on with her marriage," I explain further. "She knows what is wrong and what is right. "Yes, but good advice with friend is acceptable. It's only the gossip and bad advice that are objectionable," says Aunty. "I have a guardian experience I had gained early in life from Aunty Bilkisu, mother and you, of course. My intuition sternly and strictly guided me along my narrow paths without letting me stray aside to the right or left but to a straightforward reality. I am realist."
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"Sure you are. But who are those meddlers in this affair? They are the kind of people both Tani and you listen to." I nod. "Yes. Whenever they came in to visit me I entertain them with drinks as expected of a host but I never entertain their gossip and their advice," I explain defensively. "Take it easy, Rabiat," aunty whispers as I finally break against her chest and weep. "That's my good child. No divorce, no surrender to the situation. I am very proud of you, okay? Just leave this to me. Go wash your face and dry your eyes," she coaxes. Later in the evening when Mohammed comes in, e meets me cleaning. "I see you'll become hypertensive unless you pull yourself together, Rabiat," he says. "Go ahead with your ill-treatment. I don't give a damn!" I reply, not looking at him. Springing to my feet, standing tall and looking martial, I shout back at him, "I won't stay and get hypertensive. I must clear myself out of your house, that is what I mean!" Much mutual shouting and abuse follow. Finally, I try to walk out, but he grabs me by the arm and shouts, "Okay, just tell me, how the hell are you going to live with your conscience? I am even sorry for saying that because you don't have one. You flogged me into this mess I am in. "I accept that I played a major role in your so-called misery but don't try to pretend you have led a full supporting cast!" "You are lying!" I shout.
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He tries to beat me but I side-step him, thinking he is just a selfish man who doesn't know the difference between right and wrong. I walk out of the room but he blunders after me. As I leave the room, I hear him hollering at the top of his voice that I am a spoilt child, rumour monger and bloody woman. "Aunty Halima?" I say rapidly when 1 meet her already asleep. "I am going with you tomorrow." I see her dark eyes flare. "Why?" "I want my divorce for the second time, I tell you Mohammed is impossible. "Divorce is something true ladies never ask for, she scolds, she scolds, sitting up in the bed. "Maybe it's true I want mine! 1 reply as I storm out of the room. The following morning, I wake up in the worst mood than the night before. As I pass by my sitting- room on my way to the kitchen, I make very several efforts to arrange my memories and stay calm. I sight a big, enlarged photograph of Mohammed and I on the television set. I return to where is standing on a gold plated frame. I examine the picture, I continue to stare at the beautiful couple in it. After a while, however, they begin to look like an illustration from some book. I can imagine the text: "How you should look on your honeymoon. Happy. The photograph was taken in America after we had married.
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This is how you must appear as you prepare to Live happily ever after. Then it occurs to me that the photograph is just a pattern of black and white shapes. It has no reality, It seems just a lie. I look at Mohammed I cannot see the Mohammed I used to remember. I see only a man who wants my life to be in chaos, who wants me to have-a meaningless life just because he has been selfish, insincere. And maybe, he hated me. I tear up the photograph to pieces. I shove the frame into the nearest drawer. When I go back to Aunty's, she has already bathed and prayed. Still worried, she asks, "Haven't you tried talking things over together? All this wouldn't have been no need for a second party." "Talk? We hardly talked. Whenever I asked him to have time to talk, he always told me that we had no common ground. What he really meant by that I don t quite understand," I explain. "Does he fulfill his marital duties? You know what I mean! Aunty says seriously. Of course I know Mohammed isn t the idea bed mate, I reflect. "Well... " I begin, "sometime it happens... just some few times, but to him It was just a ritual to performed in order to keep up appearances." "There aren't many women who could stand tor tins kind of behaviour. It's a shame," opines aunty. To her the issue is suddenly serious.
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"But how does one live with such shame and stay sane? How? How? I wail helplessly. "He has failed to give me the kind of life I needed." "Don't worry, Rabiat. Leave it all to God," Aunty says as she wipes her moist eyes. "I shall tell your parents everything," she adds reassuringly. September 27th Two days later, after Aunty has gone, I phone Mama. She informs me that Aunty Halima has told them everything. "Your father says he is going to have a meeting with yours uncle, to see what's best." "Let father know what is exactly happening. 1 have my standard." I would like them to continue with a good opinion of me. "Mama, I am just sorry. I don't believe I can stay in this house a certain code of conduct be expected of someone in this situation? " "Don't say anything unpalatable to him. Just be yourself. Keep your mouth shut and leave everything to us. Rabiat, it's not because we don't love you that you are there in Kano." Mama advises pointedly, "i'll try," I say and hang up. Laraba rings me this afternoon, too. After I have confided in her that I will be going back to Kaduna soon whether Mohammed divorce me or not, she hands me over to her husband to console me. "I feel extraordinarily confused, Rabiat," he begins. "When will this problem end?" "Whenever God wishes it to end," I say
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philosophically.

"This thing has distorted my life. Yes, I should break free. I mustn't let Mohammed destroy my hopes in life. I surely cannot continue a life in which I think I need compensation because the compensation would only chain me to him." "Even the happiest of marriages have blind sports where partners have trouble seeing eye to eye," he notes. "I know, but Mohammed has been acting as if he had a grudge against me or as if I had jus: walked into his home from the streets. No respect. No consideration." "You are fated to be together again, Rabiat. Best thing to do is give it your best and leave the rest to God!" I agree we were fated to be married again with Mohammed, but not in the way people expect. In our lives there are choices, which one has to make, and our freedom to choose means we have at least some control over our fate. I had agreed after due considerations to co-operate and come back to Mohammed, even though I didn't have a real freedom to choose. I couldn't have chosen to live differently, but that would have to that could have my right. I think I have to give that very serious consideration, indeed. And so I will. But not at the moment. Later. And there I go again. I could have stopped, but I go on. October 12th

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A month after the major row with Mohammed, I go to the market and come back to meet a message from my mother. A'isha has taken up the phone and has been asked by mum to tell me to expect her call at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. I go to the kitchen to arrange my foodstuff. Five minutes to two I am near the phone as Tani has a habit of taking up the phone and saying I am not in. Mohammed, when once told about this behaviour, said he wouldn't to anything about it, adding that. How could he be sure she really does it? That night we had a row because the phone call never came, and I try but can't get through Mohammed asks me to quit if I am really fed up with the marriage as I had said. "O God Almighty!" said my mother. "What type of marriage is this? Oh, you must never go back to that house again!" She is finding it hard to believe my trauma once again after I have arrived Kaduna the following day I don't look at her, I don't speak, but tears fill my eyes as I remember how I had to trek to get a taxi that came and quickly loaded my suitcases. I let the rest for my aunties to go and collect. In fact, I didn't have much on me m terms of money except the feeding allowance Mohammed gave me My father comes into mother's room and says with great politeness, "Rabiat, excuse us!' and we withdraw. I can't make out what he says to mother and she refuses to tell me. I just feel a bit of relief. The following day, Kande, my house help, comes with Mohammed's driver. She learnt he was being sent by Mohammed she decided to come

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with him. The driver comes with a letter and my divorce paper. As I read the letter. I hope it will be the last time. I will go into this kind of mess. Kande doesn't know what it is until I tell her. 'We leave everything to God," She says tearfully. "I shall miss you, but what can I do?" Kande, just make sure you never stay away from your A'isha when you go back," I tell her in a voice filled with emotion. "What Mohammed has done is quite unfair and to me it is a form of disrespect to Alhaji and your parents," she points out. "It's not his fault, Kande." "Maybe it's Tani' s fault. I know it is. "Not necessarily, but mine for having the energy to be so tossed around. And he doesnt cooperate would she have gotten away with her plans? She wouldnt." I explain wistful. "That's what society is expecting of you and your parents." I wouldn't follow it again for anyone's sake, I promise myself. Mother has talked to Kande and, as she later tells me, Kande's information is reassuring as far as she is concerned. My marriage has ended six months after it started. I remember the last few days before it ended. "Are you asleep?" Mohammed had asked me tow night before. "No," I answered. We were lying still in the bed, with each of us pretending to be asleep.
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"I love Tani and you think 1 should lie about it." "Mohammed..." "Wait! I haven't finished. You must hear me to the end. Our marriage has been a failure, you know that. I know that we are both unhappy, but at least even though you think I don't care enough for you would do what I can to make matters right. If we are going to part, we should do so fast and forget about society. For a change." "I said nothing sitting up in the bed, he kept looking at me. I said staring at the ring n my finger.

"It would be impossible for me to be a modern husband to you. Therefore, I shouldn't expect you to be an old fashioned woman of course..." Ofcourse whatever I am, I wouldnt want be a foolish wife as you would want me to be. "Shut up!" he interrupted. There was silence for a while, then he continued, "As I was saying, that wouldnt be the dones thing at all, keeping you here as, my wife when you strongly object to being second fiddle." He paused again, frowning, Sad to imagine the complex situation this is far beyond the marital bond as he perceived it. There are all kinds of marriages, Rabiat. Ours is simply a little different from most marriages, that's all. "I understand, and that is why I shall not mind if you go, I couldn't bear you to look at me with loathing or revulsion! I would rather set you free altogether, no matter what people say."
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"I suffer because you mind people."People should be minded, Rabiat. Their tongues are dangerous. All the same, even minding people has its limit; people made you feel guilty. That's why I suffer. There was silence I tried to work out the right thing to do thank him or scream with joy? People thought you loved me so much because all the while 1 had been living what people would call and ideal life, I never complained before Tani came,' I said. "But you know you we had our differences."I know," I answered with relief. After Kande has gone today, I go back to my room to sort my belonging out I have already calmed down and everyone in the house is treating me politely, so te1 myself I must put those wrecked experiences aside. Later on I tell myself that even A'isha would be grateful I left. Children like to see their parents happy and less burdened, not always seething with rage. Besides I have no time for old- fashion theories which suggest that parents should live with one another no matter what, so that their children can have parents. That is indeed a recipe for victimazation. After all is one supposed to live one's life or one's children lives? The rest of the month passes smoothly, but I see little of people because I am trying to sort out my already distorted life. I am glad I drew the line. I am glad I can stop and I have had enough even the second time.
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Nevertheless, I think of Mahmud continually I learn that he has been married and divorced, all in four month. News filters to me through our house-help that he has been on a course in Lagos and that he has gone there immediately after the divorce. What else matters? Happiness. I remember Angela who confided in me that she was not against the marriage institution. It's just that it doesn't mean anything to her I told her that God ordained that we should many. "Yes of course, that's true. I shall try and see that I marry. And you see, Rabiat, once one gets married one surely loses independence and individuality 'The relationship automatically becomes unequal. "You are a feminist to the core," I had told her. "It's not so, Rabiat. I am neither a radical feminist nor a woman that particularly loves my own surname But my individuality is very important to me." She laughed "I am quite traditional in that way, Angela, but I do understand. "I assured her. The modern woman is self-assured, intelligent and grounded. It is not a fractional honesty, commitment as well as respect. And that I believe is not expecting too much.

Some women movements have been unnecessarily blamed for creating aggressive and selfish women. This is not the absolute truth. Nothing has changed them from the everyday woman but her expectations. Those expectations are prompted by the knowledge of their fundamental
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human rights. As long as it's within the normal limit, it's okay. In our grandparent's time what a woman needed were security, children and a male figure. Love didn't necessarily have to be present. So what is wrong with the younger generation's urge for love and respect? Still I believe a marriage based on mutual respect is an ideal marriage; it is not a loveless union if there is respect. To love is to respect. Since the realities of life could be so shocking at times, all we need to do is give our best and expect a better position in our parent's life, not forgetting always to remember "there is always a light at the end of the tunnel!' If by so doing, still things don't go right, we shouldn't lose our dignity. Being a woman doesn't mean one should blindly cling to a relationship that would not have any chance of at least letting her be friends with her partner. One of women's major problems is that they realize men don't understand them. But how much do we understand men also? Humour, understanding and communication are the first-step key to less frustrating marriage. Men can be understood. Women most times are too selfish to pick up a good man among the so-called bad eggs because they do look for something they shouldn't money and good looks. What women should remember is that there are bad woman just as there are bad men. Maybe even more. As for me, I have been clear-eyed about my relationship with Mohammed. There was neither understanding nor honesty, let alone communication in it. Ours was a marriage that had been built on just the
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will for the marriage, which in the end couldn't stop Mohammed from wanting to replace me with Tani, thus putting me in the position of having my whole life questioning the ethic of such marriage. But I value myself too high to play a second fiddle in that circumstance. I am not against polygamy per se. I am only against unjustifiable polygamy! The fact that that kind of polygamy had been in my chart of fate would neither make me detest men; nor would it make me have a permanent fear of marriage. Thank God. There is a kind of treatment that is suitable for particular people and there is one that is not. If we could respect each other more than we did, things would have been better. But I am glad we couldn't! If we had pretended we would have only succeeded in strengthening thes act of deceit that doesn't get one anywhere but frustration misery and lack of purpose. I am glad I drew the line on time I am glad I did the right thing. I am building a New Hope for myself. I shall look for no one but the person who has the courage to respect the fact that woman ought to be treated with consideration and respect. The ultimate justification of my failure as a wife and mother lies on the fact that I got the wrong man. What's the right way to look for the right man? I have asked myself severally. I could look for the right man bearing in mind that the right man means the man that cares for me and my feelings just as I would his. Period. There is no need for me to agonize much over this sort of thing, we just go out and do what we instinctively feel is right, and that's that. But for other people, life is apparently not so simple. I know of a divided human being who comes out strong as a conservative moralist
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but now spends years of his behaving like a radical. Contradictory behaviour, or rather attitude. Both roles are "right for him, but at the same time I can argue that both for various reasons are equally wrong. One has to be ones self, not what people see oneself to be. Be truthful and honest with ones self, that is. Now, this is the sort of moral conflict that can drive people not necessarily round the bend but certainty into a disturbed emotional state of mind. And to me, one subject, which is taboo, is insanity. Patience has its limits. "What kind of woman are you, Rabiat? Ask Aunty Halima when I told her that I am glad with the divorce. I am just somebody obsessed with keeping to myself. But how hard-hearted must Mohammed be to have Made you so? she asks. I am not saying he wasn't basically a good man, but what I am saying is that he just wasn't a simple one ether "All men are not simple." Look Aunty, be straightforward and face the reality instead of the idealistic conception of matters. No easy in a way." People can be complex; it's up to one to know with whom one is dealing with; it has to be in an honest way that is where the simplicity lies. "Rabiat, people have told me so, but I never witnessed men as simple till today," she scolds. "I am sorry Aunty," I apologize. One can take the horse to the river but one cannot make it drink water. So the saying goes. One

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can understand men, but that doesnt make one triumphant over them, except if they wish to cooperate. October 1st I had returned home from the market two months after my second marriage to Mohammed I can recall... Because I got back from Kano late in the night around nine oclock, I met the house a bit quieter than it used to be because my mother had gone on a visit to her friend. While I was alone in my room, I cried as I had felt very sentimental and thought over my stay in Mohammed,s house during the past six months. I had remembered an episode which managed to made me suffer from a low self esteem for a long time. Since my brothers and sister are I a boarding secondary school I felt unwelcomed except that I felt more at home than in Kano. I slept before my mother got back. The following morning I cried. Why I cried again the second time was because I woke up to remember that episode very clearly and feel something I found hard to explain. The episode was this: Mohammed had traveled to Lagos with Tani without leaving any message for me. He had asked the guard not to give me any of his car keys. I knew about Mohammed's order, when I asked him for the keys to go to the hospital. As I was feverish, and had to seek medication. The guard had looked at me silently and pityingly and said. "Madam, oga said I shouldn't let you go out with his car." I kept silent for some time and tears gatherd in my eyes. That was when I realized how agitated I was, not just because I cried in front of the guard, but because I didn't care that I was crying in front of him. I felt
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that the tears were the only consolable release from an intolerable treatment. I went back inside, still crying and wondering desperately how I was going to stop. October 13th Over the following week, various changes take place in me. I have started observing my iddah. Soon in two weeks time, it will be over. I could marry if I wish to. Father has asked me to try and do something that would make me useful to myself, like a good business, a befitting one. "That should take off your mind from negative thoughts," he has said. "You should do something to make your life worthwhile." So there I am, the owner of a small shop not far from my father's house. Just two minutes' walk. What can I say? I am no longer unhappy but at the same time I am not happy. I am leading a where happiness doesnt have the same meaning with the English dictionary meaning.

In Islam, a woman must legally wait three months after her divorce before she could start seeing a suitor. So I waited. Happiness continued but in the real sense of the word is not important. Thank God, a satisfactory life does not depend on sheer happiness alone but in contentment.. My father is helping me with some more money for my business. I am doing a valuable work: 'tie-dying.' I am leading a civilized life, one reasonably interesting, not an unrewarding life,

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considering all the suffering I had experienced in the past. I think that's more than I have the right to expect. Uwa is eventually getting married to Musi! When she informed me that her parents had given their consent after consulting her mother in Rigachukun, I was happy for her. She'd told me as soon as she came back. I embraced her with happiness. "What did grandmother say?" I had asked Uwa. "She said we were lucky to have each other as no one would have any of us differently," she answered happily. Quite funny. Uwa says that grandmother has assured them that they could stay in the house with her, since Musi hasn't got a house of his own. Uwa tells me she has seen Mahmud today. I think to myself later in the night, before I dose off, that I hope Mahmud will look for me. I hope I haven't lost him. With Uwa's good news, I find myself brought face to face with a subject I have never succeeded in mastering- my for Mahmud. Suddenly, I bring out my diary to write. I start writing: 'Heared of Mahmud... For some time I realize that I am still facing a blank page of my diary, and at once I pull myself together. It is unlike me to give way to meandering thoughts, but I can only conclude that remembering Mahmud has sent me down romantic avenues that have no place in my rational world of hard facts and cool analysis. One fact is that Mahmud can look for me, and another is he won't. There will be a time to forgive me my unintended desertion, while on the other hand he could forget about me since things don't always seem to be
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alright between himself and me. There is no fault of his if he decides to forget about me in order to prevent himself from hurt again. On the other hand, I love Mahmud; no doubt about it. I know that more than ever now. He has been a patient and nice gentleman but fate was against our relationship. Maybe? I am describing him as such because I can say Mahmud is one of the rare men who can go back to a relationship 'with one mind'. As the Hausas would say. He deserves my commendation. And if he were to come back and give me another chance, he would deserve my unconditional love, too. I .wish Mahmud would be strong in mind to come back to me! If Mahmud would want me again, tiresome for him as it is, I would be a good wife regardless of his financial situation. One might think this is not reality, that it is an idealistic idea. I know I dream a lot in my own time, but to me Mahmud is my own reality, I also know that it is not easy to maintain one's idealism as I am doing in hope of making it to be a reality. It is not that easy. In a corrupt and cynical world, one has to be strong to go against the wind. I've got to be determined. I have to look for a way to win. If he had seen Uwa as she saw him he would have asked of me. I have to do something. I've found that out for myself. I doze off unknowingly. October 22nd '

The sky is bright blue and the birds in the sky are many. A warm wind blows. It is ten days since I heard of Mahmud. I have told myself that if two weeks elapsed and no message came from him, I would send

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someone with a note to him. I had found his address. So I debate whether to write him or not. Of course, I must. There is no use pretending that my life is okay without him. I must see him! This afternoon I had my bath late. Just as I finish dressing up, there is a knock on my door and Uwa comes m to tell me that Mahmud wishes to see me Momentarily, I remain speeches, my mouth agape before I answer, "Okay, tell him I'm coming." I go to see him, in father's parlor. As soon as I see him, I sigh and pray within myself. There he is, sitting quietly and holding a book. "Mahmud!" I blundered, bearing him a welcoming, smile. It's a smile to my first love and my last love. He looks up, and then stands. His book drops to the ground. "Rabiat!" He cries. Then, collecting himself, he says, "Pleased to see you once again. How are you doing?" I go and sit on the sofa, not far from him. I gesture him to sit down. "l am fine, And you? Quite a long time," I answer. Just then Uwa comes in with some chin chin and a drink. I must keep my cool. I warn myself. After Uwa has gone, I start the conversation: "Mahmud, I didn't think you would remember me again." "You know I wouldn't forget you, no matter what. You are just teasing," he replies, eyeing my printed caftan, which suits me well. There is silence. I could see he still loves me. Or am 1 just dreaming? No, Mahmud loves me still. That is the most important fact.
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"Mahmud," I begin, "if only you could understand..." He holds up his hand to cut me off. "Spare me those apologies, I am tired of them. Simply start at the beginning, and go all the way through to the end." No he's not anxious. "I want the truth, and nothing but the truth, and by God I intend to know how everything that happened." "Has it ever occurred to you that I had been reasonable with Mohammed? Sometimes I wonder how people could build their happiness on someone else's misery. I had to be his wife and do the right thing..." "But you were not his wife! You were just the woman foolish enough to think that you were." "Oh, bloody hell! Let's forget all that. I don't care about anything but you." Mahmud smiles, showing his even white teeth. This is my dream man. I said in my mind. He looks quite handsome with his newly

acquired beard. "I don't really understand why it's so... God knows that it is so. I don't quite understand much of it. All I do understand is that life is too precious and one wastes time doing things one does not want to do," I say. I stop to stare at him. He locks quite eligible in his blue caftan and cap to match. His silver plated wristwatch has done justice to his dressing, what a personable man. "You see..." I continue, and then pause.

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"Well, go on! What are you waiting for? Would you, can you will you? Of course, whatever you are asking. But I won't be deprived of the truth. I love you. Yes, I wish to marry you! Of course, yes, but I have to have guts. I have got one, of course but you had always made me hate it. You might think I am weak in being angry, but I am not. It was because I loved you, and I still do; that is why I am here. I had tried getting married to some girl but it didn't work. I broke off the engagement." "Where and when?" I ask, stirring with jealousy. "In Birnin Yero." "Nobody told me," I lie. Then I ask, "Why didn't you get on with the marriage?" "She wasn't my type. It was a match. She has go no brains, no manners, no charm, no intellectual interest.s There's nothing that could make her worthy to be my potential wife; the one thing that she has is something that I shall be tired of in three month!" I keep quiet. "I hope this story has done nothing to you," Mahmud says. But it does! "Listen, Mahmud. You can't afford to wipe me off your slate, I know, and if you can somehow manage to keep that handsome mouth of yours shut for a moment, I will tell you the way things were in Kano."

"If you don't wish to know about my former engagement, why would I want to hear about yours?" he enquired teasingly. "Anyway, tell me!"
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Thereafter, I find myself telling Mahmud the absolute truth about my second marriage to Mohammed. After listening he keeps quiet for some time, then he says: "Look, Rabiat, do you love me or not.' "Of course, you know I do, Mahmud," I answer softly, looking at my feet. "Then prove it by welcoming my proposal to you. I want to marry you." I look up at him, searching his eyes, feeling immensely glad, realizing that our concern for each other has actually survived. And in this critical instant I see our friendship that had been bruised, battered and apparently unbeaten, still shining amidst the ruins of our vows of marriage. I hear myself saying love conquers all and everything. "Friendship, like diamond is forever, says Mahmud smiling. "Apparently." We all laugh heartily.

Then he says, "Try to experience some genuine happiness for a change. You deserve it, Rabiat." A few minutes later, he's gone. I am too dazed with happiness to care that the visit has been so brief. Moving briskly around the house like some housewife anxious to welcome an expected guest, I go to my mother's room to tell her what has happened.

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The following day, I wake up with the fact that I am really going to marry Mahmud. Mother in her excitement, gives me a bear-hug. Thank God for his mercy! She utters. "Mama, her said he was ready to marry me and he did say it with genuine admiration in his eyes " Later in the evening, father comes back from Lagos. Mother tells him about the situation. Afterward she comes to tell me that he has given his blessings Those were exactly the words I wanted to hear. Much later I go to welcome him back. "I must say, begins my father as he pour some tea It a great relief to me that you have got someone whom you love and understand and he the same to you. However, if you wish to turn over a new leaf we will say no more about the last marriage." Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nod. I sat down on my bed to watch the television so I can relax and think over things before Mahmud comes. Yes, I must think and plan. My wedding is just around the corner, I have to calculate and confer, balance and weigh assess and examine. In fact, make a decision on how and how soon. What I would wear for wedding ceremony, when the wedding luncheon should take place, people to invite and so on. Meanwhile, my mother, and aunties would make the decision about exactly when, where how the ceremonies are going take place. Since Mahmud has given the dowry, which was quite a moderate amount (I had been handed the money since the day he came, as it is

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enjoined in Islam for the bride to spend or save what she wants to in her dowry money) I have to start distributing the wedding cards tomorrow if Mahmud brings them. I am sure Aunty Bilkisu is coming. And what about A'isha? I guess she wouldn't be allowed to attend. I can imagine Tani feeling relieved I am not going back to disturb what looks like their peace, and Mohammed might be relieved I am not on his neck anymore, as he would have said. Almost twelve years of near confusion. It was a lifetime I am leaving behind, and such lifetimes are not easy to shed, either mentally or physically, but I am trying to put it behind me. More worrisome is my daughter... If at all I have to have a worthwhile future, I should chase those thoughts out of my mind. It isn't easy, but I will. Am I setting myself a tiring task by wanting to go to Zaria to say goodbye to my grandmother? No, that is the custom. It is true that there is just a limited time to the wedding ceremony, a day after tomorrow, still I must have grandmother's blessings even though father has keep her up to-date everything. So I decide to go today. Typical of grandmother, I meet her giving Musi a piece of her mind while some relations, including Labaran, beg her to keep her peace. "You know he is a humble, mannerless idiot." Labaran says, looking at Musi accusingly. The corners of my grandmother's mouth drop in surprise. She didn't like Labaran's words for Musi. "He is not that bad or..." starts

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grandmother. I found that funny because grandmother insults Musi anytime; but wouldnt take it if anybody does. "Come to the room. I shall not stay long today," I interrupt her while I hold her hands and lead her to her room. After I told her everything myself, excluding the engagement, since she already knew about that, she asks if I love this Mahmud enough to have a more pleasant marriage because she had become disappointed my last marriage. "I do, grandmother." "Are you sure?" "No one in her right mind, could choose a man like Mahmud to be her husband without knowing what she is in for because he is a straightforward person. The very idea of my not being his wife, ever since sounds ridiculous." "Okay, I give my blessings. What would you want me to prepare for you?" she asks. "Anything you think fit and can afford," I assure her knowing that grandmother is an expert in saving money, especially as my father does send her much on weekly basis. . As I come out to meet Shittu the driver, after having said goodbye to grandmother, I meet Labaran outside, waiting for me. Rabiat, aren't you going to my house today? He demands. "No I am sorry Labaran, I have to rush back for preparations. My regards to your wife. I hope to see day after tomorrow. "Okay then, safe journey. Regards to everyone! As I make for the car, I pause and regard him with some bloated seriousness. really

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"Oh Labaran, what about your second marriage? Is it still on?" I ask with shameless curiosity. "No, I had made a mistake and had wanted to marry someone I wasn't sure I knew. In fact, she had no sense of humor. I could not imagine how I had once regarded her lack of humor as a charming seriousness and at the terrible moment of truth I saw that I made a mistake. Although I admired her many excellent qualities, I never really knew her and would often dislike her very much. That was when I asked myself first how much difficult it would be to marry and after I had married her how long it would take to finish up with her" fair on them both, I remark. Sorry, what could I have done? I shall look for another," I am not worried about you, but I am worried about your wife at home and the victim you promised to marry. You should imagine what hell you have made them all go through. Take time off from your romantic dreams and imagine what hell it's likely going to be for subjected them all in a public display with the inscription of victim and villian round their necks. "Yes I wasn't deceiving any of them really. Labaran explained "I "It is not

intend to marry her, the victim or villian or whatever mean." "Why yes of course you intend to marry her. A gentleman always intends to marry the girl at first, doesnt he? After all, he wouldn't be a gentleman if he doesnt. I hope you would be sure to know what you

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want before frustrating your wife with just news. You have no idea what women in that situation go through No idea at all "I don't understand who are you for? Amarya, the girlfriend or me?" he wonders with wide eyes. "All of you," I finish, hurrying past him to the car. I sit in the car and think. I have seen crucifixions m my time. First of all, mine, Bebi, Amarya, Aunty Bikisu, so many others. The men go off scot-free while the women end up cheated and distraught. Oh, I've seen it all! So take my advice dear men, for our sake and most of all for God's sake do stop being so bloody selfish and naive! I arrive home to see Mahmud about to get into his car. Why, Mahmud, you look so composed for a groom'" I observe as I walk up to him. "I usually compose myself with tobacco smoke'" We laugh. "I just came to see you," he says. "Okay, let's go in." "No, just to see you. That's all. I have an appointment with the painter. He has finished his job and might wonder where I am." "Are you coming tomorrow?" I ask 'The house would be busy with visitors. I shall see you in the night, maybe?" he suggests. "Goodnight then." 'Goodnight, my darling," says Mahmud Much later in the night, as I get ready for bed after such a tiring day, I remember that Good night, my darling. Good night, my darling," I repeat again, imitating Mahmud s soothing voice. Dizzy with sleep I remember all the dreams I had of my life.
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If I haven't been so sleepy I would have broken down and cried with relief and happiness, November 3rd It is a cool November day, and the rain whips across the roofs. All doors have been closed, while the owners of every house enjoy a warmer atmosphere inside. I look out from the window. It's raining heavily. Today is my wedding day and to me it is a blessing. Soon, the rain would stop. The whole place appears to be waiting for something. Yes, after the rain this afternoon, my engagement will take place; my wedding Fatiha. Mine with Mahmud. Mine, with my love. The word echoes in my mind. I am going to do what I wish to do at last. It has taken me twelve years but I got there in the end. Who says patience doesn't pay? I am being my true self, the self that had been denied me. "Laraba is on the phone," Uwa's voice interrupts. Laraba has phoned to say she is coming, as I had told her it would be excellent if Aminu would let her come. Then in comes Aunty Halima and Aunty Bilkisu, bringing with them coolers from the bus they had hired, containing some food and assorted delicacies. I rise to go to Mama's inner room to welcome them after I put down the telephone. . "Well," sighs Aunty Halima, "Here comes the bride!" "Bless this marriage," mutters Aunry Bilkisu, looking at my mother.

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"Amen!" answers Mama. "We must change into drier clothes as ours are wet," notes Aunty Halima as she heads for her small suitcase. After some minutes, I excuse myself to go to have my bath. I come out of the bathroom to meet Aunty Halima sitting and waiting for me in my room. "You know, Rabiat," she says, not looking at me with my short towel around me, "it had been a pleasant surprise. If there were any rewards to be had for what you have gone through, it would be to have the kind of husband whom you love and who loves you." "I am so happy, Aunty, I couldn't be more pleased " "Yes, we all are," she nods."We heard that he had been engaged but he broke it off. God had already promised him to be your husband and you his wife." "He had put that marriage or rather that engagement behind, as he told me the first day we met again," I explain. "So he had told you himself?" "Yes, aunty, he did." "You must forgive us, Rabiat. We didn't know what hell it had been for you, but now I understand." "But of course I forgave you and anybody that never understood. Why wouldn't I?" To bear a grudge would imply that I dislike and resent most people, and I find it too tasking to do that. Grudge, envy and the likes are unhealthy emotions I need to conquer and ignore if I am to have a worthwhile life. Besides, bearing them is a behaviour that is quite unbecoming of a realist. I do smile when I remember how I had felt when Mahmud told me he had been engaged. Although I knew the muscles of my face never betrayed me, I had felt the knife of jealousy revolve below my heart. Yes, jealousy is
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a basic ' human instinct. It is a normal feeling, but when carried too far, it is a destructive feeling. In fact, it is a feeling that is highly misused and misunderstood to this day. How sad. November 6th As I wake up, I know it's my wedding celebration day. My glance falls on the photo of Mahmud and I on the dressing mirror. I smile because I know how much easier it would be for me to join him in creating a new life which bears no semblance to the old. I have been amazed by some changes already. Mahmud has changed his car for another brand new. He has, had our three-bedroom bungalow tastefully furnished. When I asked him if he would allow me to work or do something that would give me a sense of purpose, he said I should wait. When last I spoke to him on the subject, he had said he was planning to open up a gift shop for me. Mama and my aunties have gone to No.2, Turaki Road, where we shall be staying with Mahmud. The furniture has to be arranged, the bed made, and the kitchen stocked. All over our house there are clusters of boxes and cartons. In the evening I shall be led to my husband's house with limited pomp and pageantry by relations, friends and inlaws. As a divorcee, the wedding doesn't have to be any grand affair. Uwa will stay with me for some days to help me sort my house. Her wedding to Musi would take place soon after mine. My sister had been admitted to the University of Jos, so she will not be here on this great day. She had phoned to say how she wished she was present.

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I am happy she has changed her way of thinking about marriage now. Recently she confided in me that with the right person it is the best thing that could happen to a woman. She has matured with time.

I was relieved. As for my state of mind, I can see a bridge called 'Old Life' passing me by. New life looming ahead of me. Which represents the my new life. The bridge is smiling enticingly at me. I survey the next generation carefully I believe that in Aisha,s time, there would be much more understanding which would form the basis of a good marriage. People would be more aware of what makes a good marriage and ignorant of what the surface rule preches, i. e. beauty opportunity and so on. In other words, living and wanting to relate would depend on inside reason rather than the outside. If a man sees what he wants in a woman, he shall go for her, no matter what and take the consequences. We shall see better generations that are more knowledgeable and more experienced. The dinner party has been a grand affair with Laraba and Aminu, her husband, sitting next to us. We are having a swell time. Next to them sit Labaran and another girl I had never met. Labaran and his friend seem to be arguing over the girl, or so it seems. "Please Labaran, if you are not serious about this girl let her be." I over hear his friend plead. "What do you mean?" asks Labaran. "Of course I do want her for myself."
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I ignore them and continue smiling at Mahmud "For God's sake, Iro, I'm in love with her! What's the matter with you?" Labaran almost shouts at his friend. When I see he was sincere, I feel more baffled than ever,because I can see now with perfect clarity that he isn,t the least in love, no matter how much he wishes to be taken seriously. My recent experience has helped me grow up. Even though Labaran is two years older than me, my writer's obsession with characters is steadily building up my perception of others. I look at Labaran again and recognize a man in a muddle, one who hides all sorts of problems behind a mask. As soon as most of the guests are gone, we get up from where we are sitting and walk towards our car, with some few guests behind us. What an evening! I sigh. Am I really being too optimistic if 1 write that I feel that my long-delayed happiness is about to begin? To me, I am far from being optimistic. My marital happiness has begun and, God, may it go on forever!

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November 7th I must confess that the day I settle in my new home is my happiest on earth. I feel somehow filled with excitement about the whole affair. So is Mahmud. After the dinner party, we get into Mahmud,s new car and are chauffeur- driven. As we sit at the back seat of the car, we look at each other, relieved, with our hands tightly-clasped. Mahmud dons a white caftan with a multi-colored Hausa cap while I wear a lace bou bou with dotted, multi-colored roses. I must confess that everybody that sees us comments on how compatible we look. As soon as we arrive at our new house, we get into the parlor and sit down for some time. After a while, Mahmud gets up and comes towards me, and I soon find myself face to face with my husband Then, we move into each other's arms and embrace.

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I think 1 have finished going through my diary. And this is where I stop. So all along what is my truth about? It is about looking for a satisfactory adjustment to some unpalatable facts of life. Why bother? I sometimes ask myself. I just have to be a realist. I imagine people saying Oh don't mind Rabiat, she lives in a fantasy world. Maybe she is trying to delude people. Does she ever look like somebody on such a creative high? May be she is just striking a bold pose. The answer is just this: I love to write. My book is about... Let me find the suitable word. It is about redemption. Redemption means to buy back. I need to buy back my stability. I should buy it back and reshape it in a way that would fit my future. Thats very reasonable, I think. I shall find a wand- being my pen and keep my cool as I write The end.

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