They Call Me Trouble by Fatima Okhuosami 

Cover Image by Faith NK

Your uncles travelled eleven hours from Imiakebu to Giri, when news of your misfortune reached their ears. They rode their motorcycles to the polytechnic gate at Auchi, then squeezed themselves between sacks of freshly harvested plantain, inside the bed of a trailer. It broke down twice during the journey, but managed to reach the metal scraps market from where they hired a tricycle to the specialist hospital. As soon as the police and white coats were done, these tired, hungry, sleep-deprived men brought you back (in a proper vehicle this time) to the crowd waiting outside your father’s house. 

When your old man saw you, he tore off the tourniquet around your neck, whose pendant was a small square carton with “B.I.D” scrawled in blue ink. An intern pressed for time had tagged you with a cut-out from the pack of cornflakes he kept for late night snacking. Your mother, who up until the cotton wool rolls clogging your nostrils  believed in a miracle, ordered you to stand up. You did not respond. She rolled in the dust and scratched her cheeks till they bled, so people cursed you for driving her to the edge of madness. You were to blame for your father’s nonsensical mutterings; he gripped the hands of his armchair and spoke in tongues like an end-time prophet. Not knowing who to comfort or where to dispose of their grief, your brothers went about shaking their heads and wringing their hands. Men don’t cry, but in their hearts, they condemned you just as fiercely. 

The chief imam came, sat under a canopy mounted outside, and sent word that he would not lead your janaza. Your uncles offered him money. Somebody ran to the kiosk nearby and bought two chilled cans of Malta Guinness for him. They showed him several articles online stating it was not forbidden; even one in your situation may aspire towards Allah’s mercy. His wives begged him to change his mind. Yet, he would not budge. Until Allah Himself intervened. 

They had finished the customary washing and perfuming, wrapped you up in a kafan, tied its ends, and were ushering you to the front yard, when the sky became a salad of colours: Maroon, gold, and charcoal. People thought it was some sort of sign; a bad omen. Some grabbed their umbrellas, others dusted their slippers, and all hurried to their homes. “Let the dead bury the dead,” they murmured. Your mother shrank. Your father stiffened. Before things completely fell apart, your youngest brother stepped forward and raised the takbeer. 

When the prayer was over, your uncles moved you into a long wooden box. They carried it to an unmarked patch at the foot of a steep hill, besieged by a congregation of witchweeds. The spot is sandwiched between lodgings belonging to a cousin—brought to an unfortunate end by his own hand—and your grandfather next door. Amidst these people who though linked to you by blood, you do not care for, a crushing loneliness remains your constant companion. 

Your existence is perpetual nothingness observed in disagreeable solitude. You long for the sound of the marketplace, of songbirds chirping, of fast-talking peddlers in green buses selling multi-purpose concoctions and get-rich-quick scams. You wish to witness the daybreak, to see streaks of light slip through craters in the sky, announcing dawn. Instead, the July rains drag debris to your doorstep, creating nourishment for every lurking, creeping, slithering creature. 

Six days after putting you in the ground, your mother visited the oracle. It was Musiliu’s name she wrote in blood. It was his picture printed from his Facebook account that she drilled a hole through, padlocked, and threw into the river. Do not judge her harshly; that man was the origin of your trouble. He poisoned you with a love that was all sin. It overtook your soul, growing bigger and stronger, festering day and night, until your life hitherto saturated with colour, greyed. Now he twists and turns through fitful sleeps, haunted by seven years’ worth of memories. The quarrel. Your damning bravery. Eyes the texture of nimbus clouds. Lips locked forever. A trail of dried blood across your left cheek. Rigor Mortis. 

You are the fly that buzzes nonstop. Wherever Musiliu goes, you must follow, filling his ears with obscenities. You are an apparition skulking within the walls of his apartment, keeping him in a state of everlasting woe. You are his insatiable hunger and unquenchable thirst. Like a midday shadow, glue plagues to his flesh. If all the medicine men in Gwako were to make a fortification charm for him, it could not send you away. Time which dulls the mourner’s grief, must groom the martyr’s revenge. 

They call you trouble, yet you are just a suicide tenanting the devil’s continuum. Partake in your simple pleasures, you who were thoroughly loved and cruelly ruined. In return, I will tell your story to whomever cares to listen; a tale bleak enough to terrify the darkest hearts. 

*** 

Thirty minutes after you were born, while your mother was still spread out on the table like a cadaver in an anatomy practical class, your father sent for the diviner. Sheikh Idrissou sang the adhan into your ear, then pocketing two thousand naira,   he assured his client that you arrived under a lucky star. Your mother’s sisters served him fried rice, roasted chicken wings, and cold Malta Guinness. He swore your lot in life would be sound health, wealth, and happiness. 

For two decades, his prophecy held true. Then you were sent off to university. Your guardian angel must have found the 340 kilometres trip to a new city too much of a hassle. He absconded from his duty post, paving the way for you to meet and fall in love with your nemesis. 

Musiliu boasts a face chiselled to perfection, blue deep-set eyes, and skin the colour of burnt sugar. He was part of the students  union body and played the role of a mini godfather in his faculty’s politics. In his penultimate year, he decided to enter into a romantic relationship. Therefore, he drew up a list of potential candidates. You came first in the competition.. 

As he stated his case sitting across you inside the poshest restaurant on campus, the pounding within your chest skyrocketed. You saw with stark clarity how much you fell below his standard on account of your lack of claims to beauty or familial wealth. Your skin itched in one thousand different places at the same time. You fetched a spoonful from the chocolate ice-cream he ordered, but your hand shook, so it spilled on the pink jilbab you ironed the previous night. His eyes were fixed on you with such deep tenderness that you felt if you moved, even to wipe off the mess, your heart might burst. Yet the date ended and you did not say yes to his suit. 

What followed was a tsunami of calls and texts; expensive dates and gifts; lustful kisses at night under the trees behind the female hostel; and Musiliu’s one-week spell in the Health Centre due to “heartbreak.” So, you succumbed, clinging to the man who chose you despite your spectacular demerits. 

But most things that glitter are ever  so often gold-plated. 

For seven long years you ravaged and restored each other. Opulent apologies succeeded vicious abuse like vultures tracking carrion. In the beginning, he used to regret hitting you; cursing his own weakness as you consoled him and  he would swearing he’d take up anger management. But weeks turned into months and months became years, yet, an appointment was never made. You very quickly learned not to bring it up. The pleasant parts of the affair were shared with the world but its ugliness remained a closely-guarded secret, like the purple rings around your eyes that you masked under layers of Zaron Brown Skin Compact Powder. 

You gave him your innocence, being the first man to make your heart dance. At his request, you killed his children … while they were guiltless embryos … three times. Whenever you got too cosy and forgot your shackles, he served you your blood: the reward for failing to curb an untamed tongue. Who has tasted their own blood? Yours was sour—a potpourri of fear, hope, rage, and surrender. 

You adored and abhorred Musiliu. You could not leave, yet you dared not stay. 

You staked your hope; time would trigger a separation. My dear girl, we plan as Allah plans and, sometimes, His plan for us is disappointment . After five years of rigorous study, your partnership with the department of nursing sciences came to an end. You were posted to faraway Dutse for youth service. 

Your excitement was short-lived. Musiliu knew someone who knew someone who was close friends with the director general. A notification of redeployment came through by the third week of camping. 

Saddled with the burden of a wife married in secret (my mother’s idea, I don’t love her) and the manifestations of a vitriolic midlife crisis, he became more vicious than ever. One day, following a particularly savage beating for mentioning them during an argument, he dragged you into his car, pinned the doors and drove to Starlight Hotels and Apartments. Here, he kept a room on retainer. 

At the lobby, you met a new receptionist; a hunk in black drawstring trousers and a pink-striped T-shirt which highlighted impressive biceps. He put aside the tube of sunscreen he was about to open and welcomed both of you with a gap-toothed grin.  “Good afternoon, madam. How do you do, sir?” His imitation gold earrings—those types one can get anywhere for as cheap as one’s bargaining power is strong—sparkled under the LED lights. 

You did not think you fit the characteristics of a “madam.” Red splotches adorned your swollen lips, khaki jacket, and jungle boots. Your hijab looked like something feral had wrestled with it and won. Musiliu, however, was a study in blissful nonchalance. His smile neither wavered nor faded. The killer charm blossomed in front of company. “How you dey, my oga,” he croaked, in the crisp fake ghetto accent that rolled off his tongue like honey. 

You frowned and hurried towards the lifts. The receptionist followed, while Musiliu trailed behind. An overwhelming urge to grab him by the shoulders and scream possessed  you. “This monster threw me into a gutter in broad daylight, watched me crawl out, then dragged me here for sex. Are you blind? Do I look okay to you?” 

At the third floor, the elevator came to a halt, and you seized his hand. There was a tightness in your head. Two faces fixated on you; one alarmed and the other dripping with disdain. You tried to speak, but a ball of spit blocked your throat. Who do you think you are, young lady? 

As gentle as he could manage, he extricated himself from your grip. To suppress the awkwardness, he rambled about the hotel’s gym and round-the-clock kitchen service, though Musiliu was holding nylon bags of food and drinks from ShopRite. Musiliu dismissed him. 

The room  smelled of sandalwood and patchouli. Your bed was softer than a newborn’s buttocks. The bathroom housed an automatic hot and cold-water shower, cabinet, bidet, and heated towel rails. You had free use of a workstation and minibar. That is how 150,000 naira per night looked back then, before rulers of darkness in high places swallowed our dear country’s economy and shattered its corpse. 

You stripped to your panties and sank into the bed. Musiliu did not hesitate; kneeling over you in his boxer shorts, the tip of his member lightly grazing your thighs. When he touched your face, you winced, pain shooting to your brain. After that, his kisses were gentler and caresses, exquisite. He swore never to hit you again. You muttered, “fifty-seven.” He asked, “what?” You replied, “nothing.” In three months, he had taken you on five apology tours and promised the same thing fifty-seven times. 

He thrust from behind when you were scrolling through Twitter. You wiggled your hips and widened both legs to accommodate his invasion. He moved, a little slow at first, building up rhythm until he reached his summit. He removed the condom, flung it into the bin, and peeled another from a roll. Again. And again. And again. Pausing only to guzzle more Power Horse energy drink. Until your privates were sore and you could no longer sense your toes. 

In the bathroom, you scrubbed shame and sweat away while Musiliu watched Quest Means Business on CNN. You dug nails into your loins, hoping to draw blood, until you heard footsteps. The doorknob creaked. Musiliu poked his face inside. “Come out let us eat abi you want to sleep there?” Unable to articulate words, you shook your head. “I love you,” he grinned, entering the tub. He was happier than a child in brand-new clothes on eid morning. “Me too,” you stammered, gripping the showerhead to calm your trembling palms and overcome a wave of hypoglycaemia-induced dizziness. 

Both of you ate, then went at it like rabbits. Afterwards, he lay on his back, trying to soothe his rugged breathing, while cupping his limp penis. You counted to ten; “Musiliu, why do you enjoy seeing my tears and blood?” He was the calmest version of himself after sex, yet you were on dangerous terrain. He shifted into a sitting position and pulled you closer. “Let’s not fight,” he begged. “Forgive your guy. See, I even used protection this time so you won’t need to take Postinor.” 

But his blows were fresh in your memory. You thought of your mother. What would knowing the truth do to her? “Mummy, last year, when I did not come home for grandpa’s burial because corp members are not allowed more than two days leave of absence in my office, it was three injured ribs and a black eye that kept me under observation in the hospital. 

“Twice without success, I tried to jump out of Musiliu’s speeding car because he punched me so hard, I heard my jaw crack. 

“When you bring up marriage, it is not shyness that makes me shiver.  

“He huffs and puffs like a poorly synchronised opera. He foams at the corners of his mouth like fermenting cassava paste. But I cannot leave him or he will tell the whole world about my abortions.” 

You laughed—the unabashed cackling of the mentally ill. It was a mirthless guffaw that bounced off the walls of the room. You walked to the balcony and grabbed the balustrade. How long before my skull splits open if I jump? Why does his wife get to keep her children but not me? 

In this way, you and Musiliu survived another year. At the end of service, you accepted a job offer from an international NGO. To celebrate, Musiliu paid three years rent upfront for a one-bedroom at 23A, Shagari Quarters. It is a property inside a gated estate, housing four flats and two sixteen-by-sixteen cells masquerading as self-con apartments. You accepted this gift knowing what was coming, but who could have guessed it’d be so soon? 

“I will do worse than just one slap if you continue talking.” 

“You travelled all the way from Suleja to beat me. Are you not ashamed of yourself?” 

“I said shut up, didn’t I? You really want to bleed today.” 

“It will not be the first time. Let people come and judge between us. Relationships are not by force.”  

A slab of pain shot through your head. When you opened your eyes, you were pressed against the refrigerator. Musiliu’s thick hands locked themselves around your neck. Your life flashed before you in fast disappearing slides, reminiscent of those low budget music videos shot by upcoming artistes, using iPhone cameras. 

Musiliu and you at Jabi Lake. He strikes different poses while you are behind the camera, clicking away. 

The first time he hit you. His shame and your surprise.  

When Musiliu let go, you fell to the ground and folded against the source of your punishment; the sofa you purchased without seeking his permission. He was convinced somebody—a man, gifted it to you. You swallowed mouthfuls of air while staring at your tormentor; eyes wide, sweat beading on your nose. “May your death be miserable,” you cursed. When you rushed away, he was too enraged to pursue. 

You perched under the staircase, next to four bags of cement, a halfway broken bucket, and an old shovel. 

An eerie quiet spread over the compound at the sixth instance of power failure that morning. You forgot your misery as voices rose, keeping your company: the newlywed next-door karaokeing in an awful bass-tenor combo, your landlord’s children screaming blue murder, and a woman who recently moved in, cautioning her husband away from the locust beans meant for tomorrow’s dinner. 

Two rats tried to race past your derriere, but realised late, they miscalculated the space. They were pinned between your numb buttocks and the wall. Their fur scratched your back. Sharp teeth sank into your skin. Blood froze in your veins. You leapt, and they fled. 

You raced up the stairs until your door was in sight. The knob would not budge. Your knees found the scorching terrazzo and you bowed in obeisance to an outline on the curtain. But your lover was dead and a fiend you had seen more times than one cares to remember, blossomed in his stead. 

“You will stay outside until you learn your lesson,” Musiliu hissed, through the keyhole. “Because you are now pulling a salary, you want to dump me? You think your boss will marry you? Stupid harlot bitch.” 

You paid for your sins the only way you knew how. Then, you were boyfriend and girlfriend again. A promise of what to anticipate should you ever consider another separation was stamped in stone that night. 

On and on, the pendulum swung, pain succeeding joy with vows sworn and broken. Until one day, it stopped. God had tired of the game. 

It started as a date Musiliu planned; his peace offering for another “mistake.” You ordered an Uber to meet up with him at a fancy new resort in town. The chauffeur (a young Masters student) who showed up was enthralled by you minutes into the ride. Your knowledge of politics. The flowery scent of your perfume. Your hilarious disclination towards parting ways with the mint notes inside your wallet when your bank app refused to work. You promised to retry the transfer later in the day and call to notify him. He said he did not mind waiting. 

Approaching Musiliu, you opened your arms for a hug, but he backed away. Something on your face, in the air, perhaps the offertory hymns from a nearby church drifting into his ears, activated the voices inside his head. He spent the next half-hour debating a “sexual tension” he’d noticed between rider and passenger. Having made it up that moment, he proceeded to wholeheartedly believe it.  

“Why were you smiling with the guy?” 

“What were the two of you discussing?” 

“You better confess before I slap nonsense from your body.”  

The thing with abuse is you become used to it. Not unafraid, but numb. Without meaning to, you may even welcome it. Musiliu ordered you to speak, hence you stayed mute. 

The gateman approached two of you, drawn by the wrangling. Bent almost double on account of his many years, he looked pallid and gutless. As you sometimes did when beating was imminent, your mind veered towards other things. You wondered how such a frail specimen found a job working security with a thriving establishment located in the city centre. 

A desperate blow brought your back to earth. For the first time, you spilled secrets, driven delirious by Musiliu’s ire. It did not matter that your words jumbled in their struggle to be heard. Or that they earned you what would later be diagnosed as partial deafness. “Help me, Baba,” you begged. “He is a madman. Ask him what sin I committed this hot afternoon.”  

The old man ignored your petition, gravitating towards Musiliu who simmered like boiling tomato sauce. “A man dropped her off. I’m sure he is sleeping with her. Two of them were laughing and touching inside the car.”  

“You’re a bastard,” you screamed, rage mastering common sense. “You lying, pitiful, hypocritical, piece of shit asshole.” 

Musiliu did what he does best and you felt a tooth give way. “Speak again and you will die. Since your imbecile father did not teach you manners.” 

Baba stood witness to everything. Yet he paid no heed to your suffering. 

“She is trouble,” he said to Musiliu in a drawl, shooing you with his stick as if you were an irritating pest. 

They drew closer in communion. “Don’t waste your time on her, my son. Women are jezebels—the devil’s spawn. Flee from them and the problems they peddle. A woman only seeks a good man’s ruin.” 

It is a farce that old age connotes wisdom. 

You found a space at the farthest corner of the fence, hidden from full view by a snooker table. There you wept as you never did in your entire life. For what you must force yourself to do. 

*** 

You made a choice to let go because you were tired of hopes that crumbled to dust in your palms. Your skin was a suffocating cloak you wanted to peel off bit by bit. Though you scrubbed with boiling water and sliced deep until the sweet calm of gushing blood numbed your pain, you could no longer abide the weight of your scarlet letter. You were but a pawn on fate’s chessboard. A puppet in her circus. Nobody has ever fought destiny and emerged victorious. 

When the cards dealt are the hangman’s rope and the executioner’s axe, one must hasten to tell one’s story in one’s words. Who knows us and what we have suffered more than our own selves? 

Tuesday was the most difficult of all your life. Fear gave birth to cowardice which turned into terror that threatened to overpower you. These drove you outside, as confirmed by the shawl found draped over your head. A neighbour was teaching his daughter how to ride your bicycle. You waved them good afternoon. They nodded their reply. 

Back inside, you drew the curtains and switched off the lights. You unclipped your crochet braids, allowing them to caress your shoulders. Dressed in a plain fashion—flowery satin blouse over pleated maxi skirt, you curled into a foetal position, resting both knees against the smooth edge of your dressing table. Every few seconds, you glanced at the mirror hanging by a nail from the wall. Your throat cried out for a drink, but you did not have any alcohol. This thing you were about to do demanded stone-cold sobriety. 

You wrapped your fist around a key. Each breath forced itself off your chest. The pink mug Musiliu gave you to atone for some long-forgotten offence, sat in the spot that you left it the previous evening. It contained a cocktail of bromazepam tablets in sukudai; a pernicious formalin solution fit for stomachs reinforced with concrete. If your mother ever insists on an autopsy, the chemist down the street could find himself in serious trouble. You informed your neighbour via text, that you’d join him for jogging the next morning. Come drag me out of my room, if necessary. 

You braced yourself, swallowed everything in two gulps, and waited for the drowsiness that Google promised to hit. 

You took one step. Your body wobbled from fuzziness. You opened the steel cabinet with shaking hands. It’d fit, you knew. An earlier experiment proved a decent success. You squeezed in, but there was barely enough space to stretch your legs, so you folded them. Your eyes fell on the key again, and a wild desire to abandon the mission seized you. Afraid of backtracking so far into the plan, you flung it away and pulled the door. At once regretful, you struggled against your prison. It was useless. You said nine astaghfirullahs or was it ten? Your heartbeats slowed and the sounds you made became imperceptible to your ears. Then, your head fell forward and everything went black.