The Cultures of Others (Part 2)

By Batul Mamman (Mrs)

"...That can only happen if she was raped," Saudat said. "Think about it: she is no longer a virgin, yet she isn't a divorcee, and she isn't a married woman either."
Ahmad fell silent, processing the answer deeply. After a short while, he shook his head and said, "Honestly, you're wrong. A woman who has been raped is technically classified under the status of a non-virgin/divorcee (in traditional terms of classification), right?"
Saudat went quiet and just stared at her brother. He was right; her answer didn't fit the strict logic of the riddle. Ahmad gave her a slight glare, stood up, and walked back to his sofa. "Aside from pressing your phone all day, what do you actually know?"
Saudat defended herself, "Well, at least I tried! I actually used my brain to think of something, which is more than you did."
Ahmad looked away. "You thought, but it was useless."
She stared at him. "Do you know what we should do?"
He shook his head, indicating no.
She said, "Let's ask Mom. Since she is an elder with a wealth of life experience, she might know and tell us." She made a move to call out for their mother, but Ahmad quickly stopped her. "HEY! Keep this a secret, leave it alone for God's sake!"
She leaned back against the sofa and burst into laughter. "But seriously, big brother, whenever you find the answer, please share it with me because I really want to know how such a thing could happen. To me, it seems highly improbable..."
Ahmad stood up, holding his briefcase. "Don't be so quick to dismiss what you don't understand. The call to prayer is sounding; let me go inside and perform my ablutions."
She just watched him until he disappeared into his room, then turned over on the long sofa and went back to typing on her phone.
*** One Week Later ***
She sat all alone inside her spacious office. There wasn't a single sign of another person's presence; the office was dead silent, save for the faint beep of the automated messaging device going off from time to time. A laptop sat on the desk in front of her, flanked on one side by a mountain of papers and files—an amount she couldn't even count.
However, her entire focus and thoughts were miles away from the work before her. She sat with both hands propped deeply under her chin. The glasses she usually wore to cover her face were resting to the side, completely exposing the tears that were visibly streaming down her face. One hundred percent of her mind was trapped in a vacant, painful daze. Even though the air conditioning units were blowing cool air from every corner of the office, it didn't stop a thick, hot sweat from breaking out across her body. The sweat on her face mingled with the heavy tears flowing from her eyes, thoroughly drenching the documents lying on the desk in front of her.
Because she was so deeply lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear him enter, despite the loud greetings he had been calling out. Ahmad stopped dead in his tracks right in front of her, just watching her. The smile that had been on his face instantly vanished. He sat down in the chair facing her, but even then, she hadn't snapped back to reality or realized someone had entered her space. It was as if she didn't even know where she was.
After staring at her in absolute wonder, he finally called out her name. "HUMAIRA!" he shouted, slamming his hand down hard on the desk.
With a violent start, she gasped as if waking from a nightmare, staring wildly around the room like someone who had just found herself in a strange place. She immediately tried to wipe the tears from her eyes, forcing a fake smile to replace her sadness. "Ah... Ahmad, when did you come in?"
He studied her closely for a moment. "Humaira, what are you crying about?"
She quickly shook her head. "Crying? Me? I'm... I'm not crying."
Ahmad let out a short, sad smile. "Humaira, in this life, pain can never be completely hidden. Sorrow doesn't just stay locked up in the heart; it writes itself in giant capital letters across a person's face for the whole world to see. And even if it could be hidden, it seems the magnitude of your grief is far too massive to be concealed. If it could be hidden, you would have hidden it by now."
He leaned across the desk closer to her. "Why won't you give me a chance to know what is happening in your life? Perhaps there is a way I can help you, even if it's just through prayers."
"If you have any fear of God, stop bringing this up to me! There is absolutely no reason for you to worry yourself over my life story. Only work connects us, so keep it strictly at that, if only to protect your own respect in my eyes."
Ahmad shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Fine, since you won't tell me, so be it. I actually just came by to let you know that your core operational equipment will arrive tomorrow, so be prepared." He stood up, adding, "See you next time."
"Ahmad!!" she called out his name just as he was on the verge of walking out the door. He stopped completely, then slowly turned around and walked back to face her.
She raised her head, her eyes pleading. "Please, for God's sake, have patience and make allowances for me. My brain simply cannot handle remembering everything that happened to me in the past. But perhaps... one day you will know."
Ahmad sat back down in the chair. "Humaira, sometimes bottling things up inside is a sickness, and speaking out is the cure. I just need to hold onto at least one single piece of context so I can understand and give you grace whenever I see you in a state like the one you are in today."
Tears spilled over her eyes once more, and she glared at him intensely. "Since the day my mother gave birth to me, I have never met a man as relentless and unyielding as you! Can't you ever give someone space? Must everything always go exactly the way you want it in your head? Well, I will not tell you! Since this isn't part of the mandatory conditions required to work with you, if you ever ask me this question again, you will never see my face again. Permanently! For what reason anyway?!" she yelled fiercely, before continuing:
"I chose to take this job not because I need the money or because I'm looking for material gain—I am far above that. I did it because I thought it would help relieve a fraction of my sorrow. But if you insist on suffocating me and pushing me into another trauma, it is very easy for me to walk away." She finished her long outburst with a heavy, ragged sigh.
Ahmad countered, "Look at me. I am a man who thrives on uncovering stories, especially deep mysteries. Among all the stories I have ever encountered, I believe yours will be the absolute greatest wonder. You have no choice—I must know your story today." He delivered the final sentence, raising his voice to match hers.
Instantly, her demeanor shifted again. Her face contorted with pure fury and rage as she reached her absolute breaking point. “What on earth does this man pride himself on to think he can force my hand?” she thought.
She slammed her laptop shut, snatched her office keys, and threw them violently at him. Grabbing her large handbag and slinging it over her shoulder, she barked at him in a raging scream: "Just because I work with you does not give you the right to abuse my mind! If I hadn't humbled myself, I am far above you ever forcing me to do anything, by Allah! Keep your keys. Leaving this place is the easiest escape from your relentless harassment!"
She violently kicked her chair aside and turned swiftly toward the door. Ahmad quickly snatched up the keys, holding them tight in his hand, and yelled after her before she could cross the threshold: "Go ahead and leave! It doesn't matter. Your running away only confirms the terrible suspicions I have about you!"
Even though she hadn't intended to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, she stopped dead in her tracks right at the exit and whipped around. Ahmad turned to face her fully and drove his point home:
"I am convinced that you are an EVIL WOMAN. You are definitely not a good person. Your past is undoubtedly filled with nothing but atrocities and wickedness. I am absolutely certain you committed some horrific crime, and now it is haunting you, stripping away your peace of mind..." He cut his speech short, staring blankly at her.
Her eyes widened so drastically it looked as though they would pop out of their sockets. "Aaaagh!!!" a choked gasp escaped her throat as she slapped her hands over her mouth. Her mind instantly began to echo with the most horrific accusations she had ever been subjected to. All at once, her brain completely shut down under the weight of his cruel words. Her head grew unimaginably heavy, and she clutched it in agony. Her eyes began to roll back just as her legs gave out beneath her weight. In a terrifying flash, her subconscious replayed his words over and over...
“I am convinced that you are an evil woman... You are definitely not a good person... I am certain you committed some horrific crime that is stripping away your peace of mind...”
Right at that exact second, she collapsed heavily onto the floor, completely unconscious.

The Cultures of Others (Part 3)

By Batul Mamman (Mrs)

As Mal Bashir, an elder of about fifty-eight years, turned into their street, the children began flocking to him, shouting joyfully, "Welcome, father of children!" Because they greeted him this way every single day, he never failed to bring them small treats. He placed one hand in his pocket—a hand cut short at the wrist, missing its fingers due to a tragic carpentry saw accident that had severed his nerves. He had suffered terribly until the doctors declared the hand dead and amputated it. Despite this, he never stopped working his trade as a carpenter. Using the stump of his arm to open his pocket, he reached in with his good hand, pulled out a malam's prayer bead rosary, and handed it to the kids. They happily ran off to share it.
He walked forward with a slight smile and locked eyes with a young man sitting on the street. The youth quickly nudged the person next to him, whispering, "Hey, damn it, look up! The father of children is here." They both stood up, dusting off their clothes.
"Good evening, father of children," they chorused as he approached.
He frowned slightly. "I won't accept your greeting, Sani. For God's sake, won't you guys have a serious talk with yourselves and stop this drug abuse?" He then turned his gaze to a heavy-set young man. "Anas, do you want your father’s illness to flare up again because of your behavior?"
The one called Anas shook his head. "Please forgive us. If God wills it, we won't do it again."
Mal Bashir gave a bittersweet smile. "May God grant you the strength to quit. You are just ruining your lives for nothing. If you don't know it yet, what a person does in their youth follows them into old age. I am certain none of you would want your children to be told later in life that their father used to smoke weed."
Sani smiled subtly at his words. Mal Bashir noticed and said, "Oh, so you think this is funny? You find it amusing?" He playfully grabbed Sani's mouth and gave it a light twist. "We are watching you. If you don't stop this, one day you'll end up passed out in a drainage gutter thinking it's a bed." He walked away, muttering and complaining about the destructive paths youth choose for themselves nowadays.
He stopped at the small provision shop right outside his house to exchange greetings with Munkaila, the shopkeeper. Mal Bashir pulled out a hundred-naira note and handed it over. "Here you go, thank you very much."
Munkaila accepted it, looking confused. "What is this for, father of children?"
"It's the hundred naira you gave to Zuhra this morning. I was getting ready to head out when she asked me for money to go collect her exam results. I didn't have any small change at the time, so I told her to get it from you."
Munkaila handed the money right back to him. "But I haven't seen her step outside even once today."
Perplexed, Mal Bashir took the money back and entered his house, calling out the Islamic greeting.
Zuhra was busy chopping sorrel (yakuwa) leaves when she suddenly heard her father's voice in the entrance hallway. Her heart leaped straight into her throat out of sheer panic; she jumped up and bolted into the restroom. In her frantic rush, she knocked over and spilled the sorrel leaves she had been slicing.
Her mother scolded her loudly, "Hey, what on earth is wrong with you?!"
Mal Bashir walked fully into the courtyard. "I've been shouting greetings and no one answers, as if the house is completely empty."
Atine, Zuhra's mother, replied, "Please forgive us, father of Zuhra. Honestly, I was occupied with chores and was yelling at her, so I didn't catch your greeting."
He took off his shoes and sat down on the mat spread across the courtyard. "She must have been desperately holding in her urine to run off like that, right?"
Umma doubted it. "Are you sure? We were just sitting here chatting normally. The moment you called out, she jumped up like she had seen a ghost."
Hearing this, the father of children felt a sinking suspicion in his gut. He asked, "Did she go collect her exam results?"
Umma, while gathering the spilled sorrel leaves, replied, "I don't think so. But look over there on the window sill—Hajara brought some papers for her earlier."
Mal Bashir stood up and picked up the papers with a heavy heart. Ever since she fled into the restroom, he knew she hadn't produced anything successful at school.
Sure enough, upon opening the report card, he saw exactly the disappointing sight he had anticipated. She ranked 48th out of 52 students. His heart sank with frustration. He was entirely at a loss for what to do with this girl. Infuriated, he walked over to the restroom door.
"Zuhra, what are you doing in there?!" he demanded loudly.
From inside, she nervously cleared her throat, "Ehem, ehem!"
He banged on the door. "If you don't want me to force this door open, you better get out here right now!"
Zuhra preferred to spend the entire day rotting in the bathroom rather than coming out to face her father's wrath. She cleared her throat again, "Ehem..."
He snapped, "Fine, I am going back outside since you want to play hide-and-seek with me."
She waited for about five more minutes before finally creeping out, drenched in nervous sweat. She looked at her mother. "Wow, if Baba had caught me today, I don't know what—"
Suddenly, a heavy, sharp rap of knuckles descended right onto the crown of her head. She collapsed to her knees, clutching her head and bursting into tears.

The Cultures of Others (Part 4)

By Batul Mamman (Mrs)

The father of children barked, "If you don't shut your mouth right now, I'll give you another one!"
Crying, Zuhra stood up and pouted heavily. "With raps to the head like this, is it any wonder I fail my studies? If you keep messing with my medulla oblongata, I am going to lose my mind in the near future."
Mal Bashir scoffed, "You are the medulla yourself! That's exactly where your brain is thickest. You just memorize a few English words to come and threaten people with them as if you actually know what you're talking about."
Zuhra simply kept crying until Umma raised her voice and yelled at her, "I swear by Allah, if you attract the neighbors to this house today, I will make your skin crawl!" Hearing this, Zuhra began jumping up and down, crying even louder.
Mal Bashir said, "Let me go grab a phone charger cable so I can give you a beating with a real purpose." Like magic, the moment he said that, she swallowed her tears instantly and went dead silent.
He began reviewing her exam sheets alongside the report card. In some subjects, she had scored a flat zero. In Mathematics, she scored 48; in Arabic, 94; and in Hausa, 71. These were always the only subjects that salvaged her scores slightly and kept her from taking the absolute last position in class. Furthermore, her handwriting was exceptionally beautiful; if you saw it, you would assume it belonged to a highly brilliant student.
As he flipped through the pages, he kept clicking his tongue in disapproval. Then, his eyes caught the way she had written her name. He just shook his head in absolute despair. Even though he had only reached Class 4 in secondary school years ago, he knew that if he and his daughter were to sit in a classroom today, he would vastly outperform her.
"Come over here!" he yelled at her.
Slowly, dragging her feet, she walked over and knelt down far off to the side.
"Now, are you absolutely sure all these papers belong to you?"
"They are mine, Baba. Just look at the name and the handwriting."
He countered, "Oh, I am looking. On some papers, you wrote Zuhra Bashir, and on others, you wrote Fatima Bashir, just to confuse your teachers." As he kept looking, he hit another page. He grabbed his shoe and flung it at her. He lifted the paper and showed it to Umma. "Look at the sheer disrespect of this girl! She wrote Fatima Basiru. He pointed to his chest. "Am I BASIRU?!"
The ridiculous way he expressed his outrage made Zuhra let out a brief snicker. Umma snapped, "Wallahi, Zuhra, I will thoroughly humiliate you! People are correcting you, and you are laughing out of pure wickedness?"
Zuhra shifted further away, wiping away her tears. "But isn't that how I always hear Uncle Sabiu and Auntie Ajingi calling you?"
Baba bit his lip in sheer frustration. "When you hear them say that, don't you know it's a casual family nickname? Who else in this entire neighborhood have you ever heard calling me Basiru?"
She whimpered, "Alright, I'm sorry. I swear I'll never do it again."
"You better not!" he said, gathering the papers while continuing to grumble. "Young lady, how many times have you repeated a grade? You are practically twenty years old now. But your head is as empty as a fish. I bet you are old enough to be the mother of everyone in your classroom."
"No, Baba! There's Hajara. You forgot we are in the same class."
He scoffed, "How could I possibly forget? Two fools gathered in one classroom. You have no goals in life except eating fried bean cakes (awara) and flour pastries (wainar flawa)."
Zuhra, whose mouth could never stay shut, mumbled, "Well, aren't you the one who gives me the money for it?"
Umma interjected, "Look, just stop paying attention to this girl before she drives your blood pressure up."
He handed the papers back to her. "Go put these in my room. Here I am struggling to raise money to pay for your WAEC graduation exam fees before registration closes, but I can see it's just going to be a total waste of investment. Twice you've taken the qualifying mockup exams, and you've failed to secure even three credits."
Zuhra knew how desperately her father wanted her to be educated, but according to her, no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't grasp the material. She sat down close to him. "Look, Baba, just send me to that local knitting and weaving school instead. I already asked the woman running it; she said she can teach me everything in two months. I'll go three times a week, and it only costs six thousand naira. See? It's much cheaper than the WAEC fees. Look at me—I am just not cut out for Western education. My brain doesn't absorb it; it feels like someone poured chaff into my skull."
He almost laughed at her description but forced himself to maintain a stern face. "Get away from here. Don't you feel any shame or worry that your classmates are moving on to higher institutions while you just want to learn how to knit?"
She pouted slightly. "Well, what can I do, Baba? Even for them, everything has devolved into cheating and stealing exam answers. Look, if knitting isn't an option, then just find me a husband to marry so you can rest."
At that, both he and Umma lunged toward her simultaneously, shouting in anger. She bolted out the door laughing, playfully tugging down Umma's clothesline wrapper as she fled.

The Cultures of Others (Part 5)

By Batul Mamman (Mrs)

Mal Bashir Ibrahim was a native of Ajingi in Kano State. There were five boys in his family, and he was the second child. Their father was a traditional farmer who also reared cattle and sheep. Initially, the boys started school, and Bashir made it to Class 4 in junior secondary school before their father insisted that schooling left them with no time to help on the farm. In his heart, the father wanted all of them to drop out of school entirely. Bashir was profoundly unhappy about this decision, but he ultimately complied. He, his elder brother, and the brother following him returned to full-time farming, while the remaining two younger brothers were allowed to continue their studies.
Unfortunately, the youngest boy eventually dropped out on his own because he preferred herding livestock. The brother who did manage to finish school had a brain remarkably similar to Zuhra's—he didn't achieve any meaningful exam results. Currently, he was working as a low-level messenger at a local firm. Mal Bashir eventually migrated to the city to establish his carpentry business. It was there that he met and married Atine, a native of the Kwanar Diso area. They spent a long time longing for children because Bashir deeply loved offspring. Eventually, Fatima was born. She was named after Mal Bashir’s mother, but because she shared the name of Atine’s family line as well, they affectionately called her Zuhra.
When Zuhra ran out of her house, she headed straight to Hajara's home, grumbling the entire way about how Hajara had brought trouble upon her head. She called out a greeting as she walked in, but the courtyard was empty. Hearing a response from Hajara's bedroom, she walked inside.
Hajara was fully dressed up for the evening and preparing to head out. She was holding a mirror, meticulously drawing her eyebrows. Zuhra immediately sneaked up behind her and delivered a hard thump to her back. "You witch! You left me facing absolute hell at home while you're sitting here doing makeup!"
As Hajara rubbed her sore back, their mother's voice boomed across the room. She walked in and scolded, "Haba, Zuhra! How many times must I forbid you from using bad language?"
Zuhra bowed her head, shooting a fierce glare at Hajara.
The mother continued, "If I hear that again, I swear I will report you to your older brother, Lawal. It’s been a while since you tasted the whip, which is why you've gone back to throwing insults around."
Zuhra apologized quickly, "Please forgive me, Mama. I swear I'll never do it again from today, by God's grace."
"You better behave yourself," Mama said before walking out.
Hajara resumed her makeup, and they returned to chatting. "Listen," Hajara said, "Sahabi is completely adamant that I must pursue higher education. He even promised to arrange private lessons for me before the WAEC exams start, and he already paid my fees at an remedial center."
Zuhra laughed out loud. "Well, he is about to waste both his money and his time. Didn't you tell him that you belong to our special league of academic failures?"
"I don't appreciate the insult, wallahi! Ever since I realized how badly he wants me to study, I've actually started putting in real effort. This time around, I beat six people in class, including you!"
Zuhra raised her hand in mock salute. "Oh, well look at you, Professor Hajara! I suppose he's going to find you admission into something prestigious like 'Ligan' University?"
Hajara’s younger sister, who was out in the courtyard, burst into laughter and peeked through the window. "Sister Zuhra, you are way too funny! What on earth is 'Ligan'? It's called Legal (College of Legal Studies)!"
Zuhra sourly twisted her face. "If you're so brave, why don't you step inside this room and say that to my face so you can see what I'll do to you? Total lack of respect."
Hajara laughed along as she picked up her headscarf to tie it. She wrapped a tiny, tight piece of cloth over her head first, securing it with two large ribbons before completing the wrap. At the tail end of the head tie, she pulled out a long synthetic hair extension ribbon from her bag, fastened it securely, checked that it sat perfectly, and then tucked the rest away.
Zuhra watched her entire routine with narrow, judging eyes. "Hajara, did you learn how to attach horsehair to your head now?"
Hajara quickly slapped a hand over Zuhra's mouth. "Shh! You gossip queen, don't shout it out loud! I'm only going to put it on after I leave the house."
Zuhra countered, "Wallahi, that is forbidden, and you know it. On top of that, you've piled up this artificial stuff, and the chemical smell alone is completely suffocating."
Hajara defended herself, "Hey, I'm not wearing it right now. I'm heading over to Auntie Faiza's house to help her prepare food for their neighbors. They are hosting a big party over there. I'll wear it tomorrow for the actual event."
Zuhra asked, "Are they doing a 'Happy Birthday to You'?"
"I don't really know," Hajara replied. "She just mentioned that the family hosting it is very wealthy and fashionable."
Zuhra demanded, "Regardless, hand over that fake hair ribbon right now so I can burn it, or I am going to tell Mama."
With great difficulty, Hajara managed to plead and negotiate to keep her ribbon. As she prepared to leave, Zuhra looked at her closely. "Hey, you look exactly like a bleached person (kwaili). Have you seen your face? I just noticed it now."
Hajara threw her hands over her head. "You just want Mama to hear you and start shouting, which is why you're raising your voice! And the word is bleaching, not kwailing—that word doesn't even sound right. It's a very nice cream I got to tone and blend my skin. You know, since my wedding is fast approaching, it's better I apply it to look a bit radiant."
Zuhra simply scorned. "Wallahi, Hajara, you need to fear God and avoid sin. Artificial hair, bleaching, and hair extensions? Are you trying to deceive Sahabi or his family with a fake complexion? We all grew up in this exact same neighborhood; what could they possibly not know about your real appearance?"
Finishing her bag packing, Hajara snapped, "Alright, Teacher Zuhra. If you are entirely done with your sermon, come and walk me to the main roadside. And I swear, if you dare tell Mama anything about this, we are going to have a massive fight."
Zuhra replied, "It's been a while since our last fight anyway... I don't mind going head-to-head with you over something like this. You've suddenly picked up all these strange habits just because you're getting married."
Hajara retorted, "Well, if you're so jealous, why don't you go out and find yourself a husband too?"
Zuhra’s feelings were slightly stung, but she forced a small smile. "A husband is a gift granted only by Allah. And by His grace, when it is my time to marry, I will find a husband I can truly be proud of." With that, she turned her back and walked out. Hajara followed, calling after her and apologizing.
In the courtyard, they met Mama, who remarked, "So you two have already finished your bickering, eh? Come over here."
Glaring at each other, they knelt down before Mama.
"I heard absolutely everything you two were arguing about," Mama said. "Hajara, just because she told you the bitter truth, you turn around and insult your sister? I have been closely monitoring all these ridiculous behavioral changes you've been adopting lately. I only kept quiet because I wanted your foolishness to reach its peak so I could get your older brothers to beat the living daylights out of you in this house."
Zuhra's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh! Mama, you're using harsh words too!"
Mama corrected her, "I didn't say it was right; it was a slip of the tongue." She turned back to scold Hajara, "Go to your sister's house, and when you return, I will personally deal with this restlessness of yours. She won't spare you either, and you know it full well. If I ever catch you two fighting again, you will have me to reckon with. Now move out and escort her to find a tricycle taxi," she instructed Zuhra.
Sullen and completely silent, they got up and left the house. Zuhra carried the travel bag for her, but they didn't exchange a single word or even a cough all the way to the main road. It was only when the tricycle taxi began driving away that Hajara leaned out, waving her hand to Zuhra.
Zuhra waved back, suddenly softening. "When are you coming back?" she called out.
Hajara yelled back, "Oh, so now you care to ask? I'll be gone for ten days!"
Watching her friend disappear into the distance, a small tear slipped down Zuhra's cheek as she turned to walk back home. They were completely used to fighting like this, but the moment they reunited, it would be as if the argument had never happened.
(Note: The text cuts off here at the end of Part 5 as provided in the original Hausa script.)