A Gift from Darkness Read online

  This slaughter continues beyond the walls of the church compound while Patience and I talk and she tells me her story. And news of it penetrates our apparent oasis of peace, a deceptive peace. As we are cut off from any kind of internet communication, I learn of the terrible events from a newspaper that someone has left on the bench under our tree.

  19 DEAD, 130 INJURED IN SUICIDE ATTACKS is the headline that leaps out at me on the morning of December 6, 2015. Horrified, I go on reading: the tragedy occurred the previous day in a small town on Koulfoua, an island in Lake Chad. It is just 125 miles north of Maiduguri. After Boko Haram had gathered more and more fighters in the area, a state of emergency was declared there a month ago. Civilians had sought refuge from the terrorists there. But that was where they sent their angels of death: four bombs exploded simultaneously amid crowds of people at a busy market. And then I read a detail that makes me shudder: the attack was carried out by women.

  Patience isn’t surprised. “The wives of the Boko Haram fighters are very violent,” she says. “Many are converted while in captivity.”

  I look at her for a long time. “Did they try to do that to you too?” I dare to ask at last.

  Patience looks at the dusty ground. “Yes, of course,” she says quietly, rocking her child.

  “Is it true that the Chibok girls were deployed in attacks like this?” I ask, as I have heard such rumors from many quarters.

  Patience thinks It’s very likely. “But not just them!” she says. “They have a huge influence on all the women and girls in their power. If a woman marries a Boko Haram fighter, she can expect that her husband will demand that she blow herself up.”

  Only six days later, on December 11, 2015, the Islamists strike once more in Nigeria. This time I find out from the vicar’s wife. She looks very shocked and nervous after she receives a call from a relative on her mobile phone.

  “What’s up?” I ask her.

  “They’ve attacked Kamuya,” the vicar’s wife tells me. The small village is only about thirty miles from Maiduguri. She has family there. “A dozen men arrived on bicycles and torched the whole village.”

  In the course of the day more and more details about the attack come to light. It was probably an act of revenge against General Tukur Yusuf Buratai: the most senior army officer in the state of Borno comes from the village of Buratai, only six miles away, which was also attacked recently. He had a second home in Kamuya—and now the villagers have paid for it. Fourteen of them didn’t manage to get away in time. They were murdered in cold blood: seven of them were shot by the Islamists, the other seven were beheaded. Probably to give the fleeing inhabitants the most shocking possible sight on their return, the hacked-off heads were draped on the bloody torsos.

  “It’s terrible,” the vicar’s wife says, so quietly that I can barely hear her. “I just hope that they leave us in peace here in Maiduguri.”

  That is what everyone here is worried about. After the most recent attacks the atmosphere in the church compound is even more tense. The guards by the gate have stepped up their checks: no one can come in carrying a piece of luggage. But will this rule protect us if a suicide bomber really takes the EYN church as his target, I wonder? In the past Boko Haram has carried out numerous attacks on the churches of the Swiss missionaries in the area. Recently some girls who had previously been kidnapped carried bombs in their baby-cloths. Patience could easily have been one of those attackers.

  Now, just before Christmas, it is particularly dangerous. In previous years particularly large numbers of churches have been attacked, set on fire or bombed. While in Europe and the rest of the Christian world decorations are going up in the streets, the northern Nigerian Christmas tradition seems to be to attack Christian places of worship. Everyone assumes that something’s going to happen in the next few days or weeks. And I too am starting to feel really ill at ease. The attacks are coming closer. Did Renate and I do something incredibly reckless when we decided to come here at Advent, of all times? Were we able to judge the situation correctly from Germany?

  “There’s no point brooding about it,” Renate says when we sit together in our room that evening and I hesitantly tell her of my concerns. Somewhere in the distance I can hear gunfire.

  “What was that?” I ask her.

  “No idea. Some sort of argument. I’m sure it’s nothing. People here are quick to reach for their guns.” I don’t find that very reassuring. I listen hard and hope that Renate is right to be so confident. Eventually the shots fall silent. It’s very dark now; in all likelihood they can’t see their targets anymore.

  From six o’clock in the evening there’s a curfew across the whole town. That’s when public life comes to an end: shops and stalls close with almost Swiss precision. That alone reveals the state of emergency in which the area finds itself, because as a rule not much store is set by punctuality. People hurry home. Anyone who fails to get there has to spend the night wherever they happen to be, if they don’t want to get picked up by the army. There’s no electricity from six o’clock either. At least not for people who don’t have solar cells on the roof or their own generator. The state electricity company can only manage to supply power for a few hours a day.

  On those long evenings without light and electricity Renate and I have no option but to retreat to our guest room in the vicarage. Since there is nowhere around where we could pick something up during the day, we eat the provisions that we’ve brought with us from Germany: mostly nuts and dried fruits. Thanks to Renate’s long list we’ve packed plenty of those. If we’re lucky, the vicar’s wife or Rebecca will also give us a little rice or fried plantains. It’s almost impossible to get hold of fruit or fresh vegetables; and in any case they’re taboo because of the germs. Some days we manage to get hold of a tin of tuna or a loaf of white bread to pep up our meal.

  “Bon appetit,” says Renate and raises her Coke can, her latest haul. Coca-Cola is available from the street stalls, as it is everywhere in the world.

  Renate’s shopping trips along the nearby streets and in the market are legendary in the church compound. Today, she says, she had a row with Daniel about it: the young civil servant whose duty it is to keep an eye on us doesn’t want us to show our faces in the street, not even to buy a can of Coke or any other trifles. Renate, who is used to strolling about freely, thinks he’s being unnecessarily cautious.

  “The people are so friendly,” she tells me. “They’re glad that someone’s come from outside at last and taken an interest in them.”

  “Yes, I know,” I say with a grin. I’ve also accompanied Renate on her forays: she blossoms when she meets people and is able to talk to them. She says hello to everyone, pauses for a moment, has a little chat with the people in Hausa. The vicar listens to their problems and has a few words of sympathy for each of them. That must be how she approached people when she was a missionary.

  But times have changed. “Boko Haram is everywhere,” I remind her. Particularly here, in Maiduguri, the terrorist militia has eaten into society like a tumor, and invaded every family, every sphere of everyone’s lives. Many people you wouldn’t have expected it of are in secret communication with the Islamists and pass information on to them. There’s no way of knowing who you can trust and who you can’t. “We should stick to his instructions,” I say, defending Daniel’s position. “It’s not a great idea if word gets around Maiduguri that two white women are staying at the church.”

  “But I need ingredients for my next workshop!” she complains. She wants to make muffins with the widows, and is trying to find a local substitute for the ingredients in the recipe. It’s hard to explain to Rebecca, who doesn’t know what baking powder and vanilla extract are. Renate herself has to see what’s on offer and then use her imagination.

  But at least she seems thoughtful now. At last she agrees to be driven to the market next time rather than going on foot. At least that way she won’t be seen going in and out of the church compound.

  “That�
�s a better idea,” I tell her. “It means our hosts won’t be put in danger either.”

  “Maybe,” she complains. “But you can’t control everything. The risk is just there, for a foreigner as well as for the people who live here.”

  She’s right. There’s no safety in northern Nigeria, nowhere. Certainly not in a busy market where hundreds of people are doing their shopping. It isn’t even a month since a bomb last went off here.

  Perhaps, I think to myself, you need to be a vicar to accept all that and carry on anyway.

  My second chance

  After I got back the months went quickly. First we celebrated harvest thanksgiving, then Christmas. I got used to my new old life and tried not to rail against my fate. My family accepted the situation too. I assume that my uncle, who liked to present himself to my father as a benefactor, was secretly quite glad that he still had me working for him.

  One afternoon I was, as so often, busy sweeping his yard, for the second time that day. In the middle of the dry season it was roasting hot and the area between the huts was full of fine sand that blew over to us from the desert. In principle I should have kept constantly starting my work over and over again because so many little grains were drifting through the air.

  When I was sweeping up the dust into the dustpan, I heard men’s voices nearby. I interrupted my work and listened to hear whether it was my uncle come back with his sons, or my father with his brothers. But these were strangers’ voices. And since my bad experience in Damaturu I was a little nervous: even though we had no problems with our Muslim neighbors in Ngoshe, as I have said, I felt uneasy when strangers approached the property.

  “Hey, girl!” I heard a man shout.

  I turned round and saw him standing with two other men outside the gate to our yard: he was very tall, and his expression was open and direct. His skin was strikingly pale, which is considered attractive around here. A really good-looking guy, although not very young. I guessed he was about forty. “We are from the Zalidiva tribe in Gwoza,” he said, introducing himself and his companions.

  I didn’t react.

  “Hey, don’t be so shy,” he laughed. “Could the three of us maybe have some water? It’s incredibly hot today.”

  I couldn’t say no. In our tradition, travelers always have the right to ask for water wherever they happen to be. So near to the desert that can be a matter of life and death. So I went over to the big-bellied clay jug in which we kept our drinking water. It was next to the gate, half-buried in the sand so that the water would stay cool and fresh. I scooped a beaker full.

  “Thank you,” said the man who did all the talking. He took a mouthful. “Ah, that’s good.”

  He passed the half-full beaker on to his friends. I could tell by the sweat on their foreheads that the heat was really getting too much for them. “You have very good water in Ngoshe,” he said when the beaker was empty. “Are you the one who fetches it from the well in the morning?”

  I heard the request behind the question. “Would you like some more?”

  He smiled and showed a straight row of bright white teeth. “Of course. If you can spare it.”

  So I scooped some more water from the clay jug. When I came back to them holding the beaker, I saw that the tall, light-skinned man was looking at me closely. His eye ran over my legs and my hips and rested on the beaker, which I was holding level with my chest. “You’re very kind,” he said, “and beautiful. What’s your name?”

  I blushed. “Patience Aiga,” I said, telling him my maiden name.

  “Patience,” he said again. “Patience, my savior, my oasis in the desert…”

  “Let’s not exaggerate!”

  “I’m not exaggerating. You’ve saved us from dying of thirst.”

  I must admit that I wasn’t unhappy about our little exchange. My days were rather monotonous and didn’t give me much opportunity to talk to other people. Apart from my relatives and fleeting encounters at the well I hardly saw anybody. So I felt flattered when this attractive man suddenly appeared out of nowhere and started saying all these nice things to me. What was the harm in flirting with him a little?

  “And you’ve come from Gwoza?” I asked him, curious. That was our district capital. It had about fifty thousand inhabitants and lay behind the mountain where we worked our millet field. Seen from the air, the distance was less than three miles. But it was a very difficult journey, because in between there was more than a thousand yards of altitude to cover. And if you took the detour via the road it was just under twenty miles in all.

  “Yes,” he said. “My name is Ishaku Dabrigela Verhohuna.” He held out his hand. I shook it hesitantly, and found myself hoping that my aunt wasn’t watching, or anyone else. They might get completely the wrong idea about me.

  “I’m a cattle breeder,” the man said. “That’s why we were here at the cattle market this morning.”

  “Ah,” I said, and tried not to show how impressed I was. “And where are your cattle?”

  “I sold them. I got a tidy sum for them.”

  He was clearly trying to impress me. I liked that. At the same time I was aware that our conversation was drifting into dangerous territory. I shouldn’t have been having conversations like this by the door to the yard with a complete stranger. “Well, then I hope you get home safely.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, and seemed uncertain about whether he should go or not. But anything else would have been very strange. “Thanks again for your hospitality,” he said ingratiatingly. “And I hope we will see each other again, beautiful lady.”

  I hoped so too. After the meeting I was incredibly excited. It was as if lightning had struck in the middle of my dull existence. Suddenly, once again, there was so much more than what had filled my time over the past few months. I wasn’t just a maid who did other people’s laundry and cooked other people’s food. I was a woman, a beautiful woman. And there were people who could see that. Why on earth had I forgotten?

  In an instant the dreams that I had buried deep within myself pushed their way violently back to the surface. Why had I believed that my life was over with Yousef’s death? Why had I allowed myself to be convinced of that? What if they were all wrong, and I had a future after all? I barely dared to allow myself to think those thoughts. Because as soon as I did I saw myself living the life I had always imagined I would have: as a wife with children running around my feet. And my heart started pounding.

  That’s enough, I said to myself. Stop that straightaway! I tried to shoo away my fantasies, and instead to concentrate on my household tasks. As a widow you have to be grateful if your uncle takes pity on you. You can’t ask too much of life, I heard my mother saying in the back of my mind. Yes, she was right, I found myself thinking: I mustn’t neglect my duties and succumb to daydreaming. I hurried to take the laundry off the fence and fold it. Then I lit the fire and began to make dinner. But whatever I did, my thoughts refused to obey. They stayed with him, the tall stranger who had said he thought I was beautiful and he wanted to see me again. Had he been joking, or did he mean it?

  I didn’t tell anyone in my family about my encounter. I knew instinctively that it was better that way. Luckily no one seemed to have noticed it. At least no one asked me what I’d been talking to the men at the gate about. The day ended, as it always did, with tidying. And the next day began, as it always did, with fetching water. But everything was different: it was as if yesterday’s meeting by the gate had torn away the gray veil that had hung between me and the world since Yousef’s death. All of a sudden it seemed brighter and more cheerful.

  My friend Rifkatu immediately noticed the change in me. “So, what puts you in such a good mood today?” she asked when we met at the well as usual.

  I would have loved to tell her about the man, but I restrained myself. Wouldn’t it sound ridiculous for a widow to start talking about butterflies in her belly? Think of your reputation! I reminded myself.

  As relaxed and casual as possible, I asked if
her relatives in Gwoza had any connections with the Zalidiva tribe.

  She looked at me in surprise. “Why do you want to know that?”

  “A cousin of mine is interested in one of their girls,” I replied.

  “Really? Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “Stupidly I seem to have forgotten her name.”

  “Then ask,” she said. “Then I can make some inquiries. But you generally hear that they are good, Christian people who regularly go to church.” She looked at me insistently, as if she could read my mind. “Or are you keeping something from me?”

  “Me? What an idea! That’s all in the past as far as I’m concerned,” I lied, pretending to be highly amused at the idea. Secretly I was wounded by my own words even as I uttered them. But what upset me most of all was that my friend didn’t even contradict me.

  I performed my daily duties, all the work I generally did, but with more of a spring in my step than usual. As I swept the yard I hummed the song that we had learned in church. That made everything go twice as fast. After that I waited briefly until my aunt and her daughter-in-law, Savan, set off to weed the nearby peanut field. Meanwhile I swept their huts.

  Savan’s house was full of things that she needed for her baby. She put clean cloths, nappies, cough medicine and creams in a plastic bag. In another she kept her own treasures, mostly things that her husband had given her: fabric to make a new dress, shampoo, a bleaching skin cream, toothpaste, a set of pink underwear and a little mirror. I knew I wasn’t allowed to touch those things. But when I saw the mirror I couldn’t help myself: I absolutely had to check what I looked like right now.

  I hesitantly picked up the mirror and studied my face, something I hadn’t done for months. I barely recognized the woman who looked back at me from the glass. She had beautifully shaped brown eyes, a wide nose, high cheekbones and full lips. Was that me? Was I beautiful? I couldn’t tell.