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Buried Beneath the Baobab Tree
Buried Beneath the Baobab Tree Read online
Dedication
To the girls and women of Nigeria,
in the hope that they may know brighter times than these
Epigraph
. . . They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church-window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away,
And there it stands to this very day . . .
—Robert Browning, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin”
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Big Dreams
Sometimes and Always
Koboko
Pineapples and Limes
Tree of Life
Papa’s Radio
Thank God
Ya Ta
The Voice on Papa’s Radio
Calendar
Storyteller
Fat Fish
Sleep
Rat Bite
The Voice on Papa’s Radio
Principal
Sitting on a Wooden Stool
Romance
Once a Month
Pastor Moses
On Our Way to School
Tales by Moonlight
Almost One Month
Blood
Hunger
Teacher
Pepper Soup
The Voice on Papa’s Radio
Success
Bewitched
Marriage
News from Izghe
Evil
On Our Way to School
Four Loaves of Bread
Love
Another Husband
Prosper
The Voice on Papa’s Radio
Touching a Boy’s Hand
Human Flesh
Naming
Sweet Dream
On Our Way to School
Sarah Must Be Right
Bad Mood
Come to Think of It
The Voice on Papa’s Radio
Gathered Around the Well
The Boys in My Class
My Brothers
Tales by Moonlight
On Our Way to School
Malam Zwindila
The Voice on Papa’s Radio
Feet in Cold Water
Islam
Urgent Prayer
Boko Haram Men
Waiting for Mama
A Knock at the Door
In Sarah’s House
Alone
Surprise
Fame
Heartache
With a University Degree
The Voice on Papa’s Radio
Bad News
Worry
Pregnancy
Dangerous Cows
Sucking Seeds
Mama’s Promise
Bang
Gone
Reasons to Thank God
First Step
Slaves
New Masters
Mad Man
Darkness
I Imagine Mama
Surprised
Inside the Sambisa
Mourning
Dagger
Al-Bakura
Another Leader
Comfort
The Voice on Papa’s Radio
Food
Magdalene’s Song
Rijale
Incomplete Woman
Life of a Slave
Maybe
Tantalizer
A Proposal
Malam Adamu
The Worst Student
Liar
My Name
Lashing
Sitting on a Rock
Prayer
Escape
Torment
Tree of Death
Fertilizer
Tired
Bite off His Ears
Aisha’s Turn
This Is Not Islam
Nothing to Do with Islam
Education
My Definition of Haram
Open Secret
Malam Isa
Tales by Moonlight
Death
Battle
One of a Kind
Democracy
God Forbid
I Have Lost Count
Rain
Conversations with Zainab
Rare Praise
Snake
The Leader
No Escape
A Gift from Allah
Run
New Life
New Mother
Conversation with Aisha
Two Days Later
New Clothes
Friday
Fanne
Two Drops of Water
The First Time
Last Night
Delicious
Advice
Silver
Life of a Wife
Osama
Scar
Mesmerized
Singing
Mind of a Fly
Laughing
Showing Off
His Favorite
Buttermint
New Strength
Memories
Watching Men
Like Malam Zwindila
Bugle
Jihad
Outside World
Lucky Bride
Good Looks
Trying to Be Happy
A New Friend
Decision
Gossip
In-Laws
Still Wondering About It
Training
A New Teacher
Argument
Growing Up
Tattoo
For the Fifth Day in a Row
Fonder
Day Seventeen
Today’s Lesson
Gossip
My Intelligence
Finished
Day Thirty-Two
Victory
Comforter
Morning After
Spoils of War
Bracelet
Through the Window of My Niqab
Caution
Boarding School
Expert
Special Vest
Gold Ring
Boys
Jacob
Two Husbands
Blasphemy
Betrayal
Disgraced
Old Friend
Thinking About Zainab
Paradise
Superstar
I Must Try
Heartbroken
Boom
English Words
White People
His Voice
Still Alive
I Still Remember
The Man in the Mask
Free Medical Test
Better Life
New Dreams
Tablets and Capsules
But
The Pink Van
Rescue
Questions and Answers
Aisha
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Found
Afterword: The Chosen Generation
Acknowledgments
More Resources
About the Authors
Books by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Big Dreams
MY SWEETEST DREAMS UNFOLD when my eyes are wide open, after I roll my sleeping mat and begin my morning chores.
As I walk to the well from which every family in our section of the village fetches water, I dream of a new pair of shoes for church on Sunday, shimmering red and shining new like that of the golden-haired girl I saw singing on TV, instead of black a
nd slack like the ones I’ve had since two Christmases ago.
As I bend my back to blow the wood beneath Mama’s pot until the embers crackle with dancing flames, I dream of a more bounteous harvest, for Papa to reap more than enough corn and groundnuts and beans from his farms this year, so that we can eat our fill and have enough left over to sell for school fees.
As I thrust my hand into every cranny of the living room, veranda, corridor, and backyard with my broom, I dream of acing the Borno State scholarship exam and leaving home to attend the special boarding school for girls in Maiduguri, of being the first child in my entire family—nuclear and extended—who proceeds to university after secondary school instead of back to Papa’s farm or straight to my husband’s house.
As I open my mouth to say “good morning” to Mama and hand her the pan of sleeping oil with which to fry the kosai for Papa and my brothers to eat when they awake, I dream of standing in front of a classroom full of children and telling them, “A is for apple!”
As I tighten my fingers around my youngest brother, Jacob, and stand his naked body in the basin of lukewarm water, then smear him with soap, I dream of being a good wife who kneels to serve her husband his meals and who bears him healthy sons.
As I load my arms with the empty plates my brothers have left behind on their way out, some to the farm and some to school, I dream of a sister instead of only five brothers, another girl to help with all the chores.
As I dip my palm into the—
“Hurry up! Let’s not be late. I don’t want to stay back after school to wash the toilet!”
The voice of my best friend, Sarah, slams my dreaming shut. She is at the door, textbooks and notebooks in hand.
Like me, she is the one who does the morning chores. Her two sisters have left home, married to men in the village next to ours.
“Please, give me a minute,” I say. “Let me just rub some Vaseline on my hands.”
That is the good thing about dreaming with my eyes wide open. It’s like molding a calabash from wet clay. Some other time, some other day, I can always continue from wherever I stop, or even start from the beginning all over again.
Sometimes and Always
SINGING FAMILIAR TUNES OR learning the lyrics to new ones. Telling ancient riddles and jokes. Whispering secrets that no other ears will hear. Guessing for how long the hills layered majestically high with dense rocks have lived, and the baobab trees with bulbous trunks and buttress roots that make them stand out like aliens in the sprawling savanna landscape.
Always hand in hand.
My best friend and I prancing side by side on our way to school.
Koboko
MALAM ZWINDILA SCRATCHES THE date into the right-hand corner of the blackboard with a tiny piece of chalk. Mistakenly, he writes Monday instead of Tuesday.
With a handful of fresh green leaves from the pile on the teacher’s desk, he wipes the wrong date off and writes the correct one. Then he turns to the right-hand side of the classroom, where the boys sit.
“You! What is democracy?” he asks.
Danladi, son of the village head hunter, rises to his feet.
“Sir, democracy is . . . democracy is . . .”
Mr. Zwindila’s eyes point elsewhere.
“You! What is democracy?”
Peter, whose three brothers are crippled from polio, gets to his feet.
“Sir, democracy is . . . errrr . . . it is when . . .”
“You! What is democracy?”
Ibrahim, a wizard who can calculate twenty-three times seventy-three without pen or calculator but who doesn’t know the difference between their and there, stands to his feet.
“Sir, democracy is the government of all types of people.”
Malam Zwindila tosses the pile of used leaves onto the teacher’s desk and grabs his koboko.
“Some of you have brains made of sawdust,” he says.
He runs his other hand from one end of the long, hard whip to the other, slowly. His eyes survey the class.
Those three boys have just earned ten strokes of the koboko each, either on their buttocks or their palms, depending on Malam Zwindila’s mood.
Who is next?
It is difficult to believe that this man inflicting terror is the same man who stood on the altar in Christ the King Church nine months ago, watery-eyed as his lithe bride walked up the aisle.
But I am not afraid.
I remember everything Malam Zwindila taught us in the last class and the one before that and in every other one before.
He turns toward the girls’ side.
He is about to point his eyes at Sarah when I stretch my hand high up in the air.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
Back at home, Papa and my brothers sit in the living room and talk about the news on the radio while Mama and I sit in the corridor, or in the kitchen.
Back at home, Mama must keep quiet whenever Papa speaks, and I must never question anything he says.
Back at home, the men and boys know everything, but here in school, I know more than all the boys. Salt may laugh at shea butter when the sun shines, but when the rain falls, it must hide its head.
“Sir, democracy is the government of the people, for the people, and for . . . and by the people,” I say.
Malam Zwindila keeps his eyes on me. He doesn’t waver, he doesn’t flutter, he doesn’t utter a word.
He slams his koboko whip down on the teacher’s table, hard and quick.
My heart jumps.
“Clap for her!” he yells.
The whole class claps, keeps clapping, and continues clapping.
Pineapples and Limes
I GAZE LONGINGLY AT the two straps outlined underneath my best friend’s white blouse. When will it be my turn to wear a bra?
She has pineapples; I have limes.
If only breasts were like tomatoes and onions, which were certain to grow succulent and healthy if you put them in good ground at the right time of the year, then watered and weeded weekly. So far, all my daily yanking in the bathroom has yielded no results.
“Just a year or two more,” Mama says. “My breasts also took longer to come out. But look at me today.”
Tree of Life
SARAH AND I MUST get home from school as quickly as possible to begin our chores and homework, but the pendulous fruits of the baobab tree at the church junction seem to be calling our names.
We stop to answer, laying down our books beneath its cool shade. The temptation is too hard for us to resist.
Of all the tales Papa has told us when we’ve gathered around him under the light of the full moon, my favorite is about the baobab tree.
“A long, long time ago,” he said, “one of the gods up in the sky threw down a baobab tree from his garden. It landed upside down on Earth but still continued to grow.”
That is why the tree’s branches look like a set of upside-down roots.
There is something for everyone in the baobab tree, whether man, woman, boy, or girl. Something for beasts and spirits, even.
Papa places the empty fruit gourds in different corners of our house to chase away lizards and snakes.
Mama cooks Papa’s favorite miyan kuka soup with the baobab’s leaves.
My oldest brother, Abraham, squeezes powder from the dried fruit gourds onto the pimples on his face. My second brother, Elijah, squeezes powder from the dried fruit gourds into the boil on his leg. My third brother, Caleb, uses the empty pods to store his shaving stick.
Men and boys gather under the upside-down branches of the baobab tree in front of our village health care center, exchanging news or deciding who to vote for in the next election.
Women and girls gather under the baobab tree near the communal well, exchanging gossip or deciding what styles of clothes to sew next.
Goats and sheep take refuge from the heat under the baobab tree; bats and owls sleep in its branches; animals chomp on the baobab’s trunk during the dry season, eager for th
e volumes of water stored inside its bark.
Some of the students in my class whose fathers are hunters say that drinks made from soaking the baobab fruit in water would protect you from being gobbled up by crocodiles. They say that plucking the flowers, which normally fall to the ground on their own within hours of blooming, would lead to your being torn apart by lions.
But Pastor Moses says that drying the leaves and firing them up as incense would not drive out demons and witches from your house or prevent evil spirits from disturbing you and your family.
“It’s all superstition,” he says. “Only God can deliver you from demons and witches, and from every other evil.”
Sarah crouches on the ground beneath the baobab tree while I slip off my rubber sandals and stand on her back, then grab as many of the hairy, egg-shaped fruits as my fingers can clutch. One day, I shall be as tall as Mama and will need neither my friend’s back nor a long stick to reach my favorite fruits.
Papa’s Radio
FROM THE MOMENT HE arises at dawn till he pats my head softly with his rough hand and retires after dusk, the voices go on and on; transmitting stories from other worlds strange and inconceivable to our own real world, but in the Hausa language that we speak.
Every three weeks or so, Jacob can be certain of two new batteries to dismember or bandy in the backyard. But, whenever he can afford it, Papa buys the kind of batteries that can last up to six weeks, at least.
Papa’s small black radio follows him with his hoe and machete to the farm. It keeps him company in the living room while he awaits Mama’s cooking. It stands by his side when he lounges under the baobab tree, in need of siesta or shade.
Papa’s radio never stops talking, whether perched on a ledge or on a mat or between his ear and shoulder: “You are listening to BBC Hausa, brought to you live from our studios in London.”
The radio keeps silent only after the door to Papa’s bedroom groans shut at night. The voices sleep only when Papa himself sleeps.
“We will have to put it in the grave with him when he dies,” Mama jokes. “Otherwise, he will come back and haunt all of us.”
Thank God
“WE MUST ALWAYS FIND reasons to thank God,” Mama says. “Everything happens for a reason.”
That was what she said when her third baby died of a fever when he was four years old, strapped to Mama’s back on the twenty-minute walk to the village health care center.
That was what she said when her fourth baby died of a fever when she was one year old, suckling Mama’s breast one minute and lifeless the next.
That was what she said when her seventh baby was born dead, its body swaddled in worn cloth by the toothless midwife and made to disappear, no opportunity given to me for even a peek.