A Short Story by Poet Razon-Anny Justin
Shaita sat there not daring to move. The devil himself must have been sitting few feet away- smiling, mockingly at the rivulet of tears that rode down her face unto the gloss of the Kodak she was staring at. Abdullai smiled back at her through the stains of her tears! She wiped the small teary ditch away from the picture. He smiled more handsomely now. The tear had formed a corrosive patch over part of his face and right shoulder. The picture will definitely start spoiling from there, she thought as she turned the back of the Kodak and read his scrawny handwriting.
From Paris, with love.
She turned the picture back again and stared blankly. Abdullai stood akimbo on a street curb, a telephone booth behind him to the right. The telephone's mouthpiece dangled carelessly from the dial slit. There were scribblings all over the glass of the booth. She couldn't read any probably because they were written in french- a language she neither spoke nor understood. He must have just finished using the phone before deciding to snap the picture. He must have used the booth to call home. It must have been one of those after work occasions when he had the chance to speak- not only with her, but with Alhaja and his two kids.
She sighed and wept for him again. Abdullai ran from death in Nigeria to meet death in a whiteman's land.
She wept even more- for herself; a freshly turned widow.
Her gaze kept fading. Her focus kept coming and going. She couldn't hold it for long, so she folded the picture in two neat halves and carefully slide it into her clutch. Instantly, she tugged at the corner of her Jalabia and wiped off the river of tears that rode down her checks. Most of her brown mascara came off too, turning the used part of the white Jalabia into a murky brown. She had cried enough. She stood up, stretched and smiled into the day's azure sky.
Shaita had to brace up. She had to stand up for Keila and Ahmed. She had to stand for her aged mother-in-law too. How will she do it? How will she raise her two kids now that their father was no more? How will she be able to console Alhaja over the loss of his first son. There were many tasks ahead.
First, she must sign- an acknowledgment-
"I'll not wait to be blown to bits by these illiterate Boko boys", he had said tersely as she waited on him to board his flight out at the Murtala Mohammed's.
"In future, if you ever get as apprehensive as I've; I'll be on standby to ship you out- you and the kids", he concluded.
"No! thanks, darling. We will be safe here, Insh'Allah", she had told him.
That was three years ago.
Now, she had to arrange for his funeral.
Shaita's grief was interrupted by the loud shrills of her cell phone as it momentarily rang. It was Mukhtar, her husband's kid brother. He was calling from Jos where he worked and lived. Mukhtar was cryi
"You've got to smile and shame the devil; you've got to toughen up too", she told herself as she trotted on.
A thin smile curved at the corners of her swollen lips as the chauffeur greeted and opened the door for her. Alhaja was slumped on the SUV's back seat. Her face was swollen from grief.
"Ma'am, you are stronger than death", the chauffeur consoled.
She grinned back.
"I'm stronger than death, Insh'Allah" she answered in faith.
"It's just the thoughts. It beats me how he left death here to die abroad", she continued.
"How could Abdul run from here, from locally made Boko bombs to be killed by a bomb in Paris?" she asked, breaking into tears again.
"This is the part that zaps my strength"
