“Again! Oh my God!” The words burst out as soon as I picked up the call and heard what had happened in the village. It’s about my sister, Saratu. Her husband had beaten her again, this time, into a coma. I could no longer concentrate on the report I was compiling. As the woman coordinator of one of the leading nongovernmental organisations for women empowerment in the North East with its headquarters in Yola, part of my duties was to send a comprehensive report to my supervisor in Abuja weekly.

Perspiration covered my visage despite the cold temperature from the running air conditioner in my room. The gentle whirring of the AC formed ear-splitting noise in my brains. My body was inconsonant with every sound around me, every noise, every movement, everything. I looked at the sheets of paper strewn all over my table, each with its words that I was trying to form a whole from its parts. It seemed my head was ringing a bell. Why will this man continue to maltreat my sister? Why has he turned her to a drum that he must beat always?

With the weight in my chest and the tremble in my body, I knew I couldn’t concentrate on my writing anymore. I had to travel to the village immediately, to see my sister and to deal with that he-goat that called himself her husband. This was not the first time and not the second. The last time, he had blamed her for giving birth to a girl. Was that not irrational in this modern age? Didn’t he know it was his duty to determine the gender of the woman?

The clock on the wall chimed six. The sound stung me and I hopped out of my chair immediately, many rivers of thoughts flowing wildly in my mind. If I wanted to travel to the village, I had to leave now. I knew I had to defy the numerous roadblocks that had become a part of our lives since the rise of the dreaded Boko Haram. I looked outside the window; the sun had already departed the sky for another part of the world. I hurried into the bathroom, washed myself and half-ran out. I struggled into my gown and picked my bag. As I looked into the mirror, my black drab face stared back at me. “Is this your face Maryamu?” I asked myself and half-smiled. My phone rang again and cut my thoughts off. I knew it was from the village, the clarion call to come quickly. I looked at the screen of the phone. It was my sister’s doctor from the village.

“Hello.”

“You need to come quickly. We may not be able to treat her here.”

“Why?” I quickly picked up my bunch of keys amidst the litter of papers on the table and struggled with the door before I could lock it.

“Hello, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” I replied as I struggled to catch my breath. I knew my door could be stubborn when I needed it to be more cooperative.

“She has lost a lot of blood.”

“Okay. I’ll soon be there.”

As I dropped the phone, I remembered the word he used the last time: exsanguination. So, it has happened again. Nawa o.

Eventually, I locked my door. I would deal with it when I return. I couldn’t wait for my car’s engine to get warm as I started it; I revved it and backed out of the sandy compound, into the boggy road. It was getting dark already. I knew I needed to hurry.

*

When I saw my sister on the health centre’s bed in the village, I shouted. I was very alarmed. She was emaciated and her soft, rich brown color had become very dark. I wished the gasp that escaped me could wake her but it didn’t. Her lifeless look scared me. She looked like she was somewhere beyond any love or care. I dropped my bag on the bed and rushed to the doctor’s office. The anxiety in me didn’t make me feel the usual nausea I did whenever I entered a hospital, the pungent smell of antiseptic like Kainkain, a local gin. The cubicle that served as the office’s doctor was locked.

I moved to the other part of the ward where a woman was seated at a table. Everywhere was half-lit. There was no power supply but I know my way around the health centre. The sole light was from a lantern hung on a pole very close to the entrance where my sister had her bed. I couldn’t see the woman’s face clearly but I had no option than to speak to her.

“Good evening. Please, I’m Saratu’s sister.”

“Which Saratu?” the woman responded nonchalantly.

Her response piqued me but I had no option than to be patient.

“May I see the doctor?”

“At this time? Don’t you know the doctor will go home?”

“But…he told me to come…”

“He has gone home.”

I was stunned by her response. Gone home. Is this the attitude that many Nigerians have complained about?

“I need to transfer my sister that was beaten by her husband to FMC Yola.”

The woman stood up suddenly after hearing what I said. Her swift movement scared me and I wished I could discern the emotion on her face but her spacewas poorly lit.

“Sister…I’m sorry. I don’t know you’re the one. The doctor said I should call him immediately you return. I’m sorry ma…”

“No problem.”

My response was devoid of any concern for her repentance. I only wanted to get out of the God-forsaken place.

“Please, follow me.”

I followed her as we navigated in between the beds in the open ward. We avoided some stands of intravenous drips, some relatives tending their family members, some babies crawling and the dark parts not covered by the lantern’s light. I examined her. She was somewhat plump and her gait was graceful.

She led me to the doctor’s office, which she opened after some minutes’ struggles.

“Please, wait for him here.”

“This place is dark. I will rather sit beside my sister.”

“Okay ma. As you wish.”

She locked the door and led me like a small child back to my sister’s corner close to the window. Her side was well-lit because it was close to the pole that had the lantern. I sat beside her head and examined her face. The woman mumbled some words but I didn’t pay attention. My mind was on my sister.

As I looked at her lying almost lifeless on the bed, floodgates of past memories opened. I remembered how we lived in this village together. My mother gave birth to just two of us. We never knew our father because he left while we were young. He divorced mother because she had no male child and married her friend with whom he left for Maiduguri. My sister was an introvert, the reticent type. She believed the extreme parts of religious, including the one that saw Western education as evil. We went to the same mosque and had a mallam that told us Western education trains girls to be prostitutes. My sister refused to go to school but I was the stubborn type. I wanted to leave the village, for a better place, for a wider world, for a place where I could see beautiful cars and beautiful clothes. That was my tiny imagination then and when the opportunity came, I grabbed it. I availed myself of the opportunity a foundation that was recruiting young girls for formal education provided. I followed them to Yola and my sister remained in the village and got married at fourteen to a farmer.   

A figure appeared before me, huge and imperious. I don’t need to be told who it was, I knew it was Dr. Audu. He had been the village doctor for sometime. He was transferred to the village’s health since the last outbreak of Cholera that almost killed every denizen of the village.

“Sannu, Aunty Maryamu.”

“Sannu oga. What happened?”

“Your sister was rushed here by her neighbours. They said her husband told them to bring her here. By the time she was rushed here, she was unconscious.”

I stood up, panicked.

“What’s the solution, Oga Audu?”

“She’s been stabilised but she needs more care which can only be given at the Federal Medical Centre, Yola.”

I shuddered at driving alone with my sister lying almost lifeless in the car, on the dark serpentine road back to Yola.

“Can someone go with us from here?”

He shook his head and I felt hollow. It was late. Outside was pitch dark, no moon. Suddenly, I remembered my sister’s husband.

“Where’s her husband?”

Dr. Audu moved closer to the window, perhaps to get fresh air.

“He didn’t come with her. Some said he had left the village.”

“Left the village? Someone committed a crime and left it for others to clean. Bastard!”

Dr. Audu took a step backward. I knew it was because of the expletive. He was a staunch Muslim. Such unholy words should not be heard by his holy ears.

“Okay. Let’s carry into my car together.”

“No problem. Nurse Peter!”

Almost immediately, a lanky man appeared from within.

“Please help madam transfer that patient to her car.”

The way he pointed at my sister was haughty and hurtful. I kept mum. I knew him to be a nice man; maybe something had changed about him.

Minutes later, I was on my way back to Yola with my sister lying on the backseat. As I reminisced on our formative years in the village, tears flowed.

*

I sat still and dazed before my sister’s stern-faced doctor at FMC. What he just told me was an incomprehensible fairy tale. I had been with my sister for three weeks, taking care of her, running from pillar to post, to get her back on her feet, only to be told that it was only my sister that could tell me what was wrong. One point I got from the doctor was that the beating was not a usual one. It was a purposeful one.

“I’m her guardian. I need to know.”

“It’s against our policy. She’s the only one that has the right to tell you.”

I wanted to utter something, to push the doctor but that was when my sister entered. She had been discharged. She looked refreshed but still emaciated. A black nylon bag was in her hand. I guess it was given to her at the dispensary.

“Sannu!” My sister greeted in her usual mellifluous tone.

“Sannu!” We both replied as my sister occupied the white plastic chair beside me. I examined her and I guessed that she must have had an agreement with the doctor not to disclose the mysterious cause of her hospitalisation.

“Have you collected all your drugs?” The doctor asked.

She nodded.

“Okay. You can go.”

“Na go de!”

“No problem. Just ensure you rest well.”

“Thank you doctor.”

“You’re welcome ma. Please ensure she rests very well.”

“She will sir.”

We stood up, curtsied and left the small wan office. The air outside was fresher than one inside despite the heat from the scorching sun. We trudged to my car, parked some distance away from the main building of the hospital. As I unlocked the door, I wish I had a spiritual power to unlock my sister’s heart and decrypt the cryptic information encoded in it. I just wished I could crack the coconut and get the water out of it.

We entered the car and I looked at my sister’s eyes. Our eyes met for some seconds before she shifted hers. She had an evasive gaze which I knew the meaning right from our childhood days. Whenever she had something to hide, she wouldn’t want to look straight into my eyes.

“Anti, you’ll stay at my place for some time so that you can rest.”

“Toh! No problem.”

“You need enough strength before return to the village.”

She nodded and then rested her head on the headrest.

We were already on the road. As we felt the soothing air of the air conditioner in my car, my heart couldn’t stop wondering what my sister was keeping away from me and why the beating by her husband wasn’t ordinary according to the doctor.

*   

Saratu was sulking. I did not know why. The first week together at my place was interesting but this second week was a contrast. Sometimes, when I greeted my sister, she only managed to grumble a response like a sick cow. 

As I dragged myself out of bed, tired, famished and exhausted from the long sleep, all this assailed my mind. I opened the silk curtain beside my bed and the morning light streamed in. I smiled at the prospect of a work-free day. I heard the gentle steps of my sister going to the kitchen, her room was adjacent mine. My plan was to dawdle in the room for some time but I also felt it was good I talk to my sister and knew her mind. 

I left the room and walked stealthily to the kitchen. The aroma of frying dodo wafted to my nose, the sizzling sound had engulfed the kitchen and my sister’s back was turned to me. I wanted to close in on her and tickle her but I didn’t want to frighten her so I remained at the threshold of the kitchen.

“Anti, Ina Kwana.”

She looked back, holding the frying pan’s handle, and frowned.

“Ina ge jia.”

“How was your night?” I asked to push for more conversation but her back was turned on me already.

“Fine.”

I moved closer to the cabinet where she was frying. Everything was neatly placed unlike the usual scattered scene.

“I want to talk to you,” I could see she was through with her frying but she didn’t want to face. The colorful dodo reminded me of our history in the village and I quickly picked two and threw them in my mouth. I nearly spat them almost immediately as they choked me. They were hot. I hurriedly swallowed one and masticatedthe other noisily, drawing air in to cool it.

“Sorry. Should I get you water?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry.”

By the time I was through with the second dodo, my eyes were wet. I picked the platter of dodo and turned to my sister who was still fondling with the spoon in her hand.

“Let’s go to the sitting room.”

I left without looking behind my heels.

My sitting room was not very big. It was a regular sitting room with nothing distinctive about it. After some minutes, my sister entered the sitting room almost silently and she sat at a corner, some distance away from me. The sitting room was dark and I went to the curtain and drew them apart. She cowered at the sight of sudden light. I allowed myself a small and satisfied smile. She was right where I wanted her to be.

“What did I do to you? Why have you been avoiding me? Have I offended you? If you’re tired of staying with me, tell me. Just tell me what you want. We can’t continue to live like a cat and dog under the same roof. I don’t like it.”

My voice was loud and I knew it. I just wanted her to feel the agony within me, the pains of having a sulking sister in the same apartment.

“Nothing.”

“It’s a lie.”

I stood up and moved closer to her. Standing above her made me see how fragile my sister could be whenever she withdrew into her shells. I wanted her to feel my pains but the contrast was the situation. I felt like gathering her into my arms. She had been married for years but had no child. All her pregnancies had led to miscarriage at one point or the other. I sat down beside her and circled my hand on her shoulders. That was when I observed she was trembling.

“Please, what is it?”

We were silent for some time. I wanted her to talk. I knew her nature. Getting things out of my sister was not an easy task. Getting a camel out of a needle was easier.

“Please, Anti.”

“Okay…” she sobbed and used the hem of her wrapper to clean her eyes. I waited for her to talk and it was like waiting for a million years.

“Where is your husband?”

Her question stung me because that was the least I expected. I almost withdrew my hands from her shoulders but I had inkling that she had more to say.

“Why?”

“Just answer my question!” The abruptness in her tone made me concede.

“He left me.”

“Why? Because I didn’t allow him to own me.”

“Own you. A man owns his wife.” 

I nodded at what my sister said. I withdrew my hands from her shoulders.

“Men in the city are bad. They want everything you own. Your body, your mind and your property. My ex wanted my money.”

“Look. It’s like that in the village too. A woman is a man’s property if they are married.”

“I know but what if the man marries you because of your money and he’s using your money to take care of another woman outside?”

“It’s still what men do.”

I kept quiet after listening to what my sister said. I believed we belonged to different worldviews and trying to explain my points to her might seem like trying to teach a pig how to sing but I still wanted to try.

I explained everything my husband did to me. How he wanted to take my property indirectly and divorce me to marry another woman. How he stole my money and emptied my bank accounts several times without any reason and the last straw that broke the camel’s back, how I caught him in the act with my househelp.

“Hmmm…but he looks gentle.”

“Yes…Anti. He has a saint’s face but a devil’s heart.”

I watched my sister closely. She seemed satisfied but she still had something to say. Our eyes met and she dropped them, as usual. I waited…and silence ruled between us for some time.

“We were told by our mallam that Christians do not remarry when they are divorced. That they stay alone. Why then do you allow different men to visit you, even in the night?”

I smiled and my sister looked at me.

“I know it’s bad but I can’t endure the pains of staying alone. My religion says if I’m divorced I should stay alone but I can’t. My husband, sorry, my ex is busy enjoying with other ladies in town and I can’t just sit down and watch. I may commit suicide or run mad.”

“Allah forbids evil!” She snapped her hand over her head.

“So…what should I do?”

“Marry one of them and stop making people look at you like asewo.”

“Second marriage is not accepted in my church.”

“You just said you can’t stay alone. So is sleeping around the best?”

“No. I’ll do something.”

I hugged her and was happy she emptied her mind to me.

“Na go de Anti. I really appreciate it.” I said after hugging her.

“No wahala!” She replied.

I know it’s my turn and I wanted to utilise the opportunity of the amiable moment.

“Anti, tell me what the doctor said is between you and your husband.”

Her face changed immediately and her countenance tightened.

“No…Allah wants it as a secret between us.”

I kept quiet for some time. I was not happy with her response.

“Anti, you asked me about my life and I told you and I asked you about yours, you said it’s a secret. I hope you’re not one of those women who refuse to talk about their homes until they are killed. If you’re in a situation like that and you don’t tell anybody and you die, God will punish you when you get to heaven. I don talk my own.”

I dusted my palms as a sign of resignation and walked out of the sitting room. Trailing me were the sobs of my sister.

*

I now know why some caged birds sing and others won’t ever sing. My sister belonged to the latter. What is she hiding about her husband? Why is she not ready to say anything? All these questions crisscrossed my mind as I turned from one side to the other on my bed. My sister and I hadn’t spoken for two days now. We only grumbled greetings at each other anytime our paths crossed in the house. I wished I could tell her I detested her nature, her being an introvert. Why will her caged bird never sing? As I asked myself this question, the mustiness in my room filled my nose. I hadn’t cleaned my room for days because of the on and off conflicts between my sister and me.

I pulled the curtain apart and light streamed into my room, reducing the stuffiness. I desperately wanted to rise and accost my sister, inform her that she had to tell me what she was concealing in her heart. As I lay on the bed watching the light from outside saturating the room, I felt a hand push me up. It was an invisible hand. I dragged myself out of the duvet and out of my bed. As my feet touched the ground, I felt as light as a leaf. I hadn’t had my supper the night before.

I used my leg to grope for my flip flops underneath the bed but my feet couldn’t feel any. After being tired of searching, something led me out of my room, towards my sister’s room. That was when I heard her voice, very clear and distinct, speaking with someone on the phone. I opened my ears to pick the conversation as I leaned on the wall close to the threshold of her room.

​​“How you dey now?”

I knew the voice. It was her husband’s.

​​“Fine. May Allah be praised.”

​​“You still angry?”

​​“Yes. You no visit me at hospital.”

​​“Sorry. I dey afraid of yah sister.”

​​“Wetin de doctor say?”

​​“He said we should stop.”

​​“Him tell yah sister?”

​​“No…”

​​“Saratu, I don miss you.”

​​“When you go come home?”

​​“Soon. I go tell my sister.”

​​“Abeg come quick quick. I dey miss ya.”

​​“I go come but I’m still angry.”

​​“Sorry. Abeg.”

There was a slight pause.

​​“Okay…maybe this week.”

​​“I go dey expect ya. I go buy something for ground.”

​​“Toh! Na go de.”

I heard my sister stand up and move towards the door. I knew it was time to go. As angry as I was, I knew I needed to act like I heard nothing.

When I got to my room, I knew my sister would not tell me this thing the doctor said willingly. It was a conspiracy. I then decided to hatch a plan to get it out of her. How acceptable this was, I wouldn’t know but I was eager to know if the thing was life threatening and I needed to act fast before she escaped again. I had a thought but it might not be as simple as one-two-three. I looked at the window and the light from outside dazzled my eyes. That was what I wanted at this time. Something crazy that could make me think. 

*

It was a dull evening the next day. Clouds covered the sky and denizens of the earth were hurrying to their homes. I also drove speedily home. I didn’t want to be caught outside in the fiery rainstorm. I was very close to the house and I could see the black gate of my house, the cream-coloured fence and some goats running around in confusion.

As I got to the gate, I sounded my horn and waited for someone to open the gate. I was scared of coming out of my car. The whirlwind was ferocious outside, sucking every light weight substance into it, whistling loudly like a happy drunkard. Someone opened the gate and it was my sister. She struggled to hold her black veil in place as she opened the gate. I throttled inside after it was opened and navigated into one of the sheds in my compound. After parking, I took my bag and two bottles of wine that I bought and left the car. Outside was hostile and the rain had started pelting everywhere. I hurried inside and prayed that my plan for the evening would work.

“Anti, thank you.”

“No problem,” my sister replied wanly as she helped me inside.

Immediately I sat down, I broke into a song. My sister looked at me and I could see the uncertainty on her face. She was probably thinking of whether to ask me why I was joyful or leave me to my own and proceed to her room but I was too happy for her curiosity not to be raised. I sang and danced. My voice defiled the deluge outside. As I sang and danced, I watched my sister from the corners of my eyes. She stood as a column, watched and waited. I continued my jubilation until I felt I could buy her in.

“I’ve been promoted to be the boss of my place. My boss retired two days ago. That means I’ll have more money and I’ll travel to different countries for meetings. Anti, I’m happy.” 

I drew my sister’s hand out of her transfixed state and dragged her to the chair.

“Are you not happy for me Anti? Are we still fighting?”

“No…I’m…happy. May Allah be praised!”

I drew her closer to my bosom and hugged her. It was an emotional state.

“We must celebrate Anti.”

“Yes…” She replied. I knew she was still trying to draw herself out of her moody state but my happiness was infectious. It soon brought smiles to her countenance and we hugged putting the past behind us.

“Any food in the kitchen?” I asked.

“Yes. I prepared tuwo and cuka soup.”

“Bring it and let’s drink.”

“Okay.”

She stood up and went inside. And as I heard the clinks of plates in the kitchen, I eyed the two bottles of wine on the table and it made me fear for the future.

My sister soon returned with a plate of food. I stood up and helped her draw the table before me closer. She placed the tray on the table and the vapour of the soup moved wavily up into the atmosphere. The sitting room was almost dark now and the rain was still falling cat and dog outside. I brought out the charged lamp in my bag and switched it on.

Brightness filled the parlour and we sat adjacent each other to consume our food, in the same porcelain plate. 

“We must drink to celebrate my promotion.”

“No…it’s haram to drink some of these,” my sister replied. From her tender tone, I knew she didn’t want to spoil our happy mood.

“But…it’s not alcoholic. It’s a normal drink.”

“Are you sure, sister?”

“Yes.”

“You know alcohol is against my faith.”

“I know…it’s not alcoholic.”

I stood up, went to the dining table, and took two glasses. As I returned, different thoughts crossed my mind. I opened the wine and the pop sound scared my sister.

“It’s nothing. Just the cork of the wine.”

I watched her resume eating.

“We need more food.”

“Okay.”

She stood up almost immediately and scurried out of the room with the tray. How she would see in the dark, I wondered.

Before her return, I had perfected my plan and sat on the settee like nothing happened. The rainfall outside had reduced to dribbling. Whatever has a beginning must have an end! My sister returned and we settled down to our meal again. I handed her glass of wine and she smiled at me.

I couldn’t look her in the eyes because I didn’t want her to see the traces of my plan. I smiled into my glass and gulped down some of its content noisily. She drank the wine slowly and gradually. I watched her closely and waited for the time to start the questioning.

Five minutes later, I knew the drink had started its work. My sister began blabbering and I waited for some minutes to be sure of the efficacy of the drug in the drink before I started my interrogation.

*   

The next day in my office was a confounding one. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I kept pondering on what my sister told me and how to handle the situation. It was profound and complicated that I felt my sister and her husband had to see a psychologist. How could this have been going on for years?

As I sat opposite the window in my office, I was lost in the maze of my thoughts. I saw myself in the Sahara trying to dismount a dune of sand that had covered, perhaps, my heart. I reflected on what my sister revealed last night when she was tipsy.

My husband doesn’t enjoy making love to me until he beats me very well. He usually says pains bring the best pleasure and it’s the will of God because he was created that way. And I have started enjoying it too. I enjoy the beating, the pains and the sex. It has been like that for years and we’ve been enjoying each other. It’s our secret.

As the words rolled through my mind like a cassette again, I felt terrified. I now knew why my sister had lost nearly all her six pregnancies and the only one she was delivered of came as a still child. Will her life continue like this? I must do something. I weighed the two options in my mind, whether to keep quiet or to approach the issue headlong, the latter was the dominant one.

I stood up from my table, picked my car keys and left the office. My supervisor was outside with some visitors. I winked at him and said my pleasantries to the guests before I entered my car, ignited the engine, revved it and zoomed off. I devoured the road faster than I had done in years. I needed to speak with my sister. It was important.

Drawing nearer to the house, I had a foresight that something would be amiss. I could see the black gate of my house not too far away now. I sped towards it and some goats feeding near the dusty road,m ran away with hurried steps.

I parked at the front of my compound and entered the house. My compound was forlorn and quiet like a graveyard. This I didn’t care about because it was the busy hour that nearly everybody was away at work or at other preoccupation. I knocked my door and nobody responded. I tried the handle and it opened…and I stepped into the house. I called out, I looked around but couldn’t find my sister. She had left, leaving behind the fragrance of her cream. I slouched on my settee and heaved a sigh of disappointment. Can this be the will of God as my sister said? For someone to suffer and lose her pregnancy for someone else to enjoy?

As I sat in my sitting room, one question kept haunting me: what should I do? I was more confused now than when I didn’t know about the issue. Is it better to be ignorant of some issues than to be aware of them?

Later when I slept off, I dreamt that my sister, glaring, eyes dazed with fury, was attacking in the middle of the desert for sharing her story with the world. I woke up panting.

Israel Oluwaseun Adeleke is a faculty member at the Department of English Language and Literature, the American University of Nigeria (AUN), Yola, Nigeria. He formerly worked at the AUN foundation programs and was a teaching assistant at the Center for General Studies, University of Ibadan.He is a creative writer and critic and currently co-editing the AUN Journal of Arts and Humanities. Some of his poems have been published in The Sun Nigeria and SunStruck Magazine.