Born on a Tuesday by Elnathan John Read Free Book Online Page B

it?’ The man who answers sounds angry.
    The man walks into the zaure from the house and looks into my face. It is my aunt’s husband, Shuaibu.
    â€˜Allah be praised!’ he shouts.
    I smile.
    â€˜Dantala! When did you get into town? But you have not been fair, wallahi. Are you the first to be sent away to be an almajiri? Your brothers have been coming, but you, no. What happened to you?’
    I don’t know which of his questions to answer first or why he is shouting at me.
    â€˜Anyway, stop standing there like a stranger, go in and let them give you water to wash up.’
    I walk through, more scared than I have ever been, sad that Umma might think I have let her down.
    â€˜Khadija,’ he shouts, ‘come and relieve Dantala, he has some things with him.’
    â€˜Which Dantala?’ Khadija screams and runs out of her room.
    I cannot look into her eyes as she screams ‘inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un’ several times. She grabs me, hugs me and starts to cry. She drags me by the hand into her room.
    â€˜Come and let your mother see your face, maybe she will agree to say something. Since she lost her girls she has stopped talking or eating. We have to force her to eat.’
    My eyes widen.
    â€˜Oh Allah! You never even met your sisters ko? Cute little things, wallahi.’
    I am too confused to say anything.
    â€˜I am on my way out, I will be back soon,’ Shuaibu says, standing outside the room.
    â€˜Toh, see you later,’ Khadija says, wipes her tears and opens the window for light to come in. The sun has just started setting. The first thing I see is Umma’s legs. She is lying with her face to the wall.
    â€˜Get up, Umma, see Dantala is here, he is back.’ Khadija taps Umma lightly on the shoulder.
    Umma rolls over, picks up her scarf and covers her head. Tears are rolling down my face.
    â€˜Umma,’ I say, my voice trembling.
    She looks up at me, smiles and without saying a word gets up and leaves the room. I can’t believe my own Umma will not say a word to me.
    We follow her out to the little courtyard where she is now sitting, staring up at the sky. Khadija is crying and telling me this is how she has been. That she lost my sisters in the flood—she doesn’t know where the water took them—their bodies have not been found. I learn for the first time that my twin sisters were called Hassana and Husseina. That they were fair and beautiful and looked like my father. That they comforted Umma after she lost my father and she loved them more than anything in the world since her boys had all left her.
    I kneel down in front of Umma and call her name. She smiles softly when I do, like she used to, but does not look at me. Her wrinkles are many now and her eyes are sunken. There is plenty of grey in her eyebrows and her lips are dry. I hold her left hand and call her name again. She doesn’t hold mine.
    â€˜I have returned, Umma,’ I say. Slowly her fingers close into mine and she looks down at me. I gaze into her eyes to look for my mother, my Umma, who told me to behave well when I was leaving for Bayan Layi, who taught me the Arabic that saved me from a lot of beating. I cannot see her. Still holding my hand she looks up again. I cannot help it, I break down and sob.
    â€˜Umma, I am sorry,’ I say, wiping the tears flowing from my eyes.
    Khadija sits by her side, crying, asking if she will not at least say something to her son. There is a little smile on her face, but there is no Umma. This woman sitting here has her eyes, her smile, her dark circles but is not Umma. The Umma I know talks to me even when she is upset or worried, she talks to me even when she has to scold me, she talks to me.
    â€˜Sannu,’ Umma finally says to me. One word! Hello. She gets up and goes back inside to lie down.
    â€˜Oh Allah, give her health,’ Khadija cries, ‘Allah, give her health.’
    My legs are weak and my head