Narrator’s Name: Jameel Shatima
XXIII. The Last Message
Days: Thirty-two days after Umar’s return.
Writer (noun): someone who finds an oh-so-beautiful way to have the last word.
But I’m no writer.
Mother, this is the last message I’ll be sending to you. Truth is, whenever I wrote to you I didn’t imagine you reading it. Years ago, I did. I imagined you opening my emails, reading them, and replying. But then I stopped. Now, I just imagine myself writing to my future self but through your dormant email address.
No matter how bad things were, what son would tell his mother that he breaks girls' heart? Or that he smokes or that he dislikes his mother and has two other mothers other than her whom he loves more than her or that he has killed a man!? (Coming to this last part soon)
Maybe an honest one? Or maybe a broken one? Or a grownup throwing tantrums? Whatever it is, it stops here. This is the last.
***
In this little place called life, nothing is ever what it seems.
I woke up to Umar’s message. I find the content very interesting: Taking a life with a gun – very interesting, isn’t it? I had always known about the gun Umar hid in Safiyya’s car. I told you how, remember?
It was morning so let me begin by saying Good morning, you. I woke up and saw that the cat had climbed up to my balcony. I still don’t know how Orange climbs up to my balcony. I named the cat Orange because of the color of his fur (or is it a she? I don’t know). I poured him some leftovers on a plate I set aside for him and he was happy.
“Must be fun being a cat, Orange,” I said to Orange and he didn’t reply – how rude! And that’s the beauty of being a cat – the art of going about life nonchalantly – no burden of caring. But if a cat does care about you, its caring is unprecedented and it becomes unprecedently loyal to the one it cares about.
So… the matter at hand: Killing Senator Taneem Thawbaan, the deputy senate president of the nation.
There are a million ways to kill someone. Shooting him is far kinder than crushing him with a car or stabbing him with a knife. Shooting the senator is one of many options to end his life. Do you still think I’m R? do you still think that I’m the one behind the messages? well if you haven’t noticed I don’t care – like my dear friend, Mr. Orange.
I’m very opinionated in a way that a drug addict high on opium is highly elated.
I said goodbye to Orange and went to Abubakar’s home. When I got there Aamati opened the door for me, hugged me, and said, “Aftartaa? Did you do breakfast?” English was still a bit difficult for Aamati even after spending more than two decades in Nigeria. “Sit. Sit over there arjook. Please,” she said without hearing my response.
When I finished having breakfast, she came downstairs with baby Safiyya in her hands. I still don’t know which to prefer: should I call her Safiyya or call her by her nickname, Noor – light. I love both names. My Noor is almost a month old. Aamati handed her over to me saying, “Noorii, your uncle is here. Kunii Nooran lahu – become light to him.”
I held her and played with her little fingers. “How can something be so small and mean the world to you!?” I said talking to myself. “Where’s her mother? Where’s Yusra?”
“Yusra is upstairs sleeping. She has not slept all night. Our Noor kept her up, didn’t you, Noorii?” Aamati said. Aamati asked about Umar and Maryam and I told her they were no longer a couple. “You boys still act like children. Why didn’t Umar tell me or tell either of your fathers? Call me Umar, Haalan – right now.”
“Afwan, Aamati. That’s where I’m headed. Umma wanted me to pick up Hafsa on my way there.”
“Let me call Hafsa for you. But have Umar meet me, you hear me? I’ll call Abu Sarah (Sarah’s father, Shaykh Basheer) and inform him what is happening. The problem is Abu Sarah is leaving Nigeria today. Abubakar had taken him to the airport. Abu Sarah is visiting Sarah in Makkah. What do we do now? I’ll just talk to your father, Alhaji, and have him intervene in this matter.”
That’s the last person anyone would want to talk to about a situation like this. I don’t see Alhaji being a hero in any story. The same way I don’t see myself as a hero in anybody’s story. I guess it’s one of those things: It is what it is. But I tell Aamati nothing lest she thinks there was still friction between me and my father and I know she won’t have it. She would be very disappointed in me.
“I’m also taking Abubakar’s car. He said he left the keys on the kitchen counter.”
***
“We are now going to take another left,” Hafsa said sitting in the backseat with her seat belt on. She had been giving me the directions. She seemed to know the roads pretty well. And today was one of the days when Hafsa only speaks in Arabic but for convenience, I’d write my conversation with her in English.
“I should get you a big surprise for knowing your way home, dearest Hafsa.”
“I know all the roads now. Uncle Saleem said we are going to live in Zaria for good.”
“Really!? That’s nice! I promise you this: when you do move back here I’ll take you to places you’ve never been to,”
“Masha Allah! You know a lot of places right, Uncle Jameel?”
I stared at her in the rearview mirror and nodded. I know things too well because I remember too much. Knowledge is memory and the branches thereof. The road to the present is the past. And the key to the past is remembering. A vortex of sorts that takes you to any and all — in bits and whole. To a scripted past. Your past. Time traveling is as good as the records you keep. And you should see my stacks and stores. I’m an excellent record keeper.
And that’s how I know being shot in the head is far kinder than being hit by a speeding car. Because a year ago, I was sitting in the back seat where Hafsa was sitting and Safiyya was alive and she was the one driving. Saleem was in the front seat. We had gone out to go pick up Hafsa from Abubakar’s. We had left Umar and umma in the kitchen preparing dinner and Abba was in the living room watching the news.
If only things were the way they were. The past is the safest place to live.
“Seat-belt, please,” Safiyya told Saleem.
“Okay, madam,” Saleem responded pulling the seat-belt and putting it in place. “Are you happy now?”
“Yes I am,” Safiyya said smiling. “Hey guys, give me a minute. I want to get Sarah some apples. You know how much she loves apples.”
She had crossed the road safely and gotten the apples. From nowhere, a car skidded and hit her then sped away leaving her unconscious on the ground with apples rolling around her. The apples and that present were drenched in blood. Safiyya’s blood. And the color was red.
Saleem ran to where she was. I ran after the car that hit her in an attempt to stop him.
Saleem and I were witnesses to that but we have never spoken about it. At least he wrote a book and me – well – I’m writing this bunch of emails from me to me.
A few days later, the drunkard was shot dead. I killed the man. If this is an exaggeration then it's an exaggeration well earned. Surprised!? Please, don’t be. Just believe me when I say shooting the senator is far kinder than what the drunkard did to Safiyya.
That was a year ago and this is a year after.
“Now we are going to take another left. This is the last left we are taking… and… we are home. Alhamdulillah,” Hafsa said her smile glowing. Before I turned off the engine I watched in the rearview mirror and thought to myself, You are going to be a great woman just like your mother.
When Hafsa and I exited the car, I saw something I didn’t expect. Umar was washing Safiyya’s car. He had forsaken driving since his sister died. So I was very surprised to see him washing a car and not just any car but Safiyya’s car.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
Hafsa ran towards her uncle and tried to hug him but he stopped her and said in Arabic. “Sweetheart, I’m all wet and dirty, as you can see. I don’t want you to catch a cold. Go right in. Umma and Aunt Aisha are waiting for you.”
“Okay. But I’ll hug you twice later, agreed?” Hafsa said.
“Agreed, sweetheart,” Umar said smiling.
“What are you doing, U.J?” I reiterated my question.
“Washing a car.”
“Yeah, I can see that. But why?”
“It’s dirty, dusty, and dead,” Umar said smiling.
“Sure. Like most present moments.”
“Ironic, right? I’ve decided it’s time to stop being afraid, dearest Jameel,” Umar said grinning. “Safiyya wanted me to have the car and that’s what I’m doing. Life shouldn’t stop just because she’s dead. I think that’s why Saleem wrote a book about her but never read it.”
“What! That guy is a fraud! Are you telling me he never read his book?” I asked.
“Yes,” Umar said smiling while he poured some water over the car. “The book is about Safiyya and Safiyya is a part of him. Reading it won’t affirm or negate that fact. Writing the book was the hardest thing he’s ever done. But he couldn’t help but let her story pass through him and his pen. Also, he wrote about her because the world should know a beautiful soul was here. And now she’s gone. Writing about her, to him, was in a way like keeping her alive...” Umar paused. “Saleem has found his way. I have to find mine.”
There was a glint in his eyes as he spoke. “I am glad you see it that way,” I said.
“Oh thank you.”
“Does it start? I mean the car?”
“What do you think? It hasn't been used for a very long time. I'll get it repaired though. I'm only washing it. Baby steps.”
“Hafsa told me they won’t be going back to Kano. Is that true?” – Umar nodded. “Where’s Saleem?” I asked.
“He's in his study working on his next book.”
“What is it about?” I asked.
“I don’t know and it’s not relevant.”
“Yes, relevance. Let’s talk about relevance; so what is this thing you sent to me about killing the senator with your father’s gun?” I said raising my phone so that he’d see and read the message.
“Jameel, I know you knew about the gun. You might not be the person behind the messages or maybe you are. Maybe you are R but I don’t care. And I don’t care what part the senator played in Safiyya’s death – if he really did play any part. I’m putting that behind me. I’ve always been afraid, you know? The few things that matter to me, I’d live for them: Hafsa, umma, Saleem, this car, this present moment, everything and everyone that matters. Even you, man. That’s how I’ll sign my death warrant. That’s my way of keeping Safiyya alive.”
I said nothing to that. I don’t know how he knew that I knew about the gun but I was liking this version of Umar more and more.
“I found Safiyya’s words,” Umar said. “I don’t know what R wanted me to do with them but I’m glad I found the three tenets of Safiyya. It’s like I was given a chance to have one more conversation with her…
“No. 98: ‘It’s now a huge hole because the first person who saw it did nothing when it was just a crack. Fingers can be pointed. The simplest thing second to breathing is complaining. But the responsible thing to do is to do something about it’
“No.99: Sign your death warrant
“N0. 100: My last words are scattered closely in truth.”
I listened to him quote her words from memory. “What do they mean?” I asked. I don’t know why people do that: looking far for something that would make them happy. Whenever we want to answer the question ‘what makes us happy?’ we search far and not near. But maybe this was different. Maybe this was near and not far.
“For a long time my past was all my present; it was my death sentence. And it’s funny how her last words resemble my doctor’s…
“Ex-doctor, your ex,” I corrected. “I know it’s hard but you need to move on, man. Maryam will be marrying another man in a few weeks.”
“Bro, let me finish. This is me moving on. So as I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, it bears a resemblance. Because my doctor’s prescription was this: Truth and dare; infinite dose a day.”
“Truth and dare; infinite dose a day?” I said.
“Yeah. Do you remember the last thing Safiyya said to me? No? You don’t? But you were there: You, Saleem, and she had entered her car – this very Honda – and were about to zoom off to go and pick Hafsa from Abubakar’s. Safiyya lowered the car window and said to me, ‘I love you’ I smiled like a fool not knowing that would be her last words – one-half of her last words. Then she said the other half, ‘… even though you’re a scaredy-cat.’”
“I think we give too much importance to last words,” I said. It was true but maybe I said that because I don’t have yours. I don’t know what your last words to me were, mother. Your voice has been long forgotten.
“Yes, we do. It’s because we can’t help it, Jameel.” Umar said.
Time watched the silence grow between us. There was so much comfort in the sun’s gaze and the silence that entered our fibers. Time watched us with all these spilled words and emotions wreathing us oh-so-gently like a lover, we don’t complain – why should we complain when we were loving it? Even though, as Safiyya said, complaining is second to breathing. But in this address of time, these words were the last because they were scattered closely in truth.
They were scattered closely in truth. Our truth.
“Does that mean you’re quitting your job at the library?”
“No. I actually enjoy it. I enjoy being surrounded by lines of time caged in pages. I enjoy guiding people to seat and sip from those lines of time. I’m going to open a provision store though. I have some money saved up. I wanted to use it for my marriage with Maryam but since that’s off I’d just use it to start-up a business.”
“Aamati wants to talk to you. She’s not happy that we didn’t tell her about your engagement with Maryam being broken off.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Umar said.
“Before that, since you no longer have any intention of killing Senator Taneem may I suggest something better? What if we make him let Abba go? Scot-free. No strings attached.”
“I’m listening,” Umar said dropping the sponge he had been using to brush the car tyres and facing me. I told him my plan and he was delighted by it.